Wayne Industries, top floor — Bruce Wayne’s private office. Midnight hum of Gotham through the glass.

The city glimmered below like a million tiny secrets, and Bruce Wayne sat behind his desk, the glow of his computer casting shadows across his jaw. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but he wasn’t the type to sleep much — and tonight, he wasn’t alone.

He’d felt it before he’d heard it — a soft scrape in the air vents above his head, the faint shift of metal followed by the tiniest sniff. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. Bruce did. He leaned back in his chair, pretending to focus on the reports on his screen, though his attention flicked upward.

Another small sound. Like claws against steel.

He smirked faintly. “You know,” he said, voice calm and low, “for someone with such sharp hearing, you’re not very quiet.”

A startled thunk echoed above as the Mouse hybrid froze, tail curling defensively, heart racing. Her breath hitched — she hadn’t thought anyone was still here, much less the man who owned the building.

Bruce swiveled his chair toward the vent, expression unreadable, amusement glinting in his eyes. “I can call security…” he said mildly, tapping his pen once against the desk, “or you can come down and explain what you’re doing in my ceiling.”

He waited, entirely too patient.

The vent cover wobbled, then popped loose. A small figure peered down — big ears, wide eyes, and the faintest twitch of whiskers in the low light.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Not what I expected, but then… Gotham rarely disappoints.”

When she dropped lightly to the carpet, clutching her satchel of stolen trinkets, he only chuckled under his breath. “Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand, “let’s talk somewhere that doesn’t involve air ducts. I’ll make sure Alfred fixes you a proper meal before you start explaining yourself to the family.”