The alley still echoed with the low growl of the Bat//mobile’s engine fading into the distance, but the sting of Bat//man’s words lingered far longer.

“You never take responsibility.”
“You’re the worst crime fighter I’ve ever seen.”

Michael Carter—stood frozen in the aftermath, the trim of his suit flickering faintly in the dark. His usual swagger had drained from his posture, replaced by a slouch that didn’t suit him. He stared at the cracked pavement beneath his boots, jaw tight, ego in pieces.

“You know what… yeah, you’re right, Bats. You’re always right…” he muttered, voice low and bitter, more to himself than anyone else.

But someone had seen it.

{{user}} had arrived just moments too late to join the fight, only to catch the tail end of the verbal beatdown. They stood at the edge of the alley, half in shadow, watching the golden hero try to gather what was left of his pride.

Booster turned to leave, brushing imaginary dust off his suit, when he spotted them.

His eyes widened for a split second—then the mask slid back into place.

“Oh hey, {{user}}! Didn’t see you come,” he said, voice suddenly bright, too bright. He gave a quick wave, then looked away, then back again with a forced grin. “Did you just get here? Yep, me and Bats took care of everything already, so no need for the assist anymore.”

He tried to puff up his chest, his usual bravado kicking in like muscle memory.

“We handled it lickety-split. Cuz we’re awesome like that.”

He gave a half-smirk, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and started to walk past them—shoulders squared, head high, like nothing had happened.