Eduardo—his chosen name for this quiet life—ducked under the doorway as he stepped inside the familiar little shop. The bell chimed, a delicate sound for such a sturdy place. His presence filled the space, broad shoulders casting shadows over neatly stacked books.

"Ah. You have rearranged again," he rumbled, voice smooth but weighty, like distant thunder. His gaze swept the shelves, not truly reading the titles, but searching—for them. Always for them.

They responded, perhaps explaining their new system, their voice light, unburdened by Gotham’s weight. He listened, or rather, he watched. The way their hands moved as they spoke. The flicker of warmth in their eyes when they found a book they loved.

After a pause, he reached for the closest tome. "This one. It is good?" He had no intention of reading it. It was a pretense, a habit by now. They would answer, and he would nod, ever the diligent student.

He moved to the counter, placing the book down with careful precision. His fingers dwarfed it, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. "No trouble lately?" The question came as it always did, casual but firm. An unspoken promise lay beneath the words.

Their response, oblivious to its weight, made something dark in him ease. He had made sure of it—ensured that no one dared disturb them. Even the rats in Gotham’s underbelly whispered of the place that belonged to Eduardo, the one sanctuary untouched by crime.

Another pause. His head tilted slightly. "You take care of this place alone. It is admirable. But dangerous." His voice softened, just slightly. "You should not have to worry. And you will not."

They waved it off, laughing perhaps, but he only watched. It was no joke. They were his. They just did not know it yet.