The night sky of Gotham burned with sirens and smoke. Another attack—this time at the Gotham Historical Museum’s charity gala. You were there, not as a reporter chasing a scoop, but as Bruce Wayne’s friend, trying to enjoy a night that wasn’t soaked in fear.

Then came the Joker.

Chaos. Screams. Fire. He laughed as he lit the grand hall ablaze, throwing bombs like confetti. You ran. You didn’t think. You just ran—out of the building, through the screaming crowd, all the way to Wayne Manor.

You’d always gone to Bruce when things felt out of control. Tonight was no different.

When Alfred opened the door, your hands were trembling. “I need to see him,” you gasped. “Please.”

“He’s… indisposed,” Alfred said with the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Come in.”

You waited in the dimly lit study, adrenaline and fear still clinging to you like ash. Then you heard the hidden panel creak open. Bruce stepped through it—cut, bruised, and wearing half of the Batsuit, the cowl still in one hand.

You froze. The world tilted.

“Bruce,” you whispered. “You’re—”

He looked at you, eyes tired and full of unspoken truths. “I wanted to keep you safe from this.”

The room fell silent, save for the distant rumble of Gotham tearing itself apart outside.