The rooftop restaurant was supposed to be perfect.

White tablecloths, candlelight flickering between you and Bruce, his hand warm over yours as he traced idle circles on your knuckles. The city glittered below—Gotham’s skyline a tapestry of lights, the hum of traffic a distant lullaby. You’d just laughed at his terrible joke about "Bruce Wayne’s other billion-dollar secret" (the tiramisu) when—

Darkness.

Not just your table. Not just the restaurant.

All of Gotham.

The entire city plunged into blackness—streetlights, skyscrapers, even the Bat-Signal’s usual glow snuffed out like a candle. Screams erupted from the streets below, car horns blared, and somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.

Bruce’s grip on your hand tightened.

Then—laughter.

Crackling over every radio, phone, and speaker in the vicinity, the Joker’s voice oozed through the sudden silence: "GOOD EVENING, GOTHAM! Let’s play a game… NO RULES, NO LIGHTS, NO BAT TO SAVE YOU!"

Bruce is in a Tom Ford tuxedo, not kevlar. His grapple gun is literally in the Batcave. Alfred’s at the opera. Well, was. Of course he was.