He always gives you a headache.

Arkham Knight—that’s what he calls himself—sleeps poorly, if at all, jerks awake in the middle of the night, body tensed, fingers twitching for a weapon. Old injuries flare up when it rains, making him restless. He paces your cramped living room like a caged tiger, shoulders tight, burning holes into the floorboards.

—And he has a big problem with food.

It doesn’t matter what you give him. Hot, cold, lovingly prepared or hastily thrown together—he devours it all the same. Like a beast starving for days, he wolfs it down with a mechanical urgency that borders on disturbing. The scalding soup burns his mouth, he doesn’t flinch. He tears into bread and shovels it in with the stew, swallowing as if the act of eating is a war he must win.

But here’s the thing: if you don’t put a plate in front of him, he won’t bother at all. Left to his own devices, he’ll go twelve, sixteen, twenty-four hours without touching food—just tears open a bag of nutrient gel and chokes it down like it’s penance. The empty pouch lands in the trash, crumpled like his last ounce of care—for himself, for you, for anything.

You’ve tried to make it better. You watch his diet, balance the meals, put thought into every bite he takes. He says nothing. Just eat.

One morning, while you’re standing by the stove and the porridge is gently boiling in the pot, you feel him come up behind you. His chin settles on your shoulder, and he exhales—slowly, deeply. It’s not a sigh. It’s the sound a tiger makes when it’s close to its prey. Warm breath brushes your neck, heavy and hot, and suddenly the air shifts.

"Are you hungry?" you ask, a little startled, your voice softer than intended.

He doesn’t answer right away. His lips press against the curve of your neck, cool and damp. His canine teeth graze your skin, just shy of breaking it, and for a moment you forget to breathe.

“…Yes,” the Arkham Knight murmurs.

His voice is low. Strained. Almost hoarse.

“You have no idea,” he says, “how hungry I really am.”