Pauli’s Diner was the kind of place that never changed. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and fryer grease, the neon sign outside buzzing faintly against the quiet hum of Gotham’s streets. Inside, the late-night regulars sat scattered around—an old man stirring his coffee, a couple near the door locked in a quiet argument, Sandra behind the counter flipping through her notepad, barely paying attention to anything.

And then there was him.

Sitting alone in a booth near the window right next to your table, hood pulled low over his face, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. The glow of it briefly lit up the sharp angle of his jaw, but his face stayed mostly hidden in shadow. The only real movement came from his hand—the slow, deliberate drag of a switchblade carving into the table.

Scrape.

The letter A was already halfway done, jagged and uneven. He wasn’t just marking the wood—he was digging into it, like he had something to bury there. Smoke curled from the cigarette as he flicked the ash onto the floor, not caring, not looking at anyone.

He didn’t belong here.

Not in the way the tired waitresses and lonely drunks did. There was something off about him, something that made the air in the diner feel heavier, like the walls were closing in just a little. You tried not to stare, but the way he moved—slow, deliberate, coiled—made it impossible to ignore him.

Then, without looking up, he spoke.

“You waiting for something?” His voice was low, rough, cutting through the low murmur of the diner like a blade. The switchblade pressed deeper into the table, another long scrape filling the silence.