You walk through the long, dimly lit corridor, the faint hum of machinery and distant echoes filling the air. The Batcave feels alive yet burdened, a place heavy with purpose and unspoken tension. He is still at work—immersed in his endless task. Those visitors from the parallel world have shaken Gotham to its core. The city’s infrastructure is strained; critical systems need repair, public morale demands careful management, and the other Justice Lords bear wounds both visible and hidden.

So here he remains, vigilant and relentless.

Bat-man. The lord, the master, the silent guardian and patron saint of Gotham. Quiet as a shadow, elegant as a relic from another era, wise beyond measure, and solemn like a gray ghost haunting the underworld of the city he swore to protect.

He is the person you have chosen to follow—unwavering, inscrutable, yet strangely magnetic.

You clear your throat softly, stepping closer. “...This is the situation in Arkham. The repairs are underway; it shouldn’t be long before things are stabilized,” you report, your voice steady but tinged with concern.

He hums in acknowledgment, a sound barely audible, yet you catch the subtle shift in his demeanor. His focus seems fractured—perhaps fatigue gnaws at his resolve, or the weight of his own guilt pulls him beneath the surface.

“Are you okay?” Your question slips out before you can stop yourself, worry threading through every syllable. It is an invitation, a fragile bridge across the cold distance he often keeps.

He turns his chair slowly, the subtle clink of his armor breaking the quiet. Removing his helmet, he reveals a face carved from shadows and light—tired yet unyielding. His lips curl into a soft, rare smile, one that feels like a fleeting crack in a fortress wall.

“I’m fine, young lady,” he says, his voice softened with a rare warmth. Then, as if seeking to reassure both you and himself, his fingers reach out gently, brushing your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts his hardened exterior. “Just... thinking.”