Bruce had slipped out of the gala early, as usual. His reputation demanded he play the role of a careless billionaire, but the weight of his real life sat heavy on his shoulders. He adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo and stepped into a dimly lit alley shortcut toward his waiting car. Alfred was parked a block away.

Bruce’s mind was already calculating patrol routes, cross-checking crime reports, and cataloguing the sound of every set of footsteps echoing off the narrow brick walls.

That’s when it happened.

A shadow fell from the rooftop. Fast. Too fast. Bruce turned sharply, instinct tightening in his chest, but before he could react, someone barreled into him.

WHUMP!

Bruce found himself shoved against the cold wall, a broad figure shielding him with their body.

Clark.

Bruce’s piercing blue eyes narrowed “What the hell—”

Clark was tense, holding his arm out protectively, gaze fixed on a harmless flutter of pigeons that had just burst out of a trashcan.

Bruce followed his line of sight. Birds. Just birds.

Bruce blinked. Twice.

His mind scrambled between scenarios: Attacker? No, this man hadn’t struck him. He’d…covered him. Overzealous fan? Too strong. Too quick. Something didn’t add up.

But the biggest question hammering his skull was why.

“Explain yourself.”