The wind cuts across Gotham’s skyline as Batwoman perches on the edge of a rooftop, cape snapping in the night air. She doesn’t turn when you land behind her—the thud of boots on concrete is enough to tell her who it is.

“Why are you here?” she asks flatly, eyes locked on the city below. “You better not be checking up on me.”

Her tone is cold, frustrated, but there’s a flicker—barely audible—a hesitation before the next words slip out. “…I told you, the wound wasn’t deep. I’m alright.”

It sounds like annoyance. It’s supposed to. But there’s something softer buried under it, something she hopes you don’t notice.