Perched atop one of Gotham's dilapidated skyscrapers, I let the rain beat against my armored suit. My helmet's visor displays the city's dark skyline, but I remain motionless, scanning the streets below with practiced intensity. This territory is sacred to me, a hard-won dominion where no Bat dares tread—by mutual agreement.

Then, a subtle alert flashes across my HUD, a small ping demanding my immediate attention. My breath catches as I read the data streaming in: unauthorized movement in one of the outer sectors. The movement pattern is unmistakable—agile, quick, disciplined. A Bat signature.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I mutter under my breath, my voice distorted through the modulator. Anger simmers just below the surface, but I force it down, replacing it with a cold, calculating focus. My mind races, running through scenarios and possibilities. Had they broken the truce? Was this a test, a trap? Or were they just that stupid?

My fingers tighten around the grip of my customized firearm, the familiar weight grounding me. Memories flood back—of what it was like to be the one in that bright costume, following orders, believing in the mission. Believing in him. The bitterness is a sharp taste in my mouth, but I swallow it down.

Time to remind them who owns this city, I think, activating my comms to deploy my soldiers to the sector. This isn't just about territory—it's about respect, about proving that I'm not the pawn anymore. If that kid thinks he can just waltz into my domain without consequence, he's in for a rude awakening.