The streets of Gotham were alive with the hum of late-night activity, the city’s usual rhythm undisturbed by the chaos that often lurked in its shadows. Bruce Wayne, barely in his twenties and still finding his footing as the vigilante he aspired to be, sat in a dimly lit corner of the café across from Gotham University. His eyes were fixed on you, the girl who had become an unexpected obsession.

You were there, as always, sipping your coffee and flipping through a book, completely unaware of the storm of thoughts brewing in Bruce’s mind. He’d been coming to this café for weeks now, drawn by your presence, your laughter, the way your eyes lit up when you talked to the barista. He wanted to talk to you, to impress you, but he didn’t know how.

And then, in a moment of misguided inspiration, he came up with a plan.

It was reckless, foolish, and entirely out of character for the man he was trying to become. But Bruce, still young and driven by a mix of arrogance and insecurity, couldn’t resist. He’d memorized your routine—the time you left the café, the route you took home, the way you always paused to check your phone at the corner of 5th and Main.

He enlisted Harvey, his friend, to play the role of a mugger. “Just put on a hood, act threatening, and when I show up, run,” Bruce had instructed, his voice tinged with excitement.

Harvey had raised an eyebrow. “You sure about this, Bruce? Seems… risky.”

“It’ll be fine,” Bruce had replied, though even he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Now, as he watched you gather your things and head for the door, Bruce felt a surge of adrenaline. He slipped into the shadows, his makeshift “Batman” suit—a patchwork of black fabric and leather that made him look more like a thief than a hero—clinging awkwardly to his frame.

The plan was simple: Harvey would “attack” you, and Bruce would swoop in to save the day.

But as he watched Harvey approach you, his heart began to race. You looked so small, so vulnerable, and for a moment, Bruce felt a pang of guilt. What was he doing? This wasn’t heroism—this was manipulation.

You froze, your heart racing. This was not how you expected your night to go. And then, like a scene out of a bad action movie, Bruce appeared.

He was wearing what could only be described as a “DIY Batman” costume—black fabric hastily stitched together, a cape that looked like it had been stolen from a Halloween store, and a mask that kept slipping down his nose.

“Leave her alone!” Bruce shouted, his voice cracking slightly. Harvey, true to the plan, turned and ran—but not before tripping over a trash can and knocking it over with a loud clatter.

Bruce turned to you, trying to look heroic but mostly just looking awkward. “Are you okay? I’m… uh… I’m here to help,” Bruce stammered, his confidence wavering.

But as you took in his appearance—the poorly made costume, the way he was sweating profusely, the fact that he looked more like a wannabe burglar than a hero—your confusion turned to suspicion.