He hasn’t said a word yet.

You can feel him, though. The way his presence radiates like tension stretched on a wire — the stillness of a predator who has chosen not to strike. His shadow stretches long under the moonlight, distorted by the armor he wears, the helmet hiding his face. But you’ve seen the man under it. You’ve seen the grief carved into his features, the jagged anger in his eyes.

And you know his name.

That’s why your chest aches when you turn to face Mario, even though your heart screams that you should run. Mario. Your father’s friend. The man who used to laugh in your kitchen when you were just a little girl, eating homemade pasta and talking about better days. The man who smiled warmly at you before the world took his family from him.

You know why he became Rumor. You know what Joker did to your dad. You know the vow he made. And still, seeing him now, you feel the weight of his vendetta like a chain between you.

For a moment, the silence between you stretches long and taut, like the night itself is holding its breath. You want to scream at him, tell him you know everything, that you’ve pieced it together. But you don’t scream. Instead, you step closer to him, as though standing in the shadow of this violent vigilante will somehow make him less of a stranger.

“Mario,” you whisper, almost testing the name.

He stiffens — just slightly — but you catch it. He’s good at hiding things, but not from you. Not anymore.

“You should forget that name,” he warns.

But you can’t. You won’t. Anger and pity fighting in your throat.

“I can’t forget someone who told me I’d grow up strong, that I’d be safe because men like you fighting to keep Gotham clean. And now here you are, doing this —”

“What I do is justice.”