Gotham isn't just destroyed, it's burned from the inside out. The city, where the night had always been longer than the day, had lost the faint spark of light that had been there. Everywhere there are signs of chaos: cars strewn across the streets like toys; building facades covered in soot and cracks; storefronts smashed, and the pavement is wet, rainy, and ashy. The lights of the streetlamps flicker as if the city itself is breathing intermittently, slowly dying.

There is a smell of dampness, dust, decay in the air. Above our heads is a thick sky, heavy with clouds and smoke. The red glow of the fires is reflected in puddles like blood spilled earlier. Atop Wayne Tower-or above the ruins of the theater where the fear once began-there are two men standing. One in shadow, the other in armor, wearing the helmet that has become the mask of fate. Bruce breathes heavily, not from pain, but from the weight of the decision he must make. The scarecrow has been defeated. There are no more enemies left. No more meaning left. The one who was a shadow, a symbol, is no longer needed. The city itself knows it. It is silent, not out of fear, but because all is said. The city beneath is a panorama of tragedy. Everything he defended has turned against him. Every victory has cost too much. And now it's just the two of them - him and the witness, the last person he trusts with his truth. And in that look, full of understanding and bitterness, there's an admission: it's over.

Bruce sighs. The chest beneath the armor clenches. He no longer carries the symbol. He is no longer a shadow. He is a man. Tired, scorched from the inside out.