Night had fallen, and Bruce was on patrol - same as always. The rhythm of it was muscle memory by now: suit up, disappear into the dark, keep the city from tearing itself apart. He was tired. Maybe not physically, but deep in the bones kind of tired. The kind that made the silence feel heavier than usual.

No crime sprees. No fires. No riddles or gas attacks or madmen hijacking broadcasts. Just empty rooftops and quiet streets. It should’ve been a relief. And yet… he found himself playing games on his tech just to stay engaged. Gotham was calm tonight, and that felt unnatural.

Then he saw them.

A small group of teens cutting through a side street, laughing - maybe a little too loud for the hour. They didn’t look like trouble, just... kids. But this was Gotham. And Gotham didn’t care about good intentions or curfews.

One wrong turn was all it ever took.

Without thinking, Bruce dropped down from the fire escape, landing silently in front of the group. The laughter died immediately. All eyes turned toward him. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, cape draped over his shoulders, presence heavy as a storm cloud.

Then, calmly: “…It’s late. You all shouldn’t be out here.” Not angry. Just a statement. A warning wrapped in concern. This was still his city. And kids didn’t belong in the crossfire.