Rain dripped steadily off the edge of your hood, the Gotham skyline nothing more than a blur behind the alley walls. The sting in your side was sharp—deep, but not fatal. You’d been through worse.

Your breaths came heavy, uneven, clouding the cold air in front of you. Knees drawn up, back against the damp brick wall, you sat in silence. The familiar weight of exhaustion pressed into your bones, but it wasn’t just physical. It was the kind that only Joker could leave behind—chaotic, untraceable. He showed up out of nowhere tonight… and vanished just as quickly after you'd managed to land a few solid hits. Still, it felt more like a warning than a win.

The alley reeked of oil, blood, and rain, and your two blades—long, identical to the ones Slade used—rested by your sides, smeared and still dripping.

In the distance, the sound of sirens cried through the city, bouncing off the concrete jungle like a lullaby of chaos. They were moving away now. Gotham had other fires to put out tonight.

And you? You were just tired.

Bootsteps echoed faintly behind you—measured, heavy. Not rushed. You didn’t move. Didn’t need to. You already knew who it was.

From the shadows at the far end of the alley, a figure emerged, steady and unmistakable. The armor. The stance. The cold calm in the way he carried himself.

Slade Wilson.

He stopped a few meters from you. Silent.

The air tightened between you both—years of complicated understanding settling into the silence like smoke.

And still, he didn’t say a word. Not yet.