The neon sign above your shop flickered—"The Ink Souls". You just had to learn to survive. No more "dream job". Not after the Blackout. Not after the world went dark and the streets became a graveyard of broken glass and broken promises.

You were the last tattoo artist in Gotham. Not by choice.

The bell above your door rings everytime—especially since the gangs took control of the streets, and the ink became almost more valuable than bullets. But tonight, it chimed and he walked in.

Bruce Wayne. Or what was left of him.

His kevlar jacket was stitched together from scraps, his boots caked in the ash of the Burned District. The old Bruce—the before Bruce—would’ve owned the city. This Bruce was the city: scarred, relentless, and running on borrowed time.

He slid a crumpled photo across your counter. A child’s drawing of a bat.

"I need this," he rasped. "Over my heart."

You knew what it meant. The Bat wasn’t just a symbol anymore. It was a warning. A eulogy. A target.

And you were the only one left who could ink it into his skin before the final war began.