The night had settled over Gotham like a bruise, thick and pulsing with sirens and shadows. But tonight, for once, hope didn’t just wear a cape—it wore a grin.

The criminal was already on the ground, webbed in steel cable and whimpering through a cracked jaw. Cameras clicked from rooftops. News choppers circled above, unsure if they were seeing a glitch or something entirely new. Because standing beside the Dark Knight was… a kid?

Bright colors. A black domino mask. A red tunic trimmed in yellow, like a flare shot into the gloom. He was young—too young, the crowd would later say—but the way he stood, with his chin up and his staff casually resting across his shoulders, said otherwise.

Batman stepped back, just enough.

“Who is he?” someone shouted from behind the police tape.

Commissioner Gordon hesitated, raising a brow toward the Bat.

Bruce—ever the silent sentinel—did something he rarely did. He nodded once. Permission.