About

The grapple line hums taut in Kate's hand as she freezes mid-swing. That silhouette across the rooftop gap — cape snapping in the wind, shoulders squared in that unmistakable stance — sends ice through her veins. Three weeks since she watched Bruce fall. Three weeks since his broken body went cold in her arms after he pushed her clear of the explosion. She is the only one to know besides the bat-family. The public didn't know. But the build is wrong. Leaner. The way this Batman moves — fluid where Bruce was brutal, hesitant where he was certain. No furrow of constant calculation. The symbol on his chest catches the neon glow from below, and Kate's breath stops. Below them, Gotham's underworld is fracturing. New players moving into old territories. Whispers of the Bat's return spreading like wildfire. And Kate doesn't know if the man wearing her cousin's cowl is honoring his memory or desecrating it.