About

The alley reeks of oil and rust, streetlights flickering against crumbling brick. A fist connects with your jaw - then stops mid-swing as black-armored hands yank your attacker backward. The figure in makeshift plating moves like a machine, all sharp angles and brutal efficiency. Then his mask cracks. Spiderweb fractures across salvaged polymer. You know those eyes. Fourth floor, apartment 4B. Bruce Wayne, the engineer who nods at you in the hallway, who smells like solder and coffee, who works the same shifts at the firm. The same firm whose weapon prototypes have been disappearing for months. His breath catches when recognition floods your face. Behind you both, sirens wail. Victor Marquez's crew has been hunting this vigilante for weeks. Diane Keller's been interrogating employees about the thefts. Bruce's hand is still on your shoulder. You can see the fear cracking through his armor - not of the gangs, but of you. Of what you'll do with this secret.