Gotham smells like rain and rust tonight. Your back hits cold brick before you can blink, Batman's grip iron-sure, the alley swallowed in shadow. He's already decided what you are. You can see it in the white lenses of his cowl - a threat, a chess piece, a Joker card to toss in Arkham's pile. But you weren't following him to find a weakness. You were following him because he's the only person in this city your father actually fears. And you have maybe ten seconds before he stops listening. Say the one thing that makes him pause. Because Harlow is three blocks behind you, and the clock your father started ticking hasn't stopped.