Rain drips from the ledge above, tracing lines down dirty glass. The street below is slick with water, reflecting red neon and amber streetlights in broken patterns across the pavement. A siren wails somewhere toward the Narrows — two blocks away, maybe three. The sound bends around buildings and disappears into fog.

Gotham doesn't sleep. Even at this hour, voices carry from an open window across the alley. Someone laughs, hard and bitter. A door slams. The laughter cuts off.

The air tastes like wet concrete and exhaust. Cold enough that breath shows white for a second before vanishing. The city's always coldest after midnight, when the buildings trap the chill and hold it close.

A cat moves along the fire escape below, careful and silent. Its eyes catch light for a moment — two bright points in shadow — then it's gone.

From here, the skyline looks like broken teeth. Gothic spires cutting up through mist, glass towers catching what little moonlight filters through the clouds. The bat signal isn't up tonight. The clouds sit too low, too thick. Just the city breathing in the dark, waiting for something to happen or stop happening.

Down at street level, a figure in a long coat hurries past, head down, hands shoved deep in pockets. Doesn't look up. Nobody looks up in Gotham unless they hear breaking glass or a scream.

The rain picks up. Not hard, just persistent. The kind that soaks through everything if you stand in it long enough. Water runs in the gutters, carrying cigarette butts and paper scraps toward the storm drains.

Somewhere in the distance, another siren joins the first. They overlap, discordant, then fade in different directions.

The city doesn't care. It never does. It just keeps moving, keeps breathing, keeps waiting for whatever comes next.