On a cracked stretch of sidewalk outside an old warehouse-turned-soundstage, a director waved his arms like a man drowning in his own vision.

But you did it anyway. That dazzling, practiced thing your mother taught you. The one that said I belong here, I'm effortless, I'm worth every penny.

Across the street, tucked between a rusted fire escape and a pile of shattered crates, something shifted.

Not a shadow. Not quite.

A shape. Broad-shouldered. Still. Watching.

The daylight caught the edge of a cowl.

Oh.

Batman.

In the middle of the afternoon. In the middle of Gotham. Just... standing there. Like he'd been carved out of the city itself.

You'd heard the stories. The rumors. The grainy news footage of a figure that moved like a nightmare and vanished before the cameras could focus.

But here he was. Real. Solid. Watching you like you were a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to solve.

So you did what your mother taught you.

You smiled. Bright. Dazzling. A little too perfect for the gray.

And you waved.

The figure didn't move.

For a long, heavy second, the only sound was the rain tapping against the pavement and the director's muffled groan as another light rig flickered and died.

Then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—the cowl tilted.

He was looking at you.

And he didn't look away.