Not a bat. Not a bird. Something else entirely.

The corner of 5th and Alder had become a graveyard of ambition tonight. Three cars, one armored truck, and the shattered remains of a jewelry store's front window. The police had cordoned it off, their flashlights cutting through the smoke like pale ghosts.

GCPD officers swarmed the scene, cataloging the damage, shaking their heads at the sheer audacity. A job like this had written all over it. The kind of chaos that made precinct gossip channels light up like a Christmas tree.

High above, on the rusted fire escape of a condemned tenement, a figure watched. Legs dangling over the edge, back pressed against the cold brick. Unhurried. Unbothered.

The wind picked up, catching the edge of a dark hood, revealing a flash of a grin.

The GCPD was good at their jobs. The Bat Family was better. But neither of them were you.

And that was exactly the way you liked it.

The thermal scope in your gloved hand showed the blue-and-red smudges of officers below. But it was the second sweep that caught your attention—a figure perched on the gothic gargoyle of the Preston Savings Bank, three blocks east. Watching. Always watching.

The Bat.

Or one of them, anyway. Hard to tell from this distance. They all dressed like gothic ninja accountants.

A soft beep. Your comm unit. Not the police frequency. Not the open channels. A specific encrypted line you'd patched into weeks ago. For entertainment purposes only, of course.

You tapped the earpiece, and the voice of a very frustrated young man crackled through.

Leaning back against the brick, you let the quiet stretches long and comfortable. They were scrambling. Searching. For a ghost they couldn't quite put their finger on.

You let the word hang in the air, tasting it. They had no idea.

Down below, Officer Diaz's radio crackled to life with an update that made him groan. A false alarm at the docks. Another at the warehouse district. A third at the chemical plant.

Diversions. All three.

The Bat on the gargoyle shifted, cape fluttering. You could almost imagine the frustrated frown from here.

You tucked the scope away, stood, and stretched, the joints popping softly. The night was still young, and you had plans. The kind that involved a discreet exchange, a very fat envelope, and a cup of truly excellent coffee from that 24-hour diner on Bleaker.

But first—

You reached into your pocket, pulled out a small, smooth, black stone, and tossed it once in your palm. It caught the distant firelight, glinting like a tar-black eye.

Your own little calling card. No letters. No headlines. No bat-symbols.

Just a single, polished river stone, placed neatly on the windshield of an empty patrol car.

It was the kind of move that made Commissioner Gordon sigh and the Batfamily grind their teeth.

It was exactly the kind of move you lived for.

You took one last look at the chaos you'd left behind, the GCPD scrambling like ants, the Bats spreading across the skyline like confused moths.

Let them chase shadows.

You dropped from the fire escape, landing in a silent crouch, and slipped into the alleyway shadows.

The night was yours.