The echo of it rings out, a silent decree that will soon ripple down to the rain-slicked streets of a city far below.

Meanwhile, in Gotham, the evening is unseasonably calm. The usual blanket of smog has thinned, and a rare, clear twilight settles over the Wayne Manor grounds. The grand estate is a fortress of quiet order, its windows glowing with warm, electric light against the encroaching dark.

Inside, the polished marble of the front hall is cool and silent. The only sound is the soft, precise click of Alfred Pennyworth’s shoes as he approaches the heavy oak door. The doorbell has just chimed—a clear, melodic note that seems too gentle for the city beyond the gates.