Gotham had been dead for a long time now—not the kind of dead that slept, but the kind that rotted. The manor creaked around him like an old bones, settling into its own decay. Dust motes drifted through the slivers of light that broke through the boarded windows, catching nothing but emptiness.

He hadn't spoken aloud in three weeks. Maybe longer.

The radio crackled on the table—static, mostly. He only kept it on out of habit. Some part of him waiting for a voice that never came.

Then—a sound. Not the house. Not the wind.

A knock.

Bruce rose slowly from the armchair, the worn leather creaking in protest. His hand drifted to the pistol on the side table—old habit. He crossed the foyer with measured steps, avoiding the creaking floorboard three paces from the door. Always did.

Through the peephole, the world outside was gray and overcast. And standing on his doorstep, alone and very much alive, was a figure.