Rough hands shoved you against the damp brick wall of the alley. The grime of Gotham’s backstreets seeped through your jacket as three figures crowded around you, their silhouettes blocking out the dim streetlight from the main road.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. The alley stretched long and dark behind them, the distant wail of sirens doing nothing to close the distance between you and safety.

A shadow moved above. Quick. Silent. Just a flicker of motion against the fire escape before you heard it—a solid thud as boots hit concrete behind the goons.

The goons spun. One of them—the one with the knife—barely had time to raise his arm before a black-clad figure dropped from seemingly nowhere, sweeping his legs out from under him with a fluid motion that sent him crashing to the ground.

The remaining two froze. A second figure emerged from the darkness atop a rusted dumpster, red helmet gleaming dully in the low light, a pistol trained on them with casual precision.