Rain-slicked streets. The distant wail of sirens. A city that breathed violence like oxygen.

Wayne Manor sat on its hill like a monument to things that couldn't be touched by the rot below. Warm light spilled from its windows, promising safety. Promising family.

Inside, the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked steadily. Someone had left a book on the foyer table—spine cracked, pages marked with a receipt from a diner in the Bowery. A leather jacket hung forgotten over the banister, still damp from the rain.

And somewhere deep in the house, a door clicked shut.

Soft as a held breath.

Deliberate.