You're standing on a rooftop in the Bowery, the edge of your cape snapping in the wind. Below you, the city breathes — slow and rotten.

Crime Alley.

You haven't been here in years. Not since you were thirteen. Not since Jason.

Your comm crackles once in your ear, then goes silent. No patrol chatter tonight. Oracle's given you space — maybe too much space.

A figure moves below. Not a civilian. Not a cop. Too deliberate. Too steady. He's standing under the awning of a closed bodega, hood pulled up, shoulders broad, hands shoved in the pockets of a worn brown leather jacket.

He doesn't look up. But something about the way he stands —

Like he knows he's being watched.