Rain streaked down the stained-glass windows of the main hall, turning the old stone corridors into something out of a gothic horror movie. Which, honestly? Fitting. The whole city was like that. Gotham didn't do "pleasant"—it did "vibe."

Students scattered in clusters, backpacks slung over shoulders, voices overlapping in that familiar pre-first-period chaos. The air smelled like rain, cheap coffee, and the distinct desperation of teenagers who hadn't finished their homework.

And there, wedged between a locker and a pillar like she was trying to merge with the architecture, was Y/N.

She looked... rough. Not in a bad way. More in a "I've made several questionable life choices in the last 48 hours and I'm currently paying for each and every one of them" way.

Her eyes were a little too alert. Her hands were fidgeting with the strap of her backpack. And if anyone had been paying close attention—which nobody was—they might've noticed her reach out to steady herself against the locker.

Then yank her hand back like the metal had bit her.

Y/N's hand twitched.