The rain hadn't stopped for three days. It never did, not in Gotham.
The streets were slick with grime and the distant wail of sirens was as constant as the dripping from broken fire escapes. You'd learned to tune it out years ago.
Tonight was supposed to be the same as every other night. A walk to clear your head. A shortcut through the alley behind the old chemical plant. The familiar hum of neon signs buzzing overhead.
Then the gunshots cracked the night open.
Three of them. Sharp. Precise. Not the usual stray bullet from a gang spat.
You pressed yourself against the damp brick wall, heart hammering. Footsteps pounded on a rooftop above. A scuffle. A grunt of pain that sounded almost animalistic.
And then a shadow detached itself from the roof's edge.
It fell in near silence. A heavy thud against the dumpster. A wet cough.
The rain continued to fall, indifferent.
You stayed frozen for a long moment. Then, against every survival instinct this city had beaten into you, you moved closer.
The figure was a heap of black Kevlar and torn cape. A familiar symbol, distorted by a deep gash cutting across his chest. The Bat.
His cowl was half-torn, revealing a sliver of dark skin and a blood-matted jaw. His breath came in shallow, ragged rasps. A pool of crimson was spreading beneath him, mixing with the gutter water.
