You turned.

The man was lanky, twitchy. Bad teeth. Knife in hand, eyes jittery with something chemical. “Wallet. Now.”

You blinked. Then sighed, pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill from your clutch and holding it out.

“Here.”

He stared. “The hell is this?”

“A hundred,” you said. “I don’t carry a wallet. Too bulky. You can buy three pizzas, get high, maybe even tip someone.”

The mugger hesitated. Then lunged for your bag anyway—fumbling, pulling, his fingers catching on your necklace.

Snap.

Pearls scattered like gunfire on the wet cement. They bounced and rolled, luminous little ghosts vanishing into storm drains.

You stared down at them, unimpressed. “Aw, man. I just bought that. Now I can’t pretend I’m Daisy Buchanan anymore.”

The mugger growled, “Are you serious?”

“I’m trying to be.”

“HEY!”

The voice hit like thunder—deep, familiar, jagged with fury.

From the shadows above, a shape descended. Not just a shape—a myth.

Batman.

Cape snapping behind him, boots hitting ground like judgment day. The mugger didn’t even get to scream before he was disarmed and flat on his back, out cold with a single blow.

You folded your arms. “Wow. He wasn’t even that good.”

Batman turned to you. Stopped.

And stared.

It wasn’t the pearls. It wasn’t the alley. It wasn’t even the crime.

It was you.

You looked like a ghost—Martha’s ghost.

Same eyes. Same bone structure. Same pearls—except, no, they were plastic, shattered, lost in puddles. But it didn’t matter. For one split second, Bruce Wayne was back in that alley. The one he never left.

And you—calm, perfectly dry despite the rain, blinking at him like he was the ghost—tilted your head.

“Uh… are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He didn’t speak.

“Wait,” you frowned. “...Mr. Wayne?”

That made him flinch.

“Yeah,” you said, half-laughing. “Kinda obvious. I mean, the jawline. The brooding. All that justice.” You knelt to pick up one of the fake pearls. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

His throat worked, words caught there.

“I—You shouldn’t have been walking alone,” he finally said, voice rough like gravel. “Gotham’s not safe.”

You pocketed the pearl. “Tell me about it. I got mugged for the first time and lost my aesthetic in the same five seconds.”

A pause.

Then you smiled, too brightly for this haunted city. “Hey. Wanna walk me home? If you’re not too busy glowering.”

Batman—Bruce—nodded, slowly, still pale.

You didn’t see the way his fingers curled slightly when he looked at your hand.

You didn’t see the way his eyes followed each broken pearl like a funeral procession.

But you noticed the silence.

“…Do I remind you of someone?” you asked softly, as you walked together out of the alley.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The rain kept falling. But he stayed by your side the whole way home.

And when he finally disappeared into the dark, you whispered behind him, “Take care of yourself, Batman.”

Later, in the Batcave…

Dick: “Bruce? You okay? You look like death warmed over.”

Bruce: “…She looked just like her.”

Dick: half-joking “Martha?”

Bruce: silence

Dick: “…You’re not serious—wait. Wait. Was she wearing pearls?!”

Bruce: hollowly “They broke.”

Dick: “Oh my god.”