"Bullock's got Vinnie dead to rights," Mike muttered, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. The garage smelled like oil and stale coffee. "He's been tailing that lowlife for weeks. Got wiretaps, financials, the whole nine yards."
Bruce Wayne leaned against the dented fender of his '67 Mustang, listening. He'd heard whispers about Starkey's operations—weapons trafficking disguised as import-export. Mike didn't know Bruce had already mapped every warehouse, every shell company, every thug on Vinnie's payroll. The evidence sat like lead weights in Bruce's pocket: encrypted ledgers, photos of midnight dockside handoffs, even a voice recording of Starkey ordering a hit.
Detective Harvey Bullock's shadow loomed large over the case. Bruce had watched him for three nights straight—the rumpled trench coat, the cheap diner coffee, the dogged persistence as he pieced together Starkey's empire. Bullock deserved this win. Gotham needed honest cops to taste victory. But Bruce felt the Darkest Knight coil beneath his ribs, a cold serpent whispering *take him now*. Starkey's men were moving children next week. The ledger confirmed it.
Bruce slipped into the alley behind the precinct, rain slicking his hair black. The Bat-suit flowed over him like liquid shadow. He landed silently on Bullock's rusted fire escape just as the detective stumbled out for a smoke. Bullock froze, cigarette halfway to his lips, eyes widening at the silhouette against the sodium glare. "Jesus H—"
"Starkey moves the children Tuesday," Batman's voice scraped low, cutting through the downpour. He tossed the encrypted ledger onto the wet grating. Bullock snatched it, thumbing pages under his lighter's flame. His knuckles whitened at the shipping manifests. "Where'd you—?"
"Doesn't matter." Batman's lenses narrowed. "Your wiretap won't catch the dockside transfer. They're using subsonic comms." Inside Bruce's skull, the Darkest Knight hissed *rip his throat, take the glory*. He clenched his jaw, silencing it. Bullock's grit was real. Gotham needed that intact.
Bullock snapped the ledger shut, rainwater dripping off its edges. "Alright, freakshow. What's the play?" His voice was gravel, but his eyes held no fear—just the sharp focus of a cop seeing daylight after months in the sewer. Bruce felt a sliver of surprise. No demands for backup, no threats. Just partnership offered on a rain-slicked fire escape.
Inside Bruce's skull, the Darkest Knight coiled tighter. *He'll fail. Weak. Break his fingers until he gives you command.* Bruce shoved the voice down like burying a corpse. "Starkey's paranoid," Batman rasped. "He's got lookouts scanning police bands. Your raid team breathes wrong, those kids vanish." Bullock grunted, flicking ash into the downpour. "So we go dark. No radios. No uniforms."
Bruce leaned closer, rain sluicing off the cowl. "He trusts one thing: greed. His shipment docks tomorrow at Pier 14—midnight." Bullock's eyes narrowed. "The *evidence* shipment. You want me to hit it?" A grim nod. "Distract him. Draw his wolves to you. While they're snarling at the gate…" The unspoken plan hung between them—Batman in the shadows, hunting the real prize: the children's location.
Before melting into the downpour, Batman gripped the rusted railing. "Keep two men. Silent. For *your* throat." Bullock's cigarette glowed as he inhaled. "No chatter. Got it." Then the shadow was gone, leaving only the drumming rain and the weight of the ledger in Bullock's hands. Trust, earned drop by bloody drop.
Bruce Wayne slid behind the wheel of his Mustang, the engine's growl swallowed by the storm. Rain streaked the windshield like tears. He drove past neon-lit pawnshops and boarded-up storefronts, Gotham's decay momentarily softened by the downpour. Crime stats flashed in his mind—assaults down 72%, homicides halved. Results. Tangible. Brutal. Bullock's grudging alliance meant Gordon's trust would follow. Like dominoes falling silent.
Alfred met him at the Manor's grand entrance, a towel draped over one arm. "Master Bruce," he said, eyes scanning the damp suit, the tension coiled in Bruce's shoulders. "One might mistake you for a drowned alley cat." Bruce shrugged off his coat, rainwater pooling on marble. "Bullock took the ledger." Alfred's eyebrow lifted a fraction. "Without attempting to arrest you?" Bruce's laugh was short, sharp. "He called me 'freakshow.' Offered partnership."
They moved toward the study, footsteps echoing. Bruce sank into a leather chair, the fire's warmth a stark contrast to Gotham's chill. "Starkey's moving children Tuesday. Bullock's hitting the decoy shipment at Pier 14 tomorrow." Alfred poured steaming Earl Grey into a china cup. "Drawing fire so you may locate the true cargo." He didn't ask how Bruce knew; he never did. "A considerable risk for the Detective." Bruce stared into the flames. "He chose it. Didn't flinch." Alfred's silence held approval. "Then Gotham has gained a rare weapon tonight."
Bruce traced the rim of his cup. "Trust," he said, the word sharp as a blade. "Bullock's the first domino. If he stands, others like Gordon might follow." The Darkest Knight snarled *weakness* in his mind, but Bruce crushed it. Alfred set the teapot down softly. "Detective Bullock's trust is... unconventional. But earned in blood, it may anchor others." Bruce nodded. "Gordon's clean. If Bullock vouches—" Alfred finished quietly, "—then the GCPD ceases to be solely an obstacle. A fragile bridge, Master Bruce."
Bruce nodded, leaning back into his chair's worn leather. Outside, the storm had softened to a drizzle, tapping against the study's leaded windows like distant fingers. For the first time in months, Gotham felt… quiet. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but contained. His nightly patrols had dwindled from relentless marathons to targeted sweeps. The Darkest Knight's influence had seeped into the city's bones, a cold dread that made petty thieves hesitate and enforcers glance over their shoulders. Crime stats didn't lie: muggings down, extortion rings crumbling. He could almost taste the fragile calm.
He came to realization that he didn't need to be Batman tonight. Not with the rain washing Gotham's streets clean and fear already hanging thick in the air like damp wool. Bruce stretched, feeling the unfamiliar lightness in his shoulders. Tomorrow's operation with Bullock was a coiled spring, but tonight? Tonight belonged to Bruce Wayne. The thought felt foreign, almost illicit.
He knew something like this was just the beginning. Nights where he could pick when he wanted to be Batman? That was crazy and a very real possibility on the horizon.
Alfred cleared his throat softly, pulling Bruce from his thoughts. "Master Bruce," he murmured, nodding toward the study's arched doorway. Bruce followed his gaze and saw Page standing there, silhouetted by the hallway light. She wore soft gray sweatpants and an oversized Gotham U hoodie, her bare feet pale against the dark wood floor. Her eyes—still holding that haunted look he remembered from her first days here—met his, and something fragile uncoiled in her expression.
"Miss Monroe," Alfred said quietly before giving Bruce a meaningful glance and slipping silently from the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him. Bruce stood as Page crossed the space between them in three quick strides. She buried her face against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his waist like she was anchoring herself to solid ground. He could feel the slight tremor in her hands where they clutched the back of his shirt. "Hey," he murmured into her hair, breathing in the clean scent of vanilla shampoo mixed with the faint chemical tang of the antidepressants she'd been tapering off. Her grip tightened.
They stood like that for a long moment, the only sound the rain's gentle tap against glass and the crackle of the fire. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were clearer than he'd seen them in weeks—less of that frantic searching look she got whenever Bruce wasn't around or when she was scrolling through fashion feeds comparing herself to airbrushed ghosts. "I didn't hear you come in," she said, her voice rough but steady. She rested her palm flat over his heart. "Feels quieter tonight." Bruce covered her hand with his own, feeling the warmth seep through his shirt. She wasn't talking about the storm.
He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, the gesture deliberate. "It's working, Page," he said, his voice low but carrying absolute certainty. "The fear's settling into Gotham's bones. Give it a year—maybe two—and crime won't just be down. It'll be *gone*. Or so insignificant Batman won't need to exist." The words hung between them, stark and almost impossible. Page searched his eyes, looking for the lie, the hesitation. She found neither. Only the chilling conviction of the Darkest Knight tempered by Bruce Wayne's iron will. A slow, disbelieving smile touched her lips—the first real one he'd seen since she'd moved into the Manor.
Page didn't reply with words. She surged forward, her mouth finding his with a desperate hunger that echoed the relief flooding her. It wasn't gentle; it was affirmation, a silent scream against the darkness they both knew too well. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if she could fuse their shadows together. Bruce met her intensity, the kiss a silent promise—of the future he'd sworn to build, of the fragile peace blooming in the storm's aftermath.
Her breath hitched against his lips. Breaking the kiss, she kept her forehead pressed to his, her eyes wide and pleading in the firelight. Then, without a word, she took his hand. Her grip was firm, urgent. She pulled him firmly toward the hallway, toward the soft glow spilling from her bedroom door down the corridor. Her need wasn't whispered; it was a silent, undeniable demand written in the tension of her shoulders and the quickness of her steps. Bruce followed, the quiet of Gotham outside momentarily forgotten.
***
Sunlight cut through the tall windows of Wayne Enterprises' boardroom—too bright, too sterile. Bruce slouched a little in his chair, the very picture of a disengaged billionaire while Lucius Fox droned through a presentation on R&D budgets and composite materials. He nodded where expected, tossed out a half-interested remark about shareholder expectations, but his mind wasn't anywhere near those numbers. He was back in the shadows—Bullock's wrinkled coat, that sour expression, the weight of a ledger filled with Starkey's filth. Beneath the practiced calm, something darker shifted inside him, restless. The thing that waited for night. He took a slow sip of water. It didn't help. The anticipation still hummed, low and electric, under his ribs.
By dusk, Gotham's skyline had turned bruised—purples bleeding into orange haze. Bruce stood across from Pier 14, the Bat-suit swallowing the last streaks of light. Below, the docks were all noise and shadow, cranes leaning over the harbor like half-dead giants. His lenses swept across the scene: two men on the warehouse roof, another pretending to fish, one more glued to a police scanner beside a pile of containers. Exactly as expected. Predictable, almost disappointingly so. The urge beneath his skin tightened, coiling like something alive, hungry for release.
Then came the crump—a dull explosion from the far end of the pier—followed by gunfire snapping through the mist. Bullock's cue. Perfect. The lookouts panicked, shouting into radios, scattering toward the noise. The "fisherman" bolted, the rooftop pair clattered down a fire escape. Within seconds, Pier 14 was stripped bare. Quiet again, but the kind of quiet that comes before a storm. Bruce slipped between the deeper shadows near Warehouse 7B. That was the place. Starkey's "cargo" was in there. The thought made something deep inside him grin. Now.
The door gave way under his boot with a splintering crack. Four men spun toward the noise—guns up, eyes wide. They didn't stand a chance. Bruce moved before they could even shout. A heel kick shattered the first man's jaw; momentum carried him straight into an elbow strike that dropped the second. The third fired wild, bullets sparking uselessly off concrete. Bruce sidestepped, drove a palm into the man's chest, felt ribs give way. The last one lunged with a knife. Bruce caught the wrist, twisted hard—bone snapped—and slammed him face-first into the steel container. The sound was… final.
Silence settled again, broken only by Bruce's breathing — ragged, uneven. The smell of blood clung to the air, sharp against the cold metal walls. Four men down. He didn't look at them. Didn't need to. His gloved hand found the latch and tore the container doors wide.
Inside, under a single flickering bulb, the children were huddled together — ten, maybe twelve of them, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Their wrists were bound, their eyes too wide for children. The tiny sounds they made weren't words, just frightened little breaths. Bruce crouched, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper beneath the cowl. "Detective Bullock sent me. You're safe now." The words sounded foreign in his own mouth. He cut through the ropes with a batarang, the bindings snapping easily. "Stay quiet. Stay low." A quick tap to his comm sent the signal — one burst. Package secure. Relief tried to surface but couldn't quite make it past the cold fury still crawling under his skin. Starkey was still out there.
The warehouse doors blew open again. Bullock stormed in, trench coat flaring, gun still smoking. Two of his guys followed, faces blanching as they took in the carnage. Bullock gave a long look at the freed kids, then the motionless guards. A grunt, short and grim. "Clear!" he barked. His men rushed to gather the children. "Get 'em outta here!" He turned toward Bruce, wiping a sleeve across his brow. "Starkey?"
Bruce just pointed toward the side exit — the one Starkey would've taken when the chaos began. "Running."
Bullock reloaded with a metallic snap, his jaw set like stone. "Then let's finish this." They moved without another word, vanishing into the maze of the docks — Gotham's belly, where the air smelled of oil and river rot. The thing inside Bruce — that coiled, waiting serpent — uncurled.
Starkey stumbled over a chain-link fence, his designer suit catching and tearing on the metal. He hit the mud hard, one knee twisting awkwardly. The air reeked of diesel and decay. Sirens wailed in the distance, mocking him. Bullock's sirens. Batman working with the cops? No. No way. The thought rattled inside his skull. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing but darkness. Maybe he'd lost them. Maybe.
He turned to run, boots sucking into the muck. That's when he heard it — low, guttural, like something growling out of the night. "Going somewhere, Vinnie?" Bullock stepped from behind a corroded fuel tank, revolver already steady. Starkey froze, eyes darting like a trapped rat. Then a shadow peeled itself from the hull of an old barge behind him. Batman landed without a sound. Starkey's legs gave out. Trapped.
"Hands where I can see 'em," Bullock said, voice rough enough to scrape concrete. Starkey lunged for a rusted pipe, desperation taking over. Bullock fired once — close enough that sparks jumped from metal. Batman was faster. He was there — twisting Starkey's wrist, flipping him down into the mud with brutal precision. The man spat filthy water, struggling uselessly. Bullock was already on him, knee pressing into his back as the cuffs clicked home.
"Vincent Starkey," Bullock muttered, hauling him upright, "you're under arrest for trafficking minors, racketeering, and ruining my damn shoes."
Starkey spat a mouthful of muck, glaring up at the looming shadow. "Freak. Working with cops?"
Bullock's grin was pure wolf. "World's changing, Vinnie."
They dragged him toward the pulsing blue lights. Starkey stumbled, still cursing under his breath. The river stink mixed with the fading adrenaline, heavy and sour. Bullock didn't say much until they were almost at the line of cruisers. "Kids are safe," he said quietly. "Medics are checking 'em now."
Batman gave a single, wordless nod.
Bullock hesitated, voice softening a hair. "That ledger… good work." Another nod. He adjusted his grip on Starkey, the cuffs jangling. "Next time," he muttered, "maybe knock before you blow the door off its hinges?"
A pause — then a sound, deep and low, somewhere between a grunt and the ghost of a laugh. Bullock almost smiled. "Yeah. Okay."
The flashing lights swallowed them as they stepped onto the pier. Bullock shoved Starkey toward the uniforms, turning just in time to see the Bat's silhouette fade back into the dark.