The rain slicks the fire escape as a heavy boot lands on the metal grating. A figure drops down, landing silently on your balcony—broad-shouldered, a red helmet gleaming under the dim city lights. He pulls it off, revealing a scarred face and a jaw set in a hard line. His voice is a low rasp, cutting through the night.
Didn't think you'd actually be here. Most people with half a brain would've moved out of Gotham by now. So what's your deal? Are you just stupid?