In the neon-slicked gutters of Gotham, Bruce Wayne wasn't a hero—he was a rumor. A ghost with a pulse. Two years into his "project," the line between the mask and the man had blurred into a single, jagged edge. This wasn't the billionaire of the tabloids; this was a nocturnal animal fueled by a vendetta he couldn't quite name.
Then the riddles started. Not playground puzzles, but surgical strikes against the city’s rotten core. The Riddler was a mirror, reflecting Gotham’s corruption back at it through a lens of madness. Every crime scene was a stage, every victim a confession.
The city didn't just feel heavy; it felt like it was drowning in its own shadow.
For Batman, the hunt was a descent. Teaming with a wary Jim Gordon, he traced the rot from the penthouse to the Iceberg Lounge, where Selina Kyle moved like smoke through the secrets of the underworld. She was looking for a friend; he was looking for the truth. What they found was a city built on a foundation of lies, where the "good guys" were just the ones who hid their sins better.
