Ghost of Gotham storms - Part 1
The ghost on the roof
The first time Bruce saw it, he dismissed it as a trick of the rain. Gotham’s skyline is always full of shadows, and shadows are his element. But this one felt different.
The recording was grainy, pulled from one of the dozens of cameras scattered across the Coventry. Amid the storm, lightning illuminated the rooftops—and there it was. A figure. Still, impossibly still. Taller than most men, broad-shouldered, standing as if waiting.
Bruce replayed the footage three times. Each time, the unease deepened. It wasn’t the kind of movement he associated with criminals. It wasn’t movement at all—it was presence.
Alfred: “Another ghost story for Gotham’s archives, sir?” Bruce: “It isn’t a ghost.” Alfred: “Of course not. Just a shadow standing perfectly still in torrential rain. Perfectly reasonable.”
Bruce ignored the remark, eyes fixed on the figure.
He catalogued the variables—weather conditions, the precise rooftop coordinates, the window of time before the image blurred into static. All too vague. Still, he felt the tension coil in his chest, the same instinct that told him when a case wasn’t just a case.
Later that night, on patrol, he found himself drawn back to that rooftop. Empty. Just the rain and the hum of the city. He crouched on the ledge, cape soaking, scanning every line of sight. Nothing.
But even in the silence, Bruce felt it: the unmistakable certainty of being watched.
Part 2
