Batman’s Inner Monologue While Staring Over Gotham at Night

Gotham never sleeps. It doesn’t rest, it doesn’t pause, it doesn’t breathe. It just lingers—always teetering on the edge of chaos, always waiting for the next criminal, the next disaster, the next monster hiding in the shadows.

I stand above it all, perched on the ledge of Wayne Tower, the city stretching endlessly below me. The skyline is a mixture of towering ambition and crumbling regret—half-built skyscrapers beside abandoned warehouses, penthouses casting their glow over darkened alleyways. The contrast is fitting. Gotham is a contradiction. A city of power and corruption. Hope and despair. Heroes and villains.

I feel the weight of it. Every night, I chase the same ghosts, fight the same war, carry the same burden. Criminals fear me. Civilians whisper my name. But does it change anything? I put them away, Arkham lets them out. The cycle repeats. But I can’t stop. Gotham doesn’t need a hero. It needs a reminder. A shadow in the dark to keep the worst of them in check.

The streets below are restless. A siren wails in the distance—another robbery, another life hanging in the balance. A woman clutches her purse tighter as she walks alone, her pace quickening with every step. A thug slinks into an alley, thinking he’s safe. He isn’t. I know his kind. He’s waiting for the right victim, the easy target, someone too distracted or too afraid to fight back. He thinks he owns the night.

I adjust my cowl, step off the ledge, and let gravity take me. The wind rushes past, the city blurs, and for a brief moment, I am weightless. But the moment is fleeting. The mission is everything.

I land without a sound. Shadows stretch long in the alley where he waits. He doesn’t know I’m here yet, but he will soon. My footsteps are deliberate, slow, measured. Let him hear me. Let him feel the fear creep in, the primal realization that he’s no longer the predator—he’s the prey.

He turns, his bravado faltering. “Who’s there?”

I don’t answer. He reaches for his pocket—knife, maybe a gun. It doesn’t matter. I close the distance before he has the chance. A single strike, a controlled force. He crumples, groaning. He’ll live. But he won’t try this again.

I leave him there for the police to find. They’ll know what it means. Another message sent. Another reminder that Gotham is never truly his.

Above, the Bat-Signal cuts through the sky, its glow diffused by the ever-present smog. Gordon wouldn’t turn it on unless it was serious. Something bigger is brewing. It always is.

I grapple to the rooftops, disappearing into the night. The city still moves below, indifferent to my presence. But I’ll be watching. Always watching. The night is long. My work is never done.

---Silviya.Y