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The night smelled like rain and ozone, the kind that clung to the city after a storm that never quite came. Streetlights flickered, casting long shadows across cracked asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then cut off abruptly, as if even it knew better than to be loud here.
Ilya Rozanov stood on the corner of 47th and Burnside, pretending, very convincingly, that he belonged there.
He wore the cowl like it had grown out of him. The cape fell heavy across his shoulders, black swallowing black, armour catching just enough light to remind the world he was solid, real, and very much not in the mood. His boots were planted wide, posture relaxed in the way that came only from being perpetually ready for a fight.
Gotham had taught him that.
Metropolis had not.
Which was how he noticed the problem before it noticed him.
A red-and-blue blur streaked overhead, too fast, too bright, bending the air as it slowed. Ilya tilted his head back, unimpressed.
“Subtle,” he muttered, Russian accent curling around the word like smoke. “Very subtle. Like drunk pigeon.”
The blur stopped.
Then descended.
The man who landed in front of him did it gently, boots touching down without a sound, cape drifting dramatically behind him like the city itself was staging a reveal. Superman straightened, tall and broad and glowing faintly even under flickering streetlights, the emblem on his chest unmistakable.
Shane Hollander looked exactly like a symbol was supposed to.
“Oh,” Shane said, smiling easily. “Hey. You’re… not from Metropolis.”
Ilya stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable behind the white lenses of the cowl.
“And you,” Ilya replied dryly, “are very shiny.”
Shane blinked. “I- um, thanks? I think?”
Ilya stepped closer, boots scraping softly against the pavement. Superman didn’t move, but Ilya felt it, the restrained power, the careful control. Like standing next to a loaded weapon that desperately wanted to be polite.
“You drop into my city without invitation,” Ilya said. “You hover. You glow. You smile like you’re in toothpaste commercial.”
Shane’s smile faltered, just a bit. “I’m tracking something. Some… energy anomaly. Thought it’d be safer to check it out before it hurt anyone.”
Ilya hummed. “You thought wrong city would be safer?”
Shane laughed quietly. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”
They stood there, Gotham breathing around them. Rain began to mist, catching on Superman’s cape and rolling off Batman’s armour in tiny beads.
“So,” Shane said after a moment, tilting his head. “You’re Batman.”
“Ah,” Ilya said. “Very observant. X-ray vision working.”
Shane winced. “I don’t, okay, yeah, I guess that was obvious.”
Ilya circled him slowly, gaze sharp, curious despite himself. He hated that curiosity. Curiosity got people hurt.
“You are lost,” Ilya said. “Metropolis is… cleaner. Brighter. Less stabbing.”
“Hey,” Shane protested. “Metropolis has stabbing.”
Ilya stopped directly in front of him. Looked up. Superman really was surprisingly tall. The boots must make him taller surely.
“Not like Gotham,” he said. “Here, city stabs you emotionally too.”
Something in his tone, flat, dry, but not joking, made Shane’s expression soften.
“Sounds like you and the city have a lot in common,” Shane said quietly.
Ilya stiffened.
Then, to his own surprise, he snorted.
“Careful,” he said. “You flirt like that, I will assume you want mugging.”
Shane laughed, bright and unguarded, and for a second the street felt warmer.
“I’m Shane,” he said, holding out a hand. “I know, I know, secret identities, dramatic mystery, all that, but it feels rude not to introduce myself.”
Ilya stared at the offered hand like it was a trap.
Then he took it.
The contact was brief, gloved fingers against invulnerable skin, but something electric flickered between them, awareness, interest, the strange thrill of meeting someone who could actually understand the weight of a cape.
“Ilya,” Batman said. “Try not to remember it.”
Shane’s smile turned softer. “Can’t promise that.”
Before Ilya could retort, the ground shuddered. A low vibration rippled through the street, subtle but unmistakable. Ilya’s head snapped toward the source instantly.
“You feel that?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” Ilya said. “My city growling.”
They moved together without discussion, Batman grappling upward, Superman lifting effortlessly into the air, pacing him rather than overtaking. They landed on a nearby rooftop overlooking a construction site drowned in shadows.
At its centre, something pulsed. Purple light, wrong and sickly, tearing at the air itself.
“That’s it,” Shane said. “That’s the anomaly.”
Ilya crouched, scanning. “Illegal tech. Interdimensional energy. Someone is being very stupid.”
“Think we can shut it down?” Shane asked.
Ilya glanced at him sideways. “You ask this like date.”
Shane flushed. “I, I didn’t mean-”
“I am joking,” Ilya said lightly. “Mostly,” he whispered.
They descended into chaos together.
The fight was fast, brutal, efficient. Batman disabled guards with precision strikes and gadgets, quipping under his breath the entire time.
“Who brings portal generator to Gotham?” Ilya muttered, flipping an attacker onto the concrete. “Is like bringing lighter to gas station.”
Shane hovered overhead, redirecting blasts, containing explosions, watching Ilya move with sharp fascination.
“You’re… surprisingly good,” Shane said as he caught a collapsing beam midair.
Ilya smirked. “Yes. I know.”
They worked in sync without trying, Batman guiding, Superman supporting, each adjusting instinctively to the other’s rhythm. When the generator finally shattered under Superman’s controlled strike, the purple light winked out, leaving only silence and rain.
They stood amid the wreckage, breathing hard.
“City’s safe,” Shane said softly.
“For tonight,” Ilya replied.
They lingered. Neither quite ready to leave.
Rain soaked Shane’s hair, darkening it, making him look less like a statue and more like a person. Ilya found himself noticing stupid details, the curve of his smile, the way he hovered just slightly even when standing still.
“You should go,” Ilya said. “Gotham eats hope for breakfast.”
Shane met his gaze. “You don’t seem eaten.”
Ilya paused. Then, quietly, “I am not hope.”
“No,” Shane agreed. “You’re something else.”
Something unspoken passed between them, heavy and warm.
“Well,” Shane said, straightening. “If you’re ever in Metropolis…”
Ilya interrupted, deadpan. “I bring sunglasses.”
Shane laughed. “Deal.”
Superman lifted off, pausing just above the rooftop.
“Goodnight, Batman.”
Ilya watched him go, cape snapping in the wind.
“Goodnight, shiny man,” he murmured.
And for the first time in a long while, Gotham’s night felt a little less cold.