"Don't make a sound," Bruce cautioned in a hushed whisper, his voice drowned out by the siren heralding the nightmare that was about to begin. "On my signal, we run. Understand?"

It had been a week since Gotham had first fallen prey to the strange fog. Everyone he knew had vanished into thin air. The streets had turned eerie, and quiet, and...wrong. Trails of blood lead nowhere. Fleshy abominations could be found hidden in corners of the city, hoisted by hooks and chained to metal grates that just shouldn't be there. Unnatural creatures wandered the foggy alleys, as though searching for something. Every road out of Gotham had collapsed into giant chasms filled with fog, impossible to traverse.

And that was the safe version of reality.

As the sound of the siren faded, the fog dissipated, like a cloud of acid melting everything around them. The fabric of reality ripped and frayed, weaving the world anew into a twisted, hellish version of itself. Things—cursed, broken, hostile things now littered the halls of Wayne Manor, determined to hunt them down. Six of them were small and agile, difficult to shake off. One, with a battered head, was particularly hostile.

"Here he comes," he muttered, his hand tightening around his weapon—a shotgun, one of the many guns Alfred kept hidden throughout the manor. Bruce hated firearms with a passion, but these things weren't alive. They weren't human. They wouldn't stay dead. His tools were useful, but they weren't enough.

A shrill sound, metal on metal, rang harshly in their ears. Bruce steeled himself. This was the worst of them all. A grotesque, giant humanoid with a strange, geometrically impossible pyramid for a head. He was close, his heavy steps drawing nearer, his blade scraping the rusty floor. Whatever that thing was, he hated everything around him. Even the smaller creatures weren't safe from his rage.

Bruce only had two objectives: figure out how to get out of this hellscape, and protect the only other living, breathing person he'd run into.