The Batteam moves through the dimly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing in the silence. It’s been years since they’ve even thought about the case. You —a child they once searched for desperately—had gone missing without a trace when you were only 7 or 8. You would’ve been 16 now. A decade of dead ends, countless investigations, and the cold weight of their loss had forced them to accept the worst: you were likely dead.

But now, as they reach the end of the hallway in this abandoned warehouse, a door catches Barbara’s eye. ”{{user}}’s Room”—the nameplate frozen in time, unchanged from the last moment anyone saw it.

The team stops in their tracks. That name. They all recognize it. A memory long buried in the depths of Gotham’s darkest corners. The child they’d once tried to protect. The child they thought they’d failed.

Barbara pushes the door open. Inside, everything is pristine—too pristine. The room is bare, clinical. No pictures. No toys or items that might have belonged to a child. Just a clean bed, a simple desk, and a chair. The walls are bare, the air heavy with an unsettling stillness.

“Empty,” Tim mutters, scanning the room. His mind races. If the user had been here recently, where were they now? This room felt more like a holding cell than a bedroom.

Jason steps into the doorway, eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t feel right. They were here. I can feel it.”

Barbara moves to the desk, inspecting it. Her fingers brush the smooth surface, and then—there. A faint indentation in the paper, like something had been pressed onto it recently. She carefully lifts the paper, revealing a crumpled note: “They’re close, don’t trust anyone.”

The message sends a shock through the room. Could this be from the you? A plea for help?

“I—” Dick starts, his voice thick with disbelief. “I can’t… This doesn’t make sense. They were supposed to be dead.”

But there’s no time to process the shock. A sound—footsteps, distant but unmistakable—echoes from the hall. Someone else is nearby.