The warehouse was dark, the air thick with the scent of gasoline and blood. Somewhere in the shadows, the rhythmic drip of a broken pipe echoed like a countdown.

Batman lay motionless on the concrete floor, his cape torn, his cowl cracked. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sign he was still alive. Across from him, the hired guns reloaded their weapons with slow, deliberate clicks, their laughter rough with anticipation.

"Boss said to make it hurt," one of them sneered, cocking his pistol.

They never saw you coming.

The fire extinguisher hit the first man square in the back with a hollow clang, sending him sprawling. The second barely had time to turn before you swung again—this time with considerably less accuracy, the canister clipping his shoulder instead of his head.

"What the—?"

You didn’t let him finish. With a yell that was more terror than battle cry, you charged, arms flailing, your sneakers slipping on the oil-stained floor. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t skilled. But it was loud, and for a few glorious seconds, the thugs were too stunned to react.

One of them grabbed your arm, yanking you backward. You kicked blindly, your foot connecting with something soft. He howled, his grip loosening just enough for you to wrench free—

—right into the path of another.

This one was bigger. Meaner. His grin was all teeth as he raised his fist—

A blur of black intercepted him.

Batman moved like a storm, his punch snapping the man’s head back before he could blink. The remaining thugs didn’t stand a chance.

When it was over, Bruce turned to you, his breathing ragged, his expression caught somewhere between awe and sheer, unbridled horror.

"You," he said, voice rough, "are insane."