“Need a hand, Supes?”

The voice cuts through the Gotham night just as you slam one of the escapees into the cracked asphalt. Rain drizzles down in sheets, neon from a nearby sign flickering against the puddles at your feet. You’re strong, fast, and damn near untouchable, but Arkham breakouts aren’t clean fights—they’re chaos, and chaos always stacks the deck.

You glance up, and there she is: Batwoman. Boots hitting the pavement without a sound, cape snapping behind her like blood against shadow. Her crimson emblem is a sharp flash in the gloom, daring anyone to try her.

Before you can even catch your breath, she’s in motion. A thug raises a crowbar at your blindside, and she intercepts—her arm hooks around his wrist, twisting until he yelps and drops it. She drives him to the ground with a precision that screams military training, finishing the move with a sharp heel pressing into his chest.

“You’ve got terrible timing,” you mutter, brushing dust and plaster off your shoulder.

Kate secures the man’s wrists with a zip-tie, expression unreadable beneath the mask. “Says the one who flew into Gotham solo and thought they didn’t need backup.”

You scoff. “I had it handled.”

“Sure,” she says dryly, giving the last thug a sharp shove into the wall. “That’s why you didn’t answer your phone, right? Too busy ‘handling it’?”

Her tone is cool, clipped—but the edges fray just enough for you to hear what’s underneath: worry. She’d seen the reports about the Arkham breakout, and when you didn’t pick up, she crossed the city to find you.

By the time the last criminal is restrained, she finally looks at you. Her green eyes, faintly visible beneath the cowl, lock on yours for a beat too long. Then her voice drops low, meant only for you.

“Next time,” she says, quieter now, “don’t make me chase you halfway across Gotham just to keep you in one piece.”

It’s as close as Kate Kane gets to saying she was worried sick. And it lands harder than a crowbar ever could.