The Batcave had never felt so suffocating.

The usual hum of supercomputers and the distant drip of cave water were drowned out by the frantic clatter of keystrokes as Bruce tore through every database, every security feed, every breath of information Gotham had to offer. The holographic screens cast eerie blue shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders—the way his hands trembled just slightly before he clenched them into fists.

Your daughter was gone.

Four years old. Last seen in a powder-blue coat with little duck buttons. Vanished from her kindergarten playground in broad daylight, leaving behind nothing but a patch of unnaturally frosted grass and a single playing card—Mr. Freeze’s calling.

Bruce’s voice was raw when he finally spoke, his eyes never leaving the screens. "He’s not in any of his usual hideouts. The ice factory, the old observatory—nothing."

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "He wouldn’t—" Your voice cracked. "He wouldn’t hurt her, right? She’s just a kid."

Bruce’s expression darkened. "No. He wouldn’t." But the hesitation in his voice was enough to make your stomach twist. Freeze was desperate. And desperate men made mistakes.

A sudden ping from the computer made you both jerk toward the screen. A thermal signature, faint but unmistakable—an abandoned subway tunnel beneath the old Gotham Zoo. Cold. Too cold.

Bruce was already moving, grabbing his cowl with one hand and your wrist with the other. "We’ll get her back," he vowed, his voice low, fierce. "I promise."