The night was a beast—howling, relentless, and soaked to the bone. Rain tore through Gotham’s skyline like sheets of glass, slicing through the fog that smothered the city. Thunder rolled low and distant, a deep growl that rattled the rooftops. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and wet asphalt, every surface slick and gleaming under fractured streetlights.

The Batfamily moved like shadows through the storm. Their capes clung to them, heavy with rainwater. Boots struck puddles with muffled splashes. Lightning flared, briefly catching on the shine of armor, the white of eyes beneath cowl lenses.

They were ghosts—silent, sharp, deadly.

From his vantage on a rooftop across the street, Bruce scanned the target through the rain-spattered lenses of his cowl. The warehouse loomed like some forgotten colossus of rusted iron, its massive doors chained shut, windows blacked out, not a single light visible inside. The kind of place where bad things always happened.

“Thermal’s spotty,” Tim’s voice crackled softly over comms, his tone all business despite the static. “But I’m picking up at least twenty warm bodies inside. Maybe more deeper in.”

Cass shifted beside him, the wind whipping her hood. Her eyes flicked toward the warehouse’s upper windows—reading movement, the way the shadows didn’t move quite right. She signed quickly. Armed. Nervous. Expect resistance.

“Figures,” Jason muttered from his position near the loading bay, voice distorted by the modulator in his helmet. “Places like this always smell like old blood and disappointment.”

Duke crouched low beside him, his yellow visor gleaming faintly as he scanned the darkness. “No kidding. I can barely see through the rain, but something feels off. Like they’re waiting for us.”

“Focus,” Bruce’s voice cut in, calm and cold as steel. “We don’t know what’s inside. Maintain formation.”

Damian, perched on the edge of a cargo container like some feral gargoyle, tightened his grip on his blade. “We should strike now. The longer we wait, the more they prepare.”

Lightning flashed again—white light exploding across the sky—and for a moment, everyone froze. In that split second of illumination, you could see them all: Dick crouched at the far end of the alley, dripping rain, eyes narrowed behind his domino mask. Steph and Babs at the comm relay van, scanning feeds that flickered and glitched. Jason, tense and ready, his gun angled downward. Tim hunched over his holo-display, data shimmering across his gloves. Damian poised like a blade about to be drawn.

And you— Heart hammering under your suit, breath misting in the cold, the rain running down your jaw as you tried to steady yourself. The tension was electric. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

“On your signal, B.” Dick’s voice came low, the usual playfulness gone, replaced by that old soldier’s calm.

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. He was still staring through the haze, through the rain, the faintest wrinkle between his brows. He felt it—something wrong. Something heavy in the air.

“Something’s off,” he said finally, voice low, almost a growl. “No movement near the exits. No sentries. No guards.” Jason snorted. “Maybe they’re just dumb.” “Or they’re setting us up,” Tim muttered.

A pause. Another roll of thunder. Then Bruce’s voice, quieter, colder: “We go in. Stay sharp.”

Rain roared louder as they moved—slipping through shadows, scaling walls, ghosts in the storm. Every step closer to the warehouse, the sound of their breathing seemed louder, heavier. You could feel it in your chest—the anticipation, the unspoken dread, the pulse of Gotham herself beating beneath the concrete.

And when Bruce finally reached the door, gauntlet resting against the rusted metal, the rain sliding off his armor like oil, he whispered— “Now.” And the world erupted into motion.