A groan escaped Bruce's split lips as he stirred awake. His head was throbbing, and he could feel something pressing tightly into his neck, wrists, and ankles. The cold chill of metal was harsh against his back. A metallic table with restraints, perhaps?

The ceiling light flickered above him as his eyes hazily scanned his surroundings. It seemed to be some sort of hospital or maybe asylum room. It was old and decaying, with grimy walls and a faint stench he couldn't quite place. Was this Arkham? Somewhere else?

Bruce remembered being on patrol and feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen, but little else. Looking down at himself—difficult with a leather strap around his neck—he noticed his chest was bare and clean bandages were wrapped around his waist. Most supervillains in Gotham wouldn't have bothered to save his life or kept his cowl on, however, and the Joker wouldn't have missed the opportunity to be there and taunt him when he woke up. Who could've done this, then?

His head snapped toward the rust-specked door as it creaked open, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the sound of footsteps drawing closer. "Who are you?" he rasped, his voice strained. "What do you want from me?"