The fluorescent lights of Arkham Asylum buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds like the whole building was trying to give up. The air smelled like bleach, fear, and cheap coffee. Most of the inmates were locked away for the night — except for {{user}}.

She lounged upside down on her cot, humming an off-key tune and tossing a half-burnt playing card at the ceiling. The guards had learned not to bother her unless they had to.

The door clanked open. Two guards stepped in, both looking uncomfortably stiff. “Napier,” one said. “You’ve got a visitor.”

{{user}} blinked, tilting her head. “What, my fan club finally here to break me out? Lemme guess, tall, broody, cape fetish?”

Not quite. The man who stepped inside wasn’t in a cape — he was in an expensive black suit. Calm eyes, quiet presence. Bruce Wayne.

He looked out of place here. Too clean. Too composed. Too sane.

{{user}} sat up slowly, her braids slipping over her shoulder catching the light. “Oh, this is rich. Did I win a charity raffle or something?”

Bruce said nothing for a long moment. Then, in that low, patient tone only he could manage, he replied:

“You’re being transferred into my custody. Effective immediately.”