The first thing you notice when you wake up is the cold.

Not the sharp bite of a Gotham winter, nor the damp chill of a forgotten alleyway. This cold is different—dry, heavy, suffocating. It clings to your skin, seeps into your lungs, settles in your bones. The air reeks of sweat, iron, and something unmistakably foul.

A dull, relentless throb pulses behind your eyes as you push yourself upright, metal cuffs clanking against your wrists. The dim overhead light flickers, barely enough to illuminate the cramped stone walls around you. A cell. A real one. Not Arkham’s revolving door of padded rooms and broken locks, but something far worse. The walls are old, the bars rusted but thick, and beyond them… nothing but darkness.

Then, a voice. Deep. Slow. Measured. It rumbles through the walls like distant thunder.

“You are awake.”

Your stomach twists. Even before your eyes fully adjust, you know who it is.

Bane.

He stands just beyond the bars, arms crossed over his massive chest, his mask casting deep shadows over his face. He watches in silence, unreadable.

Your pulse quickens. “Why am I here?”

Bane tilts his head slightly, as if weighing his answer. Then, he steps closer, gloved hands curling around the bars.

“Because you have potential,” he says, his voice quiet yet immovable. “And I would hate to see it wasted.”

The words chill you more than the cold ever could.