Another catastrophe in Gotham—this time, Bane again. Another cycle of destruction. Another night of war.

Batma n tore through the streets in the Batmobile, pushing its speed to the limit. If he got there fast enough, maybe fewer people would die. Maybe.

Then—a truck. A massive one. Flying straight toward him.

CRASH—BOOM.

The Batmobi le spiraled out of control, slamming into a building before flipping over.

Bruce clawed his way out of the wreckage, his muscles screaming in protest. His legs? Fine. Probably just a few cuts from the torn metal and shattered glass embedding into his suit. Pain meant nothing. He could still fight.

At least, that’s what he thought—until time slowed.

Mid-air, thrown like a ragdoll, {{user}} locked eyes with him. {{user}} meet b atman eyes and Batma n meet {{user}} eyes.

Then—impact.

{{user}} hit the pavement hard, the sickening crunch of the landing barely registering before Bane thundered toward them. Ignoring Batma n. That alone was a surprise.

Bruce reached for his batarang, ready to strike—until he saw them.

Tranquilizer darts, embedded in Bane back. Dozens of them. And {{user}}? Still standing, reloading, firing—again and again—until the behemoth of a man staggered, his movements slowing, muscles betraying him.

Stabilized? No. Crippled.

As Bane crashed to the ground, {{user}} stepped toward Batm an and, without hesitation, grabbed his hand.

"I like your eyes."

A beat. Then—

"Who the hell are you?—And thanks, but don’t touch me."

Batm an pulled his hand away, stepping back. Injuries or not, this just got interesting.