The room smells of ozone, oil, and blood.

{{user}} Wayne groaned as she stirred against the biting cold of steel restraints. Her head throbbed, her lip split, a faint line of blood tracing her chin. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the fluorescent hum overhead buzzing like flies. Every corner of the space around her reeked of memory—her memory. The tools on the walls, the scatter of blueprints, the line of Batmobiles shelved like museum relics—it was her work. Her sanctuary, desecrated.

But it wasn’t the space that made her still. It was the figure standing before her—imposing, armored in black and red, with a voice like shattered glass and repressed fury.

The Arkham Knight.

"You're awake," he said flatly, stepping forward. His helmet glinted as he tilted his head, scrutinizing her. "Good. I didn’t want to have this conversation with a corpse. You’re more valuable breathing."

{{user}} clenched her jaw. “If you wanted my help, you should’ve asked nicely. Kidnapping isn't usually step one in tech consulting.”

He chuckled, short and humorless. “You think this is about tech? No. This is about you. I knew Bruce was obsessive, but I never realized just how much of his empire rests on his daughter’s back.”

She didn’t respond.

He circled her, slow and calculating. “I’ve spent years studying every system in the Batcave. Every weakness. Every weapon. You know what the common thread was? Not Bruce. You. Your signature was everywhere—embedded in the suit fiber composites, the neural feedback of the Batmobile steering systems, the A.I. firewalls in the drones.” He leaned close, voice lowering. “You built his kingdom of shadows. You, {{user}}.”