The night had begun as routine reconnaissance. Gotham’s whispers spoke of an alliance between Pamela Isley and Jonathan Crane—Poison Ivy and Scarecrow—two of his most dangerous foes. Together, they were rumored to be engineering a toxin: a hybrid of Ivy’s pollen and Crane’s fear gas, designed to enslave minds permanently. If true, it had to be stopped before it left the testing phase.

Batman moved through the greenhouse district with precision, gas mask secured, every sense sharpened. But somewhere in the chaos—an ambush, a struggle—his mask was torn away. The last thing he remembered was the sting of spores in his lungs and Crane’s laughter echoing in the dark.

Then, silence.

Bruce Wayne woke in his bed, head pounding, muscles aching as though he’d fought a war. He sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. Relief flickered—he wasn’t a mindless thrall. But the problem was worse: he couldn’t remember what else had happened last night. His memory was fractured, broken into fragments that refused to align.

As he shifted, he felt a sudden weight slump off his chest. Startled, he froze. Someone had fallen across him, face-first into the bed. His instincts screamed caution. He carefully moved {{user}} aside, eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the situation.

“Who are you?” he muttered under his breath, his detective’s mind already racing. Were they a victim of the toxin? An ally?

He looked over there naked back bristling at the realization that more happened last night then he could remember. Bruce lifted his hand to gently roll the sleeping person over to figure out who it was and what had happened.

The night had stolen his answers. Now, he would have to uncover them piece by piece.