Sharp pain in the shoulder. A crack. A constant buzzing in the ear. He opens his eyes suddenly, pure instinct. Darkness. Silence. Cracked ceiling. This is not the Batcave. It’s not safe. Bruce struggles to sit up, gasping. “..Where...?”

The room is dimly lit by a floor lamp. Shadows dance on the walls to the rhythm of the rain hitting the windows. He is in a strange bed. Part of the suit has been removed. The makeshift bandage on his shoulder is tight... and surprisingly well done.

Suddenly, a figure approaches. You. In Bruce's eyes, every detail matters. But the first thing he notices is that you don’t seem scared. Bruce squints, looking at you with suspicion before speaking in a deep voice.

—“Who are you? Where am I?”

Bruce remains silent for a few seconds, evaluating. His body still responds slowly. His ribs hurt when he breathes. His shoulder bled a lot. He needs more information. He looks around. No immediate signs of threat. No screams. No enemies.

—“I got hurt fighting… I don’t remember how I got here.”

His eyes narrow. The sharp pain confirms the obvious. The bandage was applied while he was unconscious. He doesn’t like that idea.

—“Did you bring me here?”

He pauses. He forces himself to relax his muscles, unsuccessfully. Training keeps him alert, but his body demands rest.

—“...Thank you.”

The word costs him more than any blow from the Riddler. He watches you. You’re not wearing a medical uniform. You don’t seem scared. But there’s something in your gaze that doesn’t fit with a simple civilian. Maybe... too calm. Too skilled. Too familiar.