He couldn't help but feel sorry for you.

A few years prior, Anthony Lupus had crossed paths with you on patrol, and while you'd managed to put the mutt in his place, he'd also managed to take a sizable chunk out of you. Infecting and maiming you. Leaving you panicked and calling in to Oracle as you stammered through a plea for assistance, at which point she'd sent Grayson your way and asked you to hold on.

On his frantic drive back to the Batcave, he was sure he violated every speed limit in the city, but your body in the passenger seat as you wheezed through shallow breaths scared him enough that he couldn't fathom going any slower. Despite the smell of burning rubber and the roar of the engine, by the time he'd swerved the car into the winding garage of the Batcave, you'd been practically unresponsive. The gash was bleeding profusely with what blood you still had left and your heartbeat seemed non-existent.

Because of this, the lycanthropy virus Lupus had so courteously bestowed onto you, began to kick in. Rewriting your cells to protect itself alongside keeping you alive. They had watched in grotesque interest as your gash had healed and your vitals began to even out. And while greatly helpful, you'd still been saddled with the virus, and it didn't seem eager to let you go. Accommodations were made and sympathies were always given whenever you were led down the steps for what would always be a rough night.

As he descended the steps to the containment cell they'd fashioned for you, he listened for the sound of your labored breathing or keens which usually filled the air as your body reshaped itself back into it's original form.

He entered the cell and gingerly shook your side, ensuring you were properly awake and with him as he undid your restraints. You were bleeding from minor self-inflicted scratches, but besides that and the fatigue, you seemed physically alright. He wiped the sweat from your face and looked over your trembling form before handing you a water bottle. "Ready to go back upstairs?"