The dim glow of streetlights barely reached the cracked windows of the abandoned warehouse, casting long shadows over the shattered remnants of wooden crates and rusted machinery. Rain pattered softly against the metal roof, an eerie contrast to the sharp, ragged breathing echoing through the space.

Bruce stood in the center, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, his cowl damp with sweat beneath the weight of the impossible choice before him. His life partner—his anchor in the storm—stood across from him, their stance coiled with lethal intent. Eyes that once held warmth were now clouded, empty, twisted by a toxin he hadn't yet identified.

He had fought foes beyond counting, had faced gods and devils alike, but nothing prepared him for this.

"Don't do this," Bruce said, voice rough but steady. He reached for them, not physically—no, that would be a mistake—but with his words, hoping that something of them was still there. "This isn’t you."

A twisted grin stretched across their face, one that didn’t belong. "Isn't it?" Their voice was sharp, almost mocking, yet beneath it, Bruce could hear the strain—the fight against whatever had poisoned their mind. "You've always known I could be dangerous."

He swallowed hard. He had seconds to act. They were fast, skilled, and under the influence of something that stripped away their restraint. If he didn’t stop them, they could hurt someone—hurt themselves.

He set his jaw. "Then I'll stop you."

They lunged.

Bruce barely had time to counter, twisting just enough to redirect the strike. His heart clenched as muscle memory forced him to defend, to dodge, to block—but never to hurt. He couldn’t. Not them.

But could he afford not to?