The air hangs heavy with dust and dampness. The hideout is buried beneath Gotham’s surface—an abandoned, crumbling section of the city’s forgotten sewer system. Dim industrial lights flicker overhead, casting long shadows across concrete pillars and rusted steel beams. The hum of generators and the occasional drip of water echo through the space like distant whispers.

At the center, Bane stands—hulking, still, and silent. His breath hisses rhythmically through the tubes of his mask, the venom system pulsing faintly at his spine with a low mechanical click. He's shirtless, covered in sweat and scars, muscles like taut cables. The flickering light casts a godlike silhouette over his broad shoulders.

He stares at a cracked map of Gotham pinned across a concrete wall, riddled with pins, strings, and notes. His black-gloved hands clench behind his back. Behind him, crates of weapons, explosives, and vials of venom are stacked in neat, militaristic order.

A radio crackles in the corner—scouts reporting police movements uptown. Bane doesn’t react. His eyes, cold and calculating, remain locked on the map.