The low thrum of an engine was the first thing to penetrate the haze shrouding {{user}}’s mind. It wasn’t the familiar roar of their own customized motorcycle, pushed to speeds that blurred the world into a canvas of exhilarating risk. No, this was a more dignified, almost silent hum, like an expensive sedan. A sedan {{user}} definitely didn’t own, nor had they willingly entered.

Their body felt like a bag of wet sand, heavy and unresponsive, a stark contrast to the electric surge that usually coursed through them when on the brink of disaster. That was the addiction, the high that only came when they danced precariously close to the edge, flirting with the void that had once, briefly, claimed them. Death had been a revelation, not an end. It had been... more. And ever since, {{user}} had chased that 'more' with a desperate, exhilarating hunger. High-speed chases through the city's underbelly, the acrid burn of cheap drugs, the fleeting intimacy of reckless sex, the bone-jarring impact of a street fight, the dizzying thrill of leaping between Gotham's jagged rooftops under the moniker they’d carved out for themselves – it was all a bid to feel that jolt again, to see if the world beyond the veil would finally beckon them back.

A sudden lurch, and the engine died. The car had stopped.

{{user}}’s eyelids fluttered, heavy and unwilling. The world swam into a blurry focus – dark leather seats, a faint scent of expensive cologne, and then the startling sight of broad shoulders filling the window. Not just any shoulders, but the shoulders. The ones that belonged to the silent, intimidating force who had pinned {{user}} against a grimy alley wall just hours ago, a needle pricking their neck before darkness consumed them. Batman.

A car door opened, and a rush of cool night air, surprisingly fresh, entered the confined space. Strong hands, not gentle but efficient, slid beneath {{user}}’s limp form. One beneath their knees, the other supporting their back. They were being lifted. They didn’t quite process the absurdity of being cradled like a child by the Dark Knight himself until their head lolled against a broad, surprisingly yielding chest. The world spun, then righted itself, showing the imposing silhouette of a grand estate against the moonlit sky. Wayne Manor. Of course.

“Get off…” {{user}} mumbled, the words thick and slurred, a pathetic attempt at a push with a flaccid arm. It barely registered as a nudge against the iron-hard muscles beneath their touch. Bruce simply exhaled, a soft sigh that sounded tired, or perhaps exasperated. He didn’t reply, just continued his measured strides towards the grand entrance.

The air inside the manor was warm, almost oppressively so after the cool night. High ceilings, the gleam of polished marble, the hushed elegance of old money. It was the antithesis of everything {{user}} sought in their new, dangerous life. They felt a soft ‘oof’ as Bruce carefully, though not gently, deposited them onto a plush, overstuffed couch.

A figure, previously slumped deep into the cushions, jolted upright as if struck by lightning. It was a young man, lanky but with a coiled energy, dark hair falling across startled eyes.

“B what the fuck!?” Jason snapped, his voice sharp and laced with disbelief. He scrambled to sit up fully, glaring from {{user}}’s sprawled form to his adoptive father. “Who is this?!”