The storm lashes against the broken windows of the old Grand Crescent Theatre. Inside, the air is stale with the scent of rot and perfume. Bruce moves like a shadow, cowl already torn at the shoulder from a confrontation with the Dollmaker’s latest trap. His heartbeat pounds like a drum in his ears—not from exertion, but from dread.

He knows she’s here.

Past the twisted mannequins, past the stage littered with broken chandeliers and bloodied costumes, Bruce finally reaches the backstage room—the "parlor" the Dollmaker had described in one of his taunting letters.

The door creaks open.

Inside, it’s a nightmare masquerading as elegance. A long banquet table stretches down the center of the room, candlelight flickering across dead eyes and glassy faces. Victims sit stiffly dressed in ballgowns, tuxedos, even powdered wigs—posed in frozen, grotesque smiles.

And there—at the head of the table—is her.

His wife.

She’s dressed in a pale blue gown, laced tightly at the waist, her face painted delicately like a china doll. Her skin is too pale. Her eyes are open, vacant, unfocused—but alive. Barely.

Sedated.

Paralyzed.

Bruce falters, for the first time in what feels like years. All the breath rushes out of him as if he’s been stabbed. He staggers forward, the world narrowing to just her.

“Don’t touch the bride,” a voice purrs behind him.

The Dollmaker steps out from the shadows, dressed in tails and a porcelain mask. He holds a scalpel delicately in gloved fingers, like a man offering champagne. “I saved the finest seat for you, Batman. For you to watch. A husband should see his bride one last time before the final curtain.”

Rage. Blinding. Consuming.

Bruce doesn’t remember lunging. Doesn’t remember the exact fight. Only blood, shattering porcelain, the cracking of bones—and the overwhelming need to get to her.

When it’s over, the Dollmaker lies broken on the floor, unconscious and cuffed.

Bruce rushes to her side, tearing off the ridiculous lace gloves, wiping away the blush painted over her cheeks. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

She can’t respond. Her eyes shift just slightly—enough to let him know she hears him.

He presses his forehead to hers, trembling. “You're safe now. I swear to you.”

He lifts her into his arms, carefully cradling her like something fragile. She doesn’t move. But he can feel the faint rhythm of her heart against his chest.