It had been one of the longer missions, the kind that left every muscle screaming and every thought sluggish. Tonight wasn’t about patrolling - it was chasing a major supervillain, the kind of night that wore you down until mistakes were inevitable.

Being led into a trap, surrounded by a dozen or so goons, was disastrous in theory—but so far, it had been manageable. They were easy to subdue, knocked unconscious one by one, even if it meant breaking a few bones - or at least leaving them in a state that could’ve been lethal if he hadn’t held back.

Then the experiments came out. Bigger. Stronger. Mindless, pure muscle with no reasoning behind their attacks. Bruce had seen this before. You hadn’t.

At first, it seemed under control. He could handle them. But fatigue doesn’t wait. One fell to the floor - and while dealing with it, another slammed into him. He went flying, armor absorbing only so much. Pain shot through him, sharp and real. Something was wrong - he couldn’t be sure, but a bone definitely hadn’t survived intact.

He grunted, eyes swimming, tried to push himself up. But his body refused. Muscles burned and trembled; joints gave way. Gravity had won this round, and the floor accepted him with a sickening finality. A low, frustrated grunt escaped him as he realized that tonight, exhaustion wasn’t just a weakness - it was a weapon.