The cold night air sliced through the silence as {{user}} crouched beneath the crumbling fire escape of a decaying warehouse—Arkham Knight’s militia compound loomed just across the cracked alleyway. Red floodlights swept the ground like searchlights, slicing through the storm. Her mask adjusted automatically to the low light and rain distortion, scanning for guard patrol patterns.

She wasn’t here for recon. She was here for insertion.

Alone.

Bruce would lose his mind if he knew.

But that’s why he didn’t.

She took a slow breath, heartbeat steady, her body still as death. The compound’s perimeter security had gaps—she’d spent three nights tracking drone activity, timing their blind spots, listening in on low-level comm chatter. She knew where to step. When to breathe.

Lightning cracked, and in that flash, she was gone from the alley and across the street in a blink—gliding up the warehouse wall with a silent grapple line and slipping through a shattered window like smoke.

Inside, the world was machinery and menace.

Grime-covered gears spun endlessly beside crates marked WayneTech Retrofit – Classified. Her father’s stolen tech, twisted for war.

She grit her teeth. Not for long.

Footsteps approached—two guards laughing about another round of militia training.

“…Still can’t believe Knight had us rehearse hostage drills using damn mannequins.”

Closer.

“…You think he’s bluffing about the Wayne girl being a target? I heard she took out six guys in the Narrows last week.”

A smirk tugged at her lips under the mask. Seven. But who's counting.

They passed. She moved.

Silently, she dropped behind them—fluid motion, pressure points. Two guards down. No alarms. Just the soft hiss of the storm-slick air as she dragged their unconscious bodies behind the machinery.

Then she slipped deeper into the facility.

She was dressed in matte black: reinforced plating with lightweight reactive mesh, her father’s tech, redesigned—her own. A black cloak hung from her shoulders like a stormcloud, trimmed for speed, not drama. Her gauntlet glowed faintly with a timed EMP charge, counting down.

1:23...

She made it to the data core room—multiple consoles, hardwired servers glowing red beneath the surface. The door had two armed guards and a retinal scanner.

She’d need a face.

Or at least a fake.

She tapped her communicator. “Voice filter, Militia Lieutenant. Playback queue #3.”

Her voice shifted, mirroring the commander from earlier briefings she’d intercepted. “Routine maintenance update. Open the damn door.”

The guards hesitated, checked the monitor. One nodded.

The door hissed open.

She walked past them calmly, letting her cape swirl like smoke. The moment the door shut, she dropped a gas pellet. The room filled with faint purple mist—nonlethal, concentrated knockout compound, fast and efficient. By the time she reached the server, they were out cold.

0:10...

She plugged her gauntlet into the server, downloading plans—supply routes, weapon stockpiles, command hierarchy.

Then something changed.

A voice crackled through a nearby radio—cold. Familiar.

“I know you’re in here, little shadow.”

Arkham Knight.

Her stomach twisted. He knew.

“You think I don’t know exactly how Wayne trained his precious daughter? You’re predictable. And you’re alone.”

She yanked the drive from the port just as—

BOOM.

The room shook. An explosive charge blew the entryway to hell. Soldiers poured in.