Saying Bruce Wayne was furious would have been an understatement—he was far beyond fury, somewhere raw and dangerous and fraying at the edges. How the hell had he let things spiral this badly?

The cave smelled like burnt coffee and cold metal. Empty cups littered the console beside him, each one a failed attempt to keep exhaustion from dragging him under. Seven? No… ten. He’d lost count sometime yesterday. It had been three days since Joker kidnapped you, three days of silence, three days of nothing but dead ends and taunting clues. Three days of imagining every possible horror.

He and the boys had divided the city into grids, sweeping through every alley, rooftop, and warehouse in Gotham City. Night blurred into morning and back again, capes vanishing into fog, boots pounding across rain-slick streets—but nothing turned up. No ransom demand. No traceable signal. Just the echo of laughter in Bruce’s head.

He stood rigid at the Batcomputer, jaw tight enough to ache. The screen reflected hollow, bloodshot eyes that hadn’t known real sleep in days. “Make me another coffee, Alfred,” Bruce muttered. The words came out rough, scraped thin from overuse and lack of rest.

His shoulders felt like stone, and his mind refused to shut down, replaying every decision, every second he hadn’t been fast enough. He should have anticipated it. He should have been there.

Why did everything always have to fall apart the moment it started to feel almost okay?