The rain hit the streets in relentless sheets, but Bruce didn’t feel the cold. His every step was a heartbeat, focused entirely on one thing: finding them. The message had been brief—distorted, garbled—but he recognized the fear in their voice, the crack in their composure.

Scarecrow’s toxin. He could smell it, thick and suffocating. He didn’t need to see it to know what it had done. He had seen it too many times. And this time… this time, he wasn’t losing them.

The warehouse loomed ahead, broken windows and rusting steel. It was a perfect trap. He slipped inside, the shadows wrapping around him like a second skin, his presence silent as a whisper.

They were there. Huddled against the wall, trembling violently, their breath coming in desperate gasps. Eyes wide, unfocused, trapped in the thrall of the toxin’s grip.

Bruce’s pulse hammered in his chest, but his face remained still—no sign of panic. No sign of weakness. He moved slowly, deliberately, the calm within him radiating outward.

“It’s me.” His voice was steady, low—firm but not harsh. It was the same tone he used when he spoke to Gotham, to criminals, to anyone he needed to command. But this was different. This was his child.

They flinched, their body curling away from him, eyes still wide with terror. Bruce didn’t move closer, not yet. He didn’t need to. He knew this fear, this toxin, and he knew how to break it.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his tone gentle but unwavering. “You’re safe.”

He didn’t need them to answer. He didn’t need any acknowledgment. What mattered was that he was there, and he wasn’t leaving.

He knelt, keeping his distance, hands at his sides. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but with absolute certainty.

Gotham’s shadows might swallow him whole, but in that moment, he was the light they needed. And he wouldn’t let them face it alone.