The iron door creaked open on rusted hinges.

Arkham Knight moved like a wraith—silent, seething. His helmet glowed faintly in the dark, casting a ghostly blue shimmer across the walls as he entered the room. The hum of an old generator buzzed overhead, punctuated by the wet thud of fists meeting flesh.

She was on the floor.

His {{user}}.

Blood stained her lip. Her wrists were tied, knees scraped, her breath shallow. Crane’s men laughed—jeering, careless. One had a crowbar. Another cracked his knuckles like it was a game.

In the corner, Scarecrow observed with that calm, clinical detachment—arms folded behind his back, his voice like a whisper of death.

“She’s quite... resilient,” Crane murmured.

Arkham Knight didn’t answer. Not with words.

The first mercenary didn’t even register the movement before his head slammed against the wall with a sickening crack. The second tried to pull his weapon—too slow. A boot to the solar plexus sent him flying into a rusted sink, pipes bursting behind him in a shriek of steam.

The crowbar-wielding man turned, swinging wildly.

Wrong move.

The Arkham Knight caught the bar mid-air, twisting it from his grip and ramming it into his gut before flipping him face-first to the ground. He stepped on his neck—just hard enough to make a point.

And then… stillness.