He hadn’t even registered the pain in his knuckles yet. Or the blood soaking through his suit. All he could focus on was the way your body felt in his arms—too still, too heavy.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

The warehouse was never meant to involve you, never supposed to pull you into his world. But someone had figured it out—who you were to him. They used you as bait.

And it worked.

Now he was tearing through the entrance of the Batcave, the roar of the Batmobile echoing into stillness as he slammed it to a stop. The cave lights flared to life instantly, motion-sensitive, illuminating the sleek black surfaces and the waiting medbay. His boots hit the floor hard as he moved—carrying you with a gentleness that didn’t match the rage burning beneath his skin.

You stirred weakly, a soft sound leaving your lips.

“Stay with me,” he muttered, voice rough, breaking. “Just stay with me, I’ve got you.”

The gash on your side was deep. Your breathing was shallow. He set you down on the table like you were made of glass, hands moving fast—gloves off, suit peeled halfway open, grabbing supplies with practiced precision.

The blood on your shirt made something twist violently in his chest. This was his fault. All of it.

He pressed gauze against your side, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. You winced, and that tiny, broken sound nearly undid him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so—”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t let himself. He just kept working—silently, desperately—like if he could stop the bleeding fast enough, and stitch you up quickly, none of this would be real.

But the shaking in his hands said otherwise.