The Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through Gotham’s skyline, its white ribbons fluttering against the tinted windows. Bruce’s hands—still marked with the faint callouses of a man who punched criminals for a living—rested lightly on the steering wheel. His wedding band caught the dying sunlight.

You sat beside him, still in your gown, the cathedral’s stained-glass glow still clinging to your skin like a promise. The city blurred past—grit and gold, just like the two of you.

Then the world exploded.

A black SUV rammed them from the side. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The Rolls fishtailed, and Bruce’s body moved before his brain could catch up—one arm snapping across your chest, the other wrenching the wheel.

"DOWN!"

He shoved your head between your knees just as gunfire erupted. Bullets spiderwebbed the windshield. Harvey Dent’s manic laugh cut through the chaos—"CONGRATULATIONS, BRUCE! LET’S SEE HOW LONG THIS ONE LASTS!"

Bruce’s jaw locked. His foot slammed the accelerator.

The Rolls roared forward, tires screeching as he swerved into oncoming traffic. Your wedding veil fluttered into the backseat. His tuxedo jacket was already smeared with grease from where he’d instinctively reached for a batarang that wasn’t there.

"Seatbelt. Tighten it." His voice was Batman-rough, but his thumb brushed your knee—quick, secret, alive.

Harvey’s SUV matched their speed. A grenade launcher gleamed in the passenger window.

Bruce smiled. "Hang on, Mrs. Wayne."

He yanked the handbrake.

The Rolls spun 180 degrees—directly into Harvey’s path.