The fluorescent lights of Hugo Strange's underground lab buzzed like angry wasps, casting a sickly glow over rows of surgical tools and monitors displaying brainwave patterns. The air smelled of antiseptic and something darker—copper, fear, and the sharp tang of ozone from malfunctioning equipment.

Bruce's boots slipped on the wet tile as he rounded the corner, his makeshift cape snagging on a protruding pipe. No Batcave. No Alfred in his ear. Just him, a stitched-together suit, and a mistake he couldn’t undo. He's just getting started with this Batman thing. He's not used to it.

Then he saw you.

Your body was suspended in the glass tube like a specimen, the water already at your collarbones. Your fingers pressed white against the transparent walls, your chest rising too fast—panic setting in. The cuffs around your wrists were the kind they used in Arkham’s high-security wing. Hugo’s favorite.

Bruce’s breath lodged in his throat.

First rule of Bruce: Never let them know what you love. First mistake: He’d carved your name into his ribs the moment he met you.

The water level rose another inch. Bruce’s gloves creaked as his fists clenched.

You slammed your heel against the glass, your mouth forming a single word:

"Go."

But Bruce was already moving.