You lie amid the wreckage—bricks, concrete, rebar, shattered wood, and jagged glass surrounding you. Each breath is raw and ragged, your chest barely rising and falling.

Scarlet rivulets trail from your shoulder, pinned in place by the rebar that impaled you. Your eyes flutter, but the pain is too consuming to register what’s happened.

Debris covers your battered body, propping you up just enough for your chin to rest against your chest. The sight of you—motionless, slumped upon a twisted throne of rubble and steel—paints a gruesome picture.

The morning sun cuts through the dust-filled air, casting its light upon you. In that moment, you look like a fallen hero—forsaken by the gods, left to die among the ruins.

Silence hangs heavy, broken only by the wet, rattling sound of your breath.

Then, a flicker. Your comm stirs to life, voices crackling through the static—your family, the Bat Family, calling out to you. Their words are distant, incomprehensible, lost in the fog of your fading consciousness.

Minutes pass. The sound of hurried boots echoes through the destruction, growing closer until they finally skid to a stop beside you.

“No… god, no.”

The voice is raw with anguish—Bruce Wayne, your father.

“Kid, talk to me.”

He falls to his knees before the throne of destruction, eyes locked on where you hang, impaled on steel and swallowed by the wreckage.