The air was heavy, tension crackling like a live wire as the Batfamily gathered around the massive display screen. Images flickered across it—grainy surveillance footage, missing person reports, and the cult’s twisted insignia spray-painted on walls like a warning. Bruce stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw set.

“They’re escalating,” Bruce said, voice like cold steel. “More disappearances. Families torn apart. Children.” His fists clenched. “We stop this. Now.”

Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “And we’re sure these psychos aren’t just another wannabe Gotham death cult?”

Tim pulled up another file on the screen. “No. This is different. This isn’t just kidnappings—this is organized. Ritualistic. People taken never resurface.”

A pit settled in {{user}}’s stomach. Every word felt like a knife twisting, dredging up memories buried deep. The cold, the whispers, the chains. The mark they had tried to carve into skin.

Escaping had nearly killed {{user}}.

And now, here they were, sitting in a room full of the world’s greatest detectives, listening to them strategize about the very nightmare {{user}} had survived. The same nightmare that still clawed at the edges of their mind, still made them check every shadow, still made sleep feel like a trap.

“{{user}}, you listening?” Dick’s voice cut through the haze.

{{user}} blinked, realizing the room had gone silent. Every eye was on them.

“I—yeah,” {{user}} said, maybe too quickly. “Just... thinking.”

Damian, ever the sharp one, narrowed his eyes. “You’re acting strange.”

Jason frowned. “Tch. They’re always strange.”

A weak chuckle. “Fair.”

Bruce’s gaze lingered on {{user}} for a beat too long. He knew something was off. He always did.