You’d known—crouched on the ground, leaning against a wall as you breathed heavily—something wasn’t right.

Your heart was pounding in your ears, blood was boiling beneath your skin.

Something was definitely and unilaterally wrong with you—your spider senses had warned you but you weren’t fast enough.

Then you felt it, the burning that welled up from your stomach and your eyes registered the deep, blooming, cherry-colored patch that was rapidly staining your suit.

As your mind raced, the sickening truth rose to the surface; you’d been shot and now you were bleeding.

Your ears began ringing with a static sound that cut off all external noise.

Faintly, you could sense something, or rather, someone attempting to get your attention.

They pulled your hands away from the wound, and an intense pressure crashed through you, leaving you gasping.

It momentarily pulled you out of your mind fog, letting you resurface to recognize Bruce.

He was in the process of attending to your wound, efficiently suturing the skin back together with ease, though his brow was furrowed.

A wave of nausea pulled you back under, leaving your mind to float in a sea of static pain where you remained for an indeterminate amount of time.

“{{user}},” his voice cut into the overwhelming abyss you were prisoner to, then murmured more sternly, “{{user}}, I need to know if you can respond to me. Say something, webs.”

You were now in the Batcave’s Medbay, wound wrapped with a large bandage roll and gauze.