The tension in the Batcave was suffocating, like the air had turned to glass. Every flicker on the massive monitor sent shadows dancing across grim faces—grainy surveillance clips, spiraling strings of red-threaded cases, and the jagged insignia of a cult scrawled on walls like a taunt.

Bruce stood motionless at the front of the room, arms behind his back, voice low and sharp. “They’re done hiding,” he said. “Coordinated abductions. Entire families. Children. This stops tonight.”

Jason scoffed from where he leaned against a pillar, arms crossed tightly. “Another freak show thinking Gotham’s a buffet for blood rituals. Cute.”

Tim shook his head, fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulled up another file. “Not just another cult. They’ve got a pattern—target profiles, location grids, and they’re meticulous. Every person taken? Gone without a trace. No demands. No bodies.”

Cassandra stood silently nearby, gaze locked on the display. She pointed to one of the surveillance frames—a figure being dragged into the shadows—and then signed, They knew they were being watched. Look at the angle.

Tim nodded, translating aloud for the others. “They staged this. They wanted us to find it.”

The weight of it all settled in {{user}}’s chest like a stone. The photos. The markings. The whispers in the reports. It wasn’t just evidence. It was memory.

Memory of dark rooms and iron chains. Of the burning cold. Of a symbol meant to be carved into skin.

Memory of surviving. Barely.

“{{user}}?” Dick’s voice pulled them back, gentle but firm. “You with us?”

They blinked. The room had gone silent again. Eyes on them—curious, concerned, cautious.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” {{user}} said quickly, too quickly. “Just... sorting through it.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed immediately. “You’re hiding something.”

Jason smirked without humor. “They’re always hiding something.”

“Not the time,” Dick snapped, glancing sharply at Jason before turning back to {{user}}. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I said I’m fine,” {{user}} replied, more quietly this time.

“‘Fine’ doesn’t mean anything here,” Tim added gently, but there was steel beneath the softness. “Especially not with this kind of case.”

Cassandra stepped forward. She didn’t speak, didn’t sign—just laid a hand lightly on {{user}}’s shoulder. Steady. Grounding.

It almost broke them.

Bruce hadn’t moved, but his gaze hadn’t wavered either. Focused on {{user}}, unblinking. Calculating. Concerned in a way only he could be.

He already knew. Or suspected.

{{user}} swallowed hard, throat dry.

Because hiding the truth had always felt like survival. But now it was starting to feel like betrayal.

And maybe… it was time.