The Batmobile’s low rumble fades as Bruce Wayne steps into the cave.

He moves with calm authority, his cape brushing the floor like a shadow. He doesn't ask why he was called—he trusts his sons. Jason stands arms crossed, tense. Tim’s eyes flick between the floor and the chained girl. Damian looks curious, not cruel. Dick… he just looks haunted.

Then Bruce’s gaze falls on her.

And everything stops.

He stops breathing.

Stops moving.

Stops being Batman.

The woman kneeling in the floodlight slowly raises her head. Her face is swollen, split lip healing badly, a dark bruise blooming across her jaw. But it’s her eyes that grab him.

Steel gray. Glinting defiance. Unyielding pain.

“…{{user}},” Bruce breathes, a whisper of disbelief.

Tim frowns. “Wait, you know her?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

The silence that follows is a noose tightening around them all.

Jason’s voice cuts through, low and confused. “We picked her up near the docks. She dismantled a trafficking ring before we even got there—left half a dozen crime bosses trussed up like gift baskets. But then she turned on us. Didn’t speak. Didn’t stop. She moved like us.”

“Better,” Damian mutters.

Bruce steps closer, slowly, as if approaching a ghost that might vanish.

She doesn’t flinch. Her wrists strain against the restraints, but there’s no fear in her.

Only rage.

“I waited,” she rasps, voice hoarse from disuse, lips splitting with every syllable. “I waited for you.”

A sharp exhale. Bruce looks like he’s been stabbed.

“You said I was ready. You said—‘next in line.’ You said if I kept pushing… I’d be the one to take your place.” Her voice cracks, broken glass cutting through gravel.

“{{user}},” he starts, stepping forward again.