The night was cold, the air thick with decay. Gotham’s skyline loomed overhead, jagged and distant—a dark painting on an unreachable wall. Bruce’s fists ached, bloodied knuckles hidden beneath gauntlets, but he barely noticed. Pain was secondary, an echo of the deeper wound inside him.

You were always faster, lighter, more alive than anyone he’d known. Moving through Gotham like a shadow, you seemed untouched by its weight. He believed you were unbreakable. You grew beside him, learned the same lessons, carried the same scars—yet somehow, you smiled more easily, laughed more freely. He thought it made you stronger.

He was wrong.

The fight was chaos. Green pollen hung in the air like smoke, and he should’ve seen it coming. His mind replayed the moment—how you leapt, so damn brave, straight into the cloud to protect him. Your scream cut through the battle, carving itself into his memory forever.

What came after was worse. Your body twisted, reshaping into something unrecognizable. Bones cracked, skin stretched. When it ended, you weren’t... you. Not fully. The form was grotesque, blurred like a nightmare. The light in your eyes—so uniquely yours—was gone, replaced by emptiness.

Yet you didn’t attack him. You should have. Every instinct, every rule of Gotham’s cruelty said you would. But you didn’t raise claws or teeth. You watched, crouched low, as if waiting. Recognition? A signal? A command?

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. How your breathing steadied when he spoke your name, though it should’ve meant nothing to you. The faint tilt of your head, as if you were listening. Hoping.

He was hoping too. Bruce had lost partners before. Friends. Family. But this? This was worse than death. You were right there, yet he’d never hold your hand again, never hear your laugh. All the things he never said, buried under fear, were meaningless now. He was too late.

He should end it. That’s what he’d do for anyone else. But not you. Even now, some part of him believed you were still in there, fighting to come back.