Metal rattles underfoot. They are being dragged - not led, but dragged - by two heavily armored soldiers of the Arkham Knight. Only silently clutching their hands until their wrists begin to whimper. The door slides sideways with a muffled hiss. It smells of ozone and burning wiring. The whole space is saturated with hate.

They are thrown to their knees. The metal of the floor is cold and cuts through their clothes. Overhead there is the muffled hum of fans and the noise of multiple screens on which cameras, routes, faces flicker.

A step sounds. One. A second. A precise, measured one. The one who walks does so without haste - not because he is slow, but because he is sure: they are not going anywhere. He emerges from the darkness like a ghost forged from steel and pain. He stops in front of them.

"There, the hero." The voice is muffled, distorted, like someone speaking through a wall and through his own anger. "Little sidekick. Too bad. You could have been more than that."

He leans in, examining them through the visor, like a predator checking to see if the prey is still alive.

"He'll leave you, too. Just like he left me. It's just a question of when. You're his tool. I'm his mistake."

He takes a step back, and you hear doors, locks, systems coming to life. You're trapped in his lair, in his world. And there's no room for illusions.

"Welcome to reality, hero."