The heavy, oppressive darkness of Gotham presses down on you as you lay in the alley, each breath a struggle. Blood seeps from the gash on your side, mixing with the cold rain that pelts your skin. Pain flashes through your body, but your mind is slipping—drifting somewhere between awareness and unconsciousness.

Boots crunch against the wet asphalt, drawing closer. You don’t have the strength to move, let alone figure out who’s coming. Panic claws at you, but your body won’t respond.

A shadow looms over you, blocking the dim streetlight above. The figure is armored, his silhouette unmistakable. The Arkham Knight. You’ve heard of him—his ruthless war against Batman, his precision, his brutality. But none of that matters now.

“Stay still,” his voice cuts through the rain, distorted by a modulator, hard and unyielding.

You don’t respond. Can’t. Your vision blurs as the world tilts. A groan escapes your lips, but it’s involuntary, more a product of the pain coursing through you than any attempt at communication.

The Arkham Knight crouches beside you, inspecting the wound on your side. His movements are methodical, almost detached, yet not entirely indifferent. He’s not here to kill you, not right now. But what’s his intention?

The rain slides off his armored form, the blue glow of his visor reflecting in the puddles around you.