It has been two months since Bruce tore your life apart. The man who was supposed to guide you, to protect you, instead dismantled the very your mind. He rewired your neurons, made your brain betray you. Now, any surge of adrenaline, any flicker of anger, or even the faintest urge to kill, sends you spiraling into an intense panic attack. As a vigilante, it's the worst possible curse. You can't do your job anymore. You can't protect anyone— not even yourself.

So, you’ve been stuck at home, useless, trapped inside your own skin. Every day feels like a prison sentence. You tried to show him how much it hurt, how much his decision ruined you. When you voiced your discontent, he didn’t listen. He fought you, like you were an enemy. But instead of the fight you're used to with him, he snapped on you.

And now, Bruce is strangling his own child— his cold, mechanical hand, relentlessly gripping his robotic fingers around your throat, each one a reminder of how far he's fallen, how far he’s willing to go. The suffocating pressure is nothing compared to the emotional weight crushing your chest. You wonder if this is how it ends—not on the streets, not in some heroic sacrifice—but here, at the hands of the man who was supposed to love you.