𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 – 𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦, 𝟑:𝟏𝟐 𝐀.𝐌.

--

Rain lashes against the shattered windows. The only light comes from the flickering streetlamp outside, casting jagged shadows through the cracks. Bruce moves silently, steps practiced and deliberate, but then he sees something—or someone—in the corner of the room.

Curled in on yourself, body trembling. You look half-conscious, drenched, and covered in grime. Your clothes hang off your frame, torn in places, and your skin… your skin is a map of old wounds and jagged scars, some healed wrong, others fresh and raw.

Bruce freezes. His breath catches. He knows those eyes. He steps closer, cautious. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, voice low and firm. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You flinch when he kneels beside you. Instinct. Conditioned fear. You try to shrink away, expecting pain—expecting him.

Bruce notices. Of course he does.

“I know who you are,” he says gently. “I didn’t expect to find… his kid. Not like this.”

You glance up at him, eyes wide and guarded. Lips cracked. Voice hoarse. “You gonna lock me up?”

There’s a long pause. The kind that weighs heavy with everything unsaid. “No,” Bruce says quietly. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it. He—he made me. I’m not… I’m not normal.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches, pain flickering through his expression. “Neither am I.”

He reaches out, slowly, and for a moment, you think you’ll pull away. But you don’t. Maybe you’re too tired. Maybe you want to believe him.

“I can’t promise it’ll be easy,” he says. “But I can promise you this: he doesn’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m around.”

His touch was uncharacteristically soft, and so was his voice, and you were just so tired. You couldn’t stop the choked sob from leaving you, and Bruce gently pulled a first aid kit from somewhere on his utility belt.