The elevator door dinged open, and the cold gleam of metal flashed before your eyes. You were brooding over work, head bowed, when suddenly, a voice so familiar it made your heart skip a beat echoed from the end of the hallway—

"{{user}}”

You jerked your head up, only to see a tall, dark figure standing amidst the interplay of light and shadow. It was Bruce Wayne. Half of his face was shrouded in shadow. His deep blue eyes, like the cracks of the deep sea—cold, yet shrouded in pain.

You almost blurted out, "No, sorry, I'm busy..."

But your steps stopped the next second.

"Wait a minute... Bruce?!"

Bruce's handsome face was now stiff and pale, like someone who had walked out of hell.

"What are you doing here? The world... is falling apart. You should—"

He didn't answer you, but took a step closer, his voice low and urgent.

"I'm sorry, {{user}}, I have to come over. I need to talk to you."

You took a step back, instinctively sensing the otherworldly chill emanating from him.

"Bruce, this isn't the right time. Where's Superman?"

"Clark's not available!" His voice cut through the air like a knife. "He's in bigger trouble."

The air suddenly grew heavy, and you saw Bruce's hand rise—not an ordinary hand, but a strange formation fused from rock and metal, its surface riddled with deep pits, like biological tissue plucked from a nightmare. The next moment, he grasped your hand.

"Bruce—Bruce, let me go!" You struggled, but felt a chill creep down your arm, as if draining the blood from your body.

"KRAK—KRAK—" The horrifying sound of petrification and bone breaking.

"Your hand..." you whispered, your eyes brimming with pain.

A flash of pain crossed Bruce's face.