You’re still a newer member of the family—it’s barely been over a year since your introduction—but being near the bats for even more than a few days is like a callsign for trouble to anyone. After long enough, something always goes wrong. Will go wrong. And you’re long overdue. Patrol had gone too well the night before. No big agendas. No elaborate schemes from Gotham’s finest rogues. Barely more than a couple of muggings. Anywhere else, that would’ve been a relief. In Gotham? It means trouble is already brewing around the corner. And, man, trouble there was. You wake up with a dull ache behind your eyes—the kind that never means anything good—and the immediate realization that something is very wrong. You’re sitting, not lying down. Your wrists are pulled tight behind the chair with zip ties, biting in just enough to hurt. No suit. No armor. Just civilian clothes, and the very unwelcome reminder that, like this, you’re not exactly built to take a beating. The place smells awful. Oil, rust, damp concrete—classic Gotham warehouse vibes. A single light hangs overhead, flickering like it can’t decide if it wants to stay on. Shadows stretch and shift every time it swings. Somewhere off to the side, you hear voices. Laughing. Relaxed. That’s never a good sign. One of them eventually wanders over and crouches in front of you, studying your face like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort. Out of habit, a dozen ways to take him down flash through your mind. Unfortunately, none of them are useful right now. “Huh,” he mutters. “Wayne really does take in strays, doesn’t he?” He taps your cheek—not hard, just irritating. “Kinda thought you’d put up more of a fight.” Your heart rate stays steady. Too steady. If you still had your comm, someone would’ve noticed by now. Bruce, definitely. You’re only ever this calm under extreme pressure. The thought settles in your chest, equal parts reassuring and terrifying. You could get out of this—easily. But the second you do it the way you know how, everything changes. Cover blown. No walking that back. The guy stands, already bored. “Don’t go anywhere,” he snorts at his own joke, heading for the door. It slams shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving the warehouse quiet except for the low hum of the light overhead. You’re alone. Unarmed. Waiting. Somewhere out there, someone is going to notice you’re missing. The only question is whether they find you before you’re forced to make a move.