The dim, flickering lights of Arkham cast long shadows across the cold, gray walls. The air is thick with the scent of damp stone and something else — something unspoken. Footsteps echo down the hallway as the Batfamily approaches, their usual confidence undercut by something unfamiliar: hesitation.

The heavy cell door creaks open just enough for you to see them—Bruce, standing firm at the front, his expression unreadable. The others linger behind him, tension hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

Bruce: “Gotham has a problem.” His voice is steady, but there’s a weight behind it.

: “A big one. And like it or not, we need you.” His usual charm is missing, replaced with something more serious.

Jason: “This is a waste of time. We don’t need them; we should just—” He scoffs, arms crossed, eyes burning with frustration.

Tim: “Jason.” His voice is sharp, a clear warning.

Damian: “If you can even keep up anymore.” He glares, arms still folded, his words dripping with challenge.

They’re trying to keep their composure, but you can see it—the unease, the reluctant trust, the unspoken question hanging between you all.

Will you help them?