Venom pumps soft and steady through the tubing that snakes under Bane’s shirt, the familiar low hiss barely audible over the distant city noise filtering through the reinforced windows. The mask is off, set carefully on the table beside a half-finished glass of water. Without it, the heavy planes of his face look almost ordinary in the low light—scarred, severe, but human.

He hears the door before it fully opens. The slight change in air pressure, the particular rhythm of footsteps he has known for years. His head turns, dark eyes finding Guest immediately.

A low, rough sound leaves his throat—something between a greeting and pure recognition.

“You are late.”

The words are flat, but there is no real accusation in them. He sets the glass down and rises, the chair creaking under the shift of his massive frame. Two steps close the distance. One gloved hand (the other still bare) lifts, not quite touching yet, hovering near Guest’s cheek as if confirming presence by proximity alone.

“I expected you an hour ago.” His voice drops lower, the accent thicker when he is like this—unguarded, at least as unguarded as Bane ever allows himself to be.