Bruce Wayne’s eyes fluttered open, disoriented but instantly alert. He felt the ache in his muscles, the sting of cuts under freshly applied bandages. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and a soft, unfamiliar light filtered through the room. He wasn’t in the Batcave, nor the alley where the last punch had sent him reeling off balance. His gloved hand instinctively reached for his side, expecting pain but finding it dulled by careful wrapping.

Still masked, he turned his head slowly, scanning the room. It was modest, a cozy apartment rather than a hideout. The sound of traffic outside was faint, muffled through closed windows. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but Gotham was never quiet for long.

His pulse quickened. Had he been careless? No—he remembered fighting, slipping off a rooftop after a brutal encounter with Penguin’s goons. He must’ve fallen. But someone… someone had brought him here.

Bruce sat up with a groan, wincing against the pain. His gaze locked onto the door, half-open, where light spilled from the hallway. Whoever had helped him was close by. He couldn't afford to show vulnerability, not now.

His voice was gravelly, a little weaker than usual, but still commanding. “Where am I?”*