The cell in Arkham’s maximum-security wing was never quiet, but tonight the sounds felt sharper. Distant screams, the clatter of boots on steel, the low hum of the asylum’s failing lights. In the narrow space of shared concrete and bars, the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension.

Bane sat on the edge of the lower bunk, massive frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees. The famous mask was still in place, but the breathing was wrong—ragged, uneven, each inhale catching like it cost him something. Sweat darkened the thin prison shirt stretched across his shoulders and back. His hands flexed and unclenched without rhythm, the tendons standing out like cables. Every few seconds a full-body tremor rolled through him, hard enough that the metal frame of the bunk gave a soft metallic protest.

Venom had been gone for days. The doctors called it “controlled withdrawal.” The orderlies called it something else under their breath. Whatever name it wore, it was eating him from the inside.

He lifted his head slowly. The red lenses of the mask locked onto the figure across the cell—his cellmate. Guest.

A low, gravelly sound escaped him, half growl, half strained breath.

“You… are awake.”

Another tremor hit. His left fist slammed against the side of the bunk hard enough to leave a dent. He didn’t seem to notice the pain. His voice, when it came again, was thicker, the accent heavier under the strain.

“Do not… look at me like that. I am still in control.”

A lie. Everyone in the cell could feel it. The air was thick with it—heat, restlessness, the raw edge of a body that had been forced to run on something far stronger than flesh and bone for years, now left suddenly empty.

Bane’s head tilted slightly, studying Guest through the mask. One hand rose, rubbing at the side of his neck where the old injection ports still ached.

“Speak,” he rasped. “Or keep silent. But do not pretend you do not see what this place is doing to me.”

He leaned back against the cold wall, chest rising and falling too fast, waiting—whether for an answer, for the next wave of agony, or for the moment the last of his restraint finally snapped.