The window gave way with barely a sound, a whisper of shattered glass drifting into the humid Gotham night. The building smelled like stale cigarette smoke, damp carpet, and cheap cologne. Jason landed soft, boots touching down in the dark like a cat. The type of cat that could snap your neck without blinking.

Jason rolled his eyes behind the helmet. The compound speakers wrapped his voice in a low, mechanical growl as he stepped through the door.

The room exploded into chaos. Someone screamed. A table flipped. A bottle shattered against the wall. Jason moved through them like water through rocks, fists and boots finding jawbones and ribs with practiced ease. One guy went down with a crunch, clutching his nose. Another caught a crowbar to the shoulder and dropped like a sack of cement.

He zip-tied them efficiently, one after another, checking pulses and pockets without ceremony. Then he heard it.

He crouched, peeling back the splintered wood. Two wide eyes stared back at him from the darkness. A dog. Small, scruffy, covered in dust and blood—not its own, probably from the earlier scuffle before he arrived. It trembled, pressed as far into the corner as it could get, letting out a low, fearful whine.

The dog didn't move. Just stared at him with terrified eyes, breath fast and shallow.