Neither does the scratchy white blanket on your cot. Or the single, barred window that shows only a sliver of grey Gotham sky.

You've been here for... how long? You stopped counting the days after the first year. The routine never changes. The trays of bland food. The hour of recreation in a sterile, grey room. The endless hum of fluorescent lights.

And then—tonight—something changes.

A screech of metal. Alarms that don't sound. A guard's brief cry that cuts short.

Your cell door swings open with a soft click, unlocked by a keycard that shouldn't exist in this wing at this hour.