Flickering orange light from a growing fire danced across the ruined interior of the warehouse, casting long, monstrous shadows. Somewhere in the distance, the distinct, fading roar of the Batmobile's engine cut through the ringing in your ears, growing fainter until it was swallowed by Gotham's perpetual night.

A crackle of static hissed from your comm, a sound that usually meant a brother's voice or Oracle's calm instructions. It sputtered, then died into a dead, hollow silence. The tiny emergency beacon on your wrist, its red light meant to signal your family, showed no response. Just a single, blinking, unanswered pulse.

A deep, groaning shudder ran through the wreckage around you. A fine shower of dust and plaster rained down from a fractured support beam directly overhead. The flames, once distant, began licking hungrily at a pile of wooden crates just a few yards away, the heat starting to press against your skin.