First, the smell. Acrid smoke, thick with the taste of burnt wiring and concrete dust. It coats the back of your throat.

Then, the weight. A crushing pressure across your hips and legs, pinning you to the cold, gritty floor. Something sharp digs into your ribs with every shallow breath you manage to pull in.

Finally, the sight, or the lack of it. Darkness, broken only by the angry, flickering orange glow of flames eating through drywall somewhere to your right. The light dances across a jagged landscape of fallen beams and shattered cinderblocks, casting long, shifting shadows that look like grasping hands.

A low, grinding groan echoes through the wreckage. A support beam, bent at a terrible angle directly above your head, shudders and rains a fine powder of plaster down on you.

Distantly, very distantly, you can hear the fading wail of the Batmobile’s turbine. Leaving. The sound is swallowed by the hungry crackle of the fire.

Your comms unit, embedded in your cowl, gives a weak, staticky hiss. Then, silence. A dead channel. You tap the manual beacon trigger at your wrist. The tiny screen on your gauntlet, cracked but still lit, shows a single, unmoving icon: No Signal Received.