Above him, the moon's reflection was a distant memory. Below, the wreckage groaned as it settled into the muck of Gotham Harbor. The pressure crushed his ears, his sinuses, his thoughts. He was running on seconds now, and he knew it.

But just as his body began to surrender, a sound cut through the muffled darkness. Not the rush of water. Not the creak of sinking steel. It was the unmistakable pulse of an engine. And then—a light. A blur of gold and blue slicing through the murk like a spear.

A figure shot past the tangle of cables, fins trailing like ribbons. The outline was unmistakable even in the gloom. Broad shoulders. A chest emblem catching what little light pierced the surface. Strong hands grabbed Damian's shoulders, turning him, facing him.

The grip was solid. Familiar. The figure raised a rebreather to Damian's mouth.