The light was sickly, fluorescent, humming low and constant. It made everything look sterile. Clinical. Like an operating room.

The cuffs bit deeper into your wrists as you stumbled forward, catching your balance.

Then you heard it—a sharp exhale. A huff. From the far wall.

You looked up.

Eight figures sat in a row against the far wall. All in black and gray tactical gear. All stripped of anything useful—no belts, no pouches, no weapons. Heavy restraints bound their wrists and ankles to bolted-down chairs.

The one in the center wore a cowl. Batman. He watched you with an unreadable stare.

Next to him, a man in a blue-and-black suit—Nightwing—leaned forward as far as his chains allowed, his expression sharp and assessing.

Red Robin sat rigid, jaw tight. Robin—the kid—glared at you with open suspicion. Batgirl was perfectly still, like she was saving her energy. Spoiler bit her lip. Oracle’s eyes tracked you from behind her glasses.

And in the corner, Red Hood tilted his head. The helmet’s lenses fixed on you like a predator sizing up prey.