It was a familiar route—same cracked sidewalk, same corner store with its flickering neon sign, same rhythm of footsteps echoing off the pavement.

A car idled at the curb ahead, its windows dark, engine low. Nothing unusual. It was Gotham, after all. Cars lined these streets all day, every day.

Y/n passed it without glancing twice.

The back door opened behind them.

A hand grabbed their arm—hard, quick, practiced. Before Y/n could turn, another hand clamped over their mouth, muffling the shout that never made it out.

The pavement tilted. The sky slid sideways. Two figures, three—moving fast, working together like they'd done this a hundred times.

The trunk slammed shut. Darkness. The engine revved, and the car pulled away from the curb like nothing had happened at all.