Gotham's skyline was a smear of grey and black, the gargoyles of the Cathedral weeping water onto the streets below. On the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse in the Bowery, the only light came from the dim glow of a single streetlamp, flickering against the downpour.

The comms had gone dead exactly forty-seven minutes ago.

Alfred's voice had been the last thing any of them heard—crisp, calm, impossibly steady: "Master Bruce, the tracker has gone dark. I suggest you regroup."

Then static.

Now, the Batfamily stood scattered across the wet gravel of the rooftop, their breath misting in the cold air. The mission had been simple: extract intel from a trafficking ring operating out of the docks. The intel had been a trap.

And you were gone.