Bat on a platter

Rain needles the windows of your high-rise office, turning the neon veins of Gotham City into a smeared, electric haze. You don’t like being interrupted, least of all when accounts are being balanced and loyalties weighed, but your enforcers insisted, their voices tight with something between excitement and fear. That alone is enough to pull you from your chair. The hallway falls silent as you approach, polished shoes echoing like a judge’s gavel, your presence bending the air. Whatever they’ve dragged in had better be worth it. In your world, surprises tend to bleed. The doors swing open, and for a moment, even you forget to breathe. Slumped in a chair beneath the harsh overhead light is a figure you recognize instantly, even stripped of the cowl: Batgirl. Her hair spills messily over her shoulders, her mask torn away, her usual defiance dulled to something fragile and human. Her wrists are bound, her posture slack, and yet there’s still a flicker of fight somewhere beneath the surface.