Somewhere in a basement in Pennsylvania.
Bruce Wayne sat on an iron chair.
Before him, a portable monitor rested on a scratched sheet-metal table.
The signal kept cutting in and out, the screen flickering between static and clear images.
It was a live feed from above Gotham, intercepted through the last Stealth Satellite not under Luthor's control.
He had seen it.
He had seen how those thirty-one streaks of green light, once symbols of hope, had been swallowed by dark red power in an instant.
He had seen Hal Jordan, his ever-so-slightly roguish yet utterly dependable comrade.
He had seen him kneel like a dog at that tyrant's feet, turning the willpower energy he had always taken pride in into a humiliating green canopy.
The image vanished from the screen, replaced entirely by a glaring wash of static.
The satellite signal had been cut off completely.
Bruce sat in silence, utterly motionless.
His eyes remained fixed on the dark screen.
As though he meant to burn two holes through the static dancing across it.
Only the drip of a water pipe and his own breathing, so heavy it seemed about to tear his chest apart, broke the basement's silence.
"Master Bruce."
Alfred's voice came from behind him.
The old butler approached the table with a tray holding black bread and a bowl of murky water, then gently set it down.
"You've been sitting here for six hours."
Alfred's voice was hoarse, carrying a barely perceptible trace of worry. "You need to eat something."
Bruce neither turned around nor looked at the dry, hard bread.
"Hal... has fallen too."
His voice was soft, as though forced through clenched teeth, every word tasting of blood.
"...Is there really no way to turn this around anymore?"
Alfred fell silent.
He looked at Bruce's