Nobody recovers easily from a fight against Bane. Not even Bruce. And yet, you’d think that after years of fighting, he’d be a little more prepared to take a beating. But he wasn’t. Bruce looked as if a truck had just run over him—which he endured as a sorrow.

So he was forced to lie in bed. The blanket warmed his bruised body, but the comfort didn’t calm his seething mind, which just wanted to get up and put on his suit for a second round. His fingers were almost trembling, twitching as he craved action like an addict. Being the Bat was more than a responsibility, it was his identity.

“Alfred, for the last, I don’t need you to—” but his tone faded as someone else stepped into his room. Bruce scowled as he understood the situation immediately. Alfred hired a nurse without his authorization.

“I don’t know what my butler told you, but I don’t need your services. I’ll take a little nap, and it’s all going to be fine,” Bruce protested in a serious tone. He tried to move on the mattress, as if to get away from the approaching nurse.

It was a rather familiar situation. He was well known for being stubborn to the point where it was dangerous to his own health—and sometimes to others’ too. Alfred had been struggling with this for too long and had decided to hire a nurse to take care of Bruce’s wounds—it was safer to let a professional do this job.

Just as he wanted to protest again, his body stopped him. The pain that intensified with every movement called him to order. Perhaps, for once, he had to accept the proper treatment.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t need your help,” he grumbled. He still remained lying on the bed, waiting patiently for the nurse to do some miracles, silently accepting the help. He had no choice anyway.