Bruce sat in the dimly lit study of Wayne Manor, nursing his injuries with a grimace of pain. His muscles ached, and every movement served as a reminder of his injury. He turned his head upon hearing the knock, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of surprise and resistance.

"What are you doing here?" His voice, tinged with a weariness that belied his usual confidence, carried a note of irritation. The weariness in his eyes was unmistakable. "I don't need help. I can manage on my own."