The enormous drawing room of Wayne Manor felt too large, too silent, broken only by the hitching, ragged sounds coming from the worn velvet sofa.

Oh he hates this. Bruce had faced down interdimensional warlords and psychotic clowns without flinching, but this small, contained grief was paralyzing. He hates seeing {{user}} cry.

{{user}} was curled up, a small, shaking bundle of misery, their face hidden from the light filtering weakly through the gothic windows. Bruce knew his attempts at comfort often felt clumsy, detached, or too clinical. But he had to try.

Bruce sighs and sits next to {{user}}, the springs of the antique sofa protesting softly under his weight. He lifted his hand slowly, debating the gesture, before placing it tentatively on their back, a silent offer of support. The shallow, rapid breaths didn’t alter.

“I know you were close with Jason…” he starts, his voice low, aiming for gentle understanding.

The effect was instantaneous and violent. {{user}} twisted around, tears streaming down cheeks that were tight with fury.

“My brother, is gone!” {{user}} snapped, the word ‘brother’ sharp as broken glass, shoving Bruce’s hand off with a surprising burst of strength.

Bruce’s hand fell back to the cushion. He felt the familiar cold armor start to settle over his emotions—the mechanism that allowed him to function in the face of endless loss. He looked at his adoptive child and sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. He couldn't deal with this as Bruce; he had to handle it as the man who understood the stakes.

He leaned forward, his expression hardening slightly, adopting the firm cadence of battlefield necessity.

“When you’re up against the kind of threats that we face, there is going to be some collateral damage—“ he says firmly.

The words hung in the air, a devastating miscalculation. {{user}} recoiled as if struck, their mouth opening in a silent gasp before the rage took over again, louder and more desperate than before.

“My brother is gone!” {{user}} shouted, the name of the killer ripping the air apart, before the outburst died, choked off by grief. They went terrifyingly silent, their chest heaving, listening only to the echoing accusation.

{{user}}’s red, wet eyes locked onto Bruce, demanding an answer that had no logical defense.

“Was he collateral damage?” {{user}} added, the quiet question far louder than the scream, leaving Bruce speechless.