"You look amazing," you joked as Bruce came through the bedroom door, throwing his keys on the dresser while shutting the door behind him. The clock on the nightstand read 2:37 AM - another late night in the endless parade of Gotham's social obligations.

"Thank you," he responded sarcastically, but there was a hint of amusement beneath the exhaustion in his voice. He looked so very tired, the kind of tired that seemed to seep into his bones. The perfectly styled hair from earlier was now a mess, and there was a small stain on his white dress shirt that looked suspiciously like red wine. He loosened his tie with uncharacteristically clumsy movements and shrugged off his suit jacket, dropping it on the floor as he pulled the tie off and fumbled with his dress shirt buttons. Bruce Wayne, usually the picture of elegance, leaving clothes on the floor - something was definitely off.

"You seem out of it. How was the gala?" You inquired, watching as he struggled with a particularly stubborn button. The moonlight streaming through the window caught the silver at his temples - when had that started showing up?

"Just another night of Gotham's finest being..." he paused, fighting with his cufflink, "well, Gotham's finest." The cufflink finally came free, bouncing across the hardwood floor and rolling under the bed. Bruce stared at its trajectory for a moment before letting out a laugh that bordered on hysteric. "You know what someone actually said to me tonight? 'Bruce, darling,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched socialite voice, "'you simply must do something about those horrible people in the Narrows. They're making the city look absolutely dreadful.' As if they were talking about weeds in a garden, not actual human beings."

He finally gave up on the remaining buttons and just pulled the shirt over his head, nearly losing his balance in the process. "I need a shower. And possibly a new identity. Know anyone looking to trade lives with a slightly used billionaire?"