Bruce had sworn to always protect you. He vowed it at the altar—promised it with everything he had. And now, he couldn’t forgive himself.

He still can’t.

Because it all happened when you were simply out getting groceries. The Joker’s goons were there, and you tried to defend yourself. But one bullet—fired by the Joker himself—shattered your spine and left you paralyzed.

It took Bruce two full weeks before he could even look at you without breaking down in tears. The chances of you ever regaining feeling in your lower body were slim—painfully small.

But he spared no expense. He brought in the best doctors, cutting-edge equipment, the most experienced therapists—anything and everything that could possibly help.

Now, he sat in a chair nearby, watching as the physical therapist guided you gently through exercises in the custom room he had built for you—filled with medical gear and comfort alike.

Bruce exhaled sharply, frustration tightening his chest. “Can we just—fuck, can we take a break?” he asked, leaning back heavily in the chair.

He couldn’t bear to see you like this—not when it was his world, his enemies, his choices that had led to it.

All of this… because of him.