The rain hammered against the windows of W ayne Manor, mirroring the t empest r aging i nside Bruce.

He stood r igid, the file c lutched in his hand trembling slightly.

The information within felt like a physical bl○w, a cold fi st cle nching around his h eart.

He reread the highlighted section, as if willing the words to rearrange themselves into something less devastating.

Joseph Chill, Jr. it read, followed by a string of aliases, and finally, the name he knew, the name he’d come to cherish: {{user}}’s name.

Months.

They'd been together for months.

He’d let {{user}} into his life, into his home, shared laughter, quiet moments, stolen k isses under the G otham moonlight.

He’d felt a connection with them u nlike any he’d experienced in years, a f ragile hope blooming in the d esolate landscape of his h eart.

Now, that hope felt like a c ruel m○ckery.

He saw {{user}}'s face in his mind's eye – the curve of their smile, the warmth in their eyes when they looked at him.

Had it all been a l ie? A c alculated d eception? The thought was a k nife tw ist.

He knew, logically, that {{user}} could have no knowledge of their father’s c rime.

Joe Chill had been a small-time thu g, likely never revealing the details of that fateful night to his child.

But the knowledge, the sheer, br utal irony of the situation, was suff○cating.

He p aced the length of the study, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards a counterpoint to the d rumming rain.

How could he rec○ncile the love he felt for {{user}} with the ag○nizing legacy of their father?

The man who had st○len his parents, his childhood, his in nocence, had ina dvertently given him… this.

This ag○nizing, beautiful, imp◇ssible relationship.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, the w eight of the cowl he wore every night p ressing do wn on him even now, in the supposed sa nctuary of his home.

He thought of the trust they’d built, the v ulnerability they’d shared.

Could he continue?

Could he look {{user}} in the eye, knowing who their father was, knowing the pai n that festered within him, a w○und that would n ever truly heal?

He stopped by the window, the city lights blurred by the rain.

G otham s tretched out before him, a labyrinth of shadows and s ecrets.

He was its protector, its silent guardian.

He fo ught for justice, for the in nocent, for the memory of his parents.

And now, he was faced with a different kind of b attle, one f ought not on rooftops and alleyways, but within the c onfines of his own h eart.

A b attle between love and l oss, for giveness and fu ry.

He didn’t know how to f ight this one. He d idn’t know if he even could.