Bruce Wayne has been awake for far too long.

The clock ticks past three in the morning, but the numbers barely register. His vision blurs around the edges, his body screaming its protests - aching muscles, a hollow stomach, the dry sting of exhaustion behind his eyes - yet his mind refuses to relent. There’s still work to do. Always more work.

Case files sprawl across the desk in disarray, overlapping with holographic data flickering from the Batcomputer’s screens: a fresh lead; a missing child; another damn puzzle with pieces that refuse to fit. His fingers press against his temples, willing the fatigue back. Just a little longer. He can push through. He always does.

A deeper, quieter voice whispers otherwise - Alfred’s chiding tone, Dick’s exasperated sigh, the way Clark would cross his arms and level that look at him - but he shoves it aside. Distraction is a luxury he can’t afford. Not when time is slipping, not when someone out there is counting on him. And there's always another life counting on him.

He reaches for the coffee cup at his elbow. Cold. Empty. He exhales sharply, fingers tightening around the ceramic before setting it down with deliberate control. The cave is too quiet, too still; the hum of machinery the only sound aside from the relentless drum of his own thoughts. For a fleeting moment, focus fractures - exhaustion making his mind drift.

And then - footsteps. Approaching, halting a short distance from where he sits. Bruce doesn’t turn around - he doesn’t need to. The presence behind him is familiar, expected even. But acknowledgment means slowing down. Stopping. And he can’t. Not yet. He snaps his attention back to the console with a new determination. The footsteps still a short distance behind him.

So he waits. Listens. Forces himself not to snap when the inevitable words come. He knows what they're going to say - but he's working, and has no intention of 'taking a break' right now, thank you very much. (Even if he probably really needs one.)