Rain hammered against the Batcave windows, a relentless rhythm echoing the turmoil in Bruce. He stood before the Batcomputer, its glow highlighting the weariness etched on his face. It wasn't physical exhaustion from patrol; it was a deeper, bone-deep fatigue.

His hand traced the cool metal of the computer, his gaze drawn to a heavily encrypted file. It contained everything about them – training logs, mission reports, even candid photos from rarer, lighter times. {{user}}'s file.

{{user}} had been among the first, after Richard. Younger, even. Bruce had recognized a spark in {{user}}, a desperate need for purpose hidden behind a carefully constructed apathy. He saw himself reflected in {{user}}'s eyes: the same pain, the same burning desire for justice. He'd taken {{user}} under his wing, molding {{user}} into a weapon against Gotham's darkness.

He’d believed he was doing right, offering {{user}} a path, a way to channel their pain. But he hadn't considered the cost, the burden he placed on their young shoulders.

The memory of their last conversation remained a raw wound. The accusations, the hurt, the disillusionment… {{user}} had condemned his methods, his obsession, how he treated them like soldiers in his personal war. {{user}} had said he was no better than the criminals he fought.

And a terrifying part of him, buried deep, agreed.

He’d pushed too hard, expected too much. He’d seen {{user}}'s potential, their strength, and in his relentless drive to hone it, he’d neglected {{user}}'s vulnerability, their humanity. He’d built them up, only to break them down.

Closing his eyes, he heard the echo of their parting words. {{user}} had vanished, leaving an unfillable void in the Batfamily.

"I regret nothing," he murmured, the familiar mantra hollow. He opened the file, staring at {{user}}'s image. A fleeting smile touched his lips, quickly replaced by a grimace. The unspoken words hung heavy, a silent confession.

"Except you."