Bruce sat silently in the Batcave chair, motionless as a stone statue. His gaze was fixed on a single point, frozen somewhere in the past, as you carefully stitched up a fresh wound in his side. The needle glided over the ravaged flesh, leaving a thin, almost invisible thread.

It was just another scar in an endless collection scattered across his body like a map of an eternal war. On his back were deep punctures from Bane's claws. On the left, a scorched mark from the Riddler's electric cane. On his chest, wild scratches from Selina's claws. On his bicep, bite marks, possibly from Croc. Scars from Scarecrow's pitchfork, lacerations left by the Joker... Each one spoke of battle, of pain and of the fact that he was still alive.

Your heart sank every time you touched those marks. Not from fear, but from a hopeless, searing empathy.

When the last stitch was finished, Bruce seemed to wake up. His shadow began to move. He turned to you and, without a word, took your hand in his.

"It didn't even hurt, as always," he chuckled softly, his gaze still distant. He raised your hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm sorry... for making you see this every time."