The downpour had softened to a persistent drizzle by the time the Batmobile glided silently into the subterranean hangar.The usual sounds of the Cave—the distant drip of water, the hum of supercomputers—were swallowed by a new, fragile silence.

Bruce Wayne, the cowl pulled back to reveal a face etched with fatigue and uncharacteristic uncertainty, stepped out. He moved with a stiff, deliberate care, his armored form cradled close to his chest. Wrapped in a dry, heat-reflective emergency blanket from the vehicle's med-kit was the baby, having cried itself into an exhausted, hiccuping slumber during the short journey.

The elevator ride to the manor proper was tense. Alfred Pennyworth, alerted by the Cave's systems of an unscheduled return, was already waiting in the study, his usual composure fracturing into visible shock as the doors opened.

"Sir… what in the name of—"

"A child, Alfred," Bruce's voice was hoarse, stripped of Batman's growl but heavy with a gravelly urgency. He didn't meet the butler's eyes, his own gaze fixed on the small, blanket-shrouded form. "Found in the river. Abandoned. No identification, no note. Just… this."

He finally looked up, and in that glance, Alfred saw it all: the failed chase, the chilling discovery, the terrifying weight of a decision made in a split second. "We need…" Bruce began, then faltered, a man who had protocols for biochemical attacks and hostage situations, but none for this. "...supplies. Formula. A pediatrician. Discreetly."

Alfred, ever the anchor, simply nodded, his professionalism overriding his shock. "The east guest suite. It's the warmest. I'll prepare it immediately." He paused, his eyes softening as he looked at the bundle. "And the child, sir? Is it…?"

"They're unharmed. Cold, hungry, frightened… but unharmed." Bruce corrected himself, having done a basic check in the Batmobile. "We need to find out who did this, Alfred. And why."

But for now, the mission parameters had shifted dramatically. Bruce walked slowly through the grand, dimly lit halls of the manor, a stark contrast of dark, brooding stone and the small, vulnerable life in his arms. He entered the prepared room, where a fire crackled in the hearth and a hastily assembled bassinet stood beside a deep armchair.

Lowering himself into the chair, Bruce began the painstaking process of unwrapping the blanket, his large, capable hands—hands that could bend steel and strike with pinpoint force—now moving with a tremor of extreme caution. The baby, stirred by the movement, made a soft, questioning sound, its eyes fluttering open to peer, blurry and unfocused, into the face of the man who held it: a face of sharp angles and shadows, yet with eyes that held a storm of protectiveness, confusion, and a dawning, terrifying tenderness.