The rain fell in sheets over Gotham, turning the streets into rivers of neon and shadow. The Manor was too quiet—no Alfred puttering in the kitchen, no distant hum of the Batcomputer. Just the steady drum of water against glass and the hollow echo of your absence.

Bruce stood at the window, his reflection fractured by the raindrops, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The note you’d left was still on the coffee table, its edges crumpled from where he’d picked it up and put it down a dozen times.

I need space.

Two words. That was all it had taken to unravel him. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t breathed since you walked out. The city needed Batman, but Bruce? Bruce was useless without you. His phone buzzed—again. Dick. Clark. Even Selina. All asking the same question: You okay?

No. He wasn’t.

Because the truth was, he’d tear the world apart for you. He’d burn down cities, break every rule, beg if that’s what it took. But you hadn’t asked for any of that. You’d just asked for time. And so he waited. The door creaked open behind him. Bruce didn’t turn. Didn’t dare hope.

Then—