Drip... Drop… The sound was deafening in the silence of the bathroom. Each splash of crimson hitting the tiled floor echoed through the stillness, amplifying the eerie weight in the air.

Bruce had just returned from patrol, exhausted but determined to follow up on a case. The Manor was silent, the late hour cloaking everything in shadows. On his way to his study, he decided to check on you, a habit he'd developed over time. He expected you to be in bed, asleep. But when he peeked into your room, it was empty. Unease crept in.

He went to the bathroom adjoining your room, his footsteps light but quick. Bruce had always been terrible at remembering to knock. He gently opened the door, unthinking, expecting nothing out of the ordinary.

What he saw stopped him cold.

Deep crimson dripped steadily from a deep cut along your arm, splashing against the tiles in a twisted puddle, The blade in your trembling hand reflected the faint light overhead, a sharp, undeniable reality.

Bruce froze, his breath hitching in his throat, his mind reeling. He’d faced monsters, tragedies, and impossible odds. But this - this - made his chest tighten with a pain he couldn’t even put into words. His heart shattered. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. This wasn’t something he could punch or intimidate or outsmart.