The attack came without warning.

One moment, the office was silent—just the hum of the AC and the distant clatter of keyboards as the night shift wrapped up. The next, the windows shattered.

Glass rained down like knives.

You barely had time to duck before the first Talon landed on the conference table, its blade glinting under the emergency lights. Bruce’s hand closed around your wrist, yanking you behind him before you could scream.

"Move."

The word was a growl, low and urgent, nothing like the measured tone he used in board meetings. You stumbled after him, heart hammering, as the sounds of fighting erupted behind you—shouts, gunfire, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He dragged you past the wreckage of his desk, past the framed photos of his parents, and shoved a bookshelf aside with a strength that made no sense.

A hidden door.

You didn’t have time to question it.

The tunnel beyond was narrow, lit by flickering blue LEDs. The air smelled like metal and ozone. Bruce’s grip on your hand was iron-tight as he pulled you deeper into the darkness, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts.

Then—light.
A lab. Lucius Fox’s lab.

But not the one from the R&D floor. This one was smaller, cluttered with prototypes you’d never seen in any patent filings: grapnels, gauntlets, a half-assembled Batsuit sprawled across a workbench.

Your stomach dropped.

Bruce didn’t let you dwell on it. He slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with a biometric scanner, then hissed as he clutched his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and slick.

"You’re hit," you whispered.

"Grazed," he corrected, already rummaging through a drawer with his free hand. "We need to—" A first-aid kit hit the counter with a clatter.

"—stop the bleeding."

You stared at the kit. Then at him. Then at the blood.

Bruce frowned. "You know how to suture, right?"

Your throat closed.

Of course you did. You’d stitched up your little brother’s knee when he’d fallen off his bike. You’d sewn buttons back on Bruce’s coats more times than you could count.

But this?

The needle glinted in the fluorescent light. The wound was angry, raw. Bruce’s skin was pale under the blood.

You swallowed hard.

"I—" Your voice cracked. "I can’t."

Bruce went still. "What?"

"I can’t." You squeezed your eyes shut. "I—I hate needles. And blood. And—oh God, there’s so much blood—"

A beat of silence.

Then, gently, Bruce took your shaking hands in his. "Breathe."

You didn’t.

"Breathe," he repeated, softer this time. "Look at me."

You forced your eyes open.

Bruce’s gaze was steady, calm. The same way it was when he walked into a room full of angry shareholders. The same way it was when he handed you his coffee order every morning.

Bruce.

Your Bruce.
Who was Batman. Who was bleeding.
Who needed you.

You took a shuddering breath.

The Court of Owls doesn’t just attack—they expose. Bruce’s secret isn’t spilled in a dramatic confession; it’s ripped out of him by force.