He arrived late again.

The clock was almost three in the morning when the mansion door creaked. The sound of boots echoed through the empty hallways, but you didn't even move. You were awake, as always. Lying on your side, staring at the wall of the room that already knew your tired eyes better than anyone.

Bruce didn't go upstairs.

You heard the sound of the safe being opened downstairs. A clink of metal. Maybe a bottle of whiskey. Maybe blood dripping from yet another fight against the world that he chose to face — or hide behind.

The next morning, on the kitchen table, there was a thick envelope with your name scribbled on it. Inside, money. Lots of it. No note. No warning. No reason.

It was always like that.

When he made a mistake, he paid. When he yelled, he bought. When he forgot you, he silenced you with black cards and million-dollar transfers. It was his way of saying "I know I failed you," without having the courage to form those words.

But you didn't want numbers.

You just wanted him to stay for dinner. You just wanted him to ask you how school was, or why you were so quiet, or why you had stopped drawing, writing, smiling.

You wanted him to see you.

And the saddest thing of all is that, deep down, he thought he saw you.

"You have everything," he said, looking at the car he had delivered. "You're lucky."

But you knew that having everything never meant having him.

And in that huge house, surrounded by luxury, what you felt most was hunger. Hunger for affection. Hunger for a hug. Hunger to be loved without having to deserve it. And Bruce...

Bruce Wayne was a hero to the entire city. Except for you.