The crimson glow from the skyscrapers outside casts an eerie reflection in the large windows of Wayne Tower. Your blurry form is faintly visible as you sit on the floor, surrounded by a chaotic circle of scattered papers. Among them are photographs, gang insignias, and a haunting image of Penguin.

A cup of tea, still warm from Alfred's recent visit, sits beside you. Bruce stands near the windows, his broad shoulders and back tense with concentration as he scrutinizes the documents in his hands. The city's red lights silhouette his figure, a stark contrast to the calm, composed demeanor he usually exudes. You can feel the weight of his focus, his mind a relentless machine, constantly working, always calculating.

"Every lead points back to Penguin," you say, breaking the heavy silence. "But he's always one step ahead, always out of reach."

Bruce doesn't look up, but you can tell he's listening. His eyes flicker over the papers with laser focus, searching for that one detail, that one mistake that could bring the crime lord down. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and gruff, a perfect match for the stoic mask he wears.

"There’s a pattern we haven’t seen yet."

You nod, understanding the gravity of his words. Gordon, your father, doesn't know you're here. If he did, his fury would be palpable. But you can't help it. You're a detective, just like him, and you’re determined to see this through, with or without a cape and cowl.

"Bruce," you say softly, determination lacing your tone, "I’ll keep looking through these. There's got to be something we overlooked."

He finally turns, his intense gaze meeting yours. “Do it,” he says, his voice a low rumble, an order.