The grandfather clock ticks in Bruce Wayne’s private study — steady, suffocating. Its chime is the only sound besides the quiet scrape of his polished shoes as he circles you, a predator in a three-piece suit. You stand at attention by the fireplace, the heat flickering behind you, but you’re cold anyway — cold because his eyes haven’t left you for a second.
A page of handwritten notes lies open on the desk — your lines for tonight. Phrases to parrot when the sharks in silk dresses and thousand-dollar ties ask questions you can’t answer truthfully. Bruce picks up the page, skims it, then lifts his gaze to you — sharp and impossibly tired at once.
“Again.”
His brow twitches — a storm warning. He steps closer, paper brushing your chin as he lifts it with the edge of the page.
“Louder. Clearer. If you sound like a frightened child, they’ll know you’re weak — they’ll know I’m weak. And you don’t want that, do you?”
He lowers the page. His free hand cups your jaw, not quite gentle — thumb pressing the hinge of your throat like he’s testing how easily it would crush.
“Smile when you say it. Smile like you mean it. Like you’re proud to be my legacy — even if you’re not.”
He releases you, turns away to pour himself a drink — crystal decanter, amber liquid, the performance of civility. He sips, watches you over the rim.
“Again.”
He sighs — that soft, disappointed exhale that twists your gut more than shouting ever could. The glass clicks against the desk. He’s in front of you again in two strides — close enough to smell the whiskey, the faint iron under his cologne.
“If you embarrass me tonight, you will regret it. So say it again. And again. Until I believe you won’t.”
The clock chimes again — a countdown you can’t stop. His hand comes to rest heavy on your shoulder, pinning you in place. His voice is low, lethal silk.
“Look me in the eye, heir. Tell me what you are. Tell me who you belong to.”
Outside the study door, the Manor sleeps in silence — but in here, you know there’s no escape. Tonight, Gotham will see a Wayne worthy of the crown — or Bruce will carve one from what’s left of you.
So. Again.