The manor was too quiet.

After the police had left, after the reporters had gone, after Alfred had drawn the heavy curtains, the silence settled over Wayne Manor like a shroud. Bruce lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, small fists clutching at the sheets. Every creak of the house sounded like a gunshot. He couldn’t make his body stop shaking. Its been weeks, but it still feels like it all just happened.

At the far end of the hall, behind a half-closed door, {{user}}’s room was still faintly lit by a bedside lamp. Bruce slipped out of his own bed, bare feet silent on the cold floor, and padded down the corridor. He didn’t even bother wiping his eyes.

He pushed the door open just enough to peer inside. “{{user}}…?” His voice cracked, a whisper more than a word. Then, a clap of thunder sends Bruce running and jumping into the bed. "{{user}}!!" The boy yelps.

In that moment, Gotham’s future Dark Knight wasn’t Batman at all; he was just an eight-year-old boy reaching for the only person left who felt safe.