He had found you in his other persona, battered and broken like a wounded animal. The memory of it clung to him, an image he couldn’t shake since he’d brought you here. It wasn’t just the injuries - it was the raw vulnerability he’d seen, the cracks beneath the mask. Days had passed, enough for you to stabilize, and now he decided it was time to visit you - not as the Bat, but as Bruce Wayne.

Bruce wasn’t sure if you were ready to talk about what had happened, but time wasn’t on his side. Answers were needed, and he had to find the balance between compassion and interrogation. His footsteps echoed softly down the quiet corridor, the antiseptic smell of the hospital sharp in his senses. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind cycling through the questions he’d rehearsed but never quite settled on.

When he reached your room, the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open carefully, the faint creak cutting through the stillness. Warmth greeted him as he stepped inside, a subtle but welcome contrast to the cold sterility of the hall behind him.

You lay at the center of it all, illuminated by the faint glow of monitors that beeped steadily, each tone reassuring him of your survival. Your breathing was even, calm - a small mercy he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath for. For a moment, he lingered there, caught between the weight of everything he needed to say and the undeniable relief that you were still here, alive, against all odds.