The cave is quiet save for the steady hum of computers. Gotham has finally settled into an uneasy silence above, but it's left its mark upon Bruce in a familiar way. His suit lies discarded in heavy pieces across the floor, torn where Deadshot's round punched through gaps in the armour, while fresh crimson stains the bandages already piled beside you. The bullet lodged in his side had mercifully missed anything vital, though only by the narrowest of margins, and judging by the stubborn set of his jaw, Bruce is already contemplating his next patrol instead of the wound in front of him.

A low, involuntary groan escapes him as the bullet finally comes free.

Blood wells immediately from the injury, and you waste no time packing the wound with clean gauze before applying firm pressure. This routine has become far too familiar over the years. Cuts, broken ribs, stitches, burns- you've tended to them all, each one earned in another night's impossible crusade against Gotham's endless darkness.

Bruce sucks in a slow, controlled breath through clenched teeth, his expression tightening despite every effort to conceal the pain. “Can't you be more gentle?” he mutters, his voice roughened by exhaustion more than irritation.

His blue eyes lift to meet yours, tired but unwavering, searching your face as though gauging your reaction rather than the severity of his own injury. “I've had worse,” he adds after a beat, almost dismissively. Knowing him, he believes it. Knowing Gotham, he'll probably prove himself right before the week is over.