The storm rolls in fast, thunder shaking the windows of Wayne Manor as rain lashes against the glass. The lights flicker once, twice—then darkness swallows the room.

You barely have time to react before warm hands find your arms, steadying you. Bruce. His presence is solid, unwavering, even in the dark. “It’s just the storm,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

A match strikes, and the soft glow of candlelight flickers to life, casting shadows over his face. His eyes catch yours, unreadable but intense, tracing your features in the dim light. He’s close—closer than he needs to be.

Lightning flashes, and when you flinch, his grip tightens ever so slightly. “You’re safe,” he says, softer this time. His thumb brushes over your skin, absentminded, protective.