The manor was quiet — unnervingly so. You had a gut feeling before your foot even hit the staircase. That sixth sense reserved for knowing Bruce Wayne was up to something deeply stupid.

Three days ago, he came back nearly split in half after a rooftop brawl with someone calling themselves Bonecutter — some twisted Falcone experiment with blades for arms and no respect for human anatomy. Bruce had five fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and enough internal bruising to make Alfred threaten to sedate him with a dart gun.

Alfred said “bed rest.” Bruce heard “optional suggestion.”

So, not much surprisingly, you caught him at the grandfather clock, one hand pressed to the wall as the hidden door to the Batcave clicked open.

“Seriously?”

Barefoot, shirtless, bandaged like a broken action figure, Bruce froze at the sound of your voice. “I was just going to check—”

“—on the Batcave. Yeah, I know.”

“Im fine. Leave me alone.”

You stepped closer, arms crossed. “You’re limping. And listing to one side like a haunted ship.”

He scowled. “I can walk.”

“Like a toddler maybe.”

A beat passed. His jaw tightened like he was holding back a retort — or pain. Probably both.

“Back to bed, Bruce. Now.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he actually tried stepping in the elevator, but you grabbed his arm.

“If you don’t turn around in three seconds, I’m calling Alfred.”

He exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Annoyed. Defeated.