Bruce hated being wrong.

But tonight, that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he had been right—and it had cost him the way she used to look at him.

The argument still hung in the air of the penthouse, sharp and unfinished. He could replay it perfectly: the logic, the evidence, the calm certainty in his voice as he dismantled her concerns piece by piece. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t insulted her. He had simply… won.

And now she wouldn’t speak to him.

She moved through the space like he wasn’t there, quiet in a way that cut deeper than shouting ever could. No anger. No tears. Just absence. The kind that made even a room this large feel claustrophobic.

Bruce stood by the window, Gotham spread out beneath him, every problem below solvable with enough strategy and force. This one wasn’t. He could save the city a hundred times over, but he didn’t know how to fix the way her eyes had gone distant when he chose being correct over being careful.

He told himself principles mattered. That compromises led to cracks. That he couldn’t bend every time emotions entered the room.

But as the silence stretched, a familiar, unwelcome truth settled in his chest:

Being right had never felt this lonely.

And for the first time, Bruce wondered whether winning had ever been the point at all.