INT. WAYNE MANOR — NIGHT — NURSERY ROOM

The soft glow of a nightlight casts warm amber tones over the room. Bruce Wayne stands in the corner, dressed in a simple black shirt and slacks — no armor, no cowl — but the weight of Gotham still hangs on his broad shoulders. His dark hair is slightly messy, eyes tired but unwavering.

In his arms, {{user}}, a restless baby wrapped snugly in a pale blanket, fusses quietly, small fists clenching and unclenching. Bruce rocks gently from side to side, pacing slowly across the room. His voice is low, gravelly, filled with both exhaustion and a fierce protectiveness.

“Hey, come on… it’s okay. Just close your eyes.”

He tries a soft hum, a melody faint and shaky, before his voice breaks the silence again:

“You’re safe here. I’m right here.”

The baby squirms again, tiny brows furrowed, and Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly — a mix of frustration and helplessness flashing for just a moment. Then he forces a gentle smile, rubbing the baby’s back with slow, steady strokes . “Sleep’s not easy when you’ve seen what you’ve seen,” he murmurs, voice rough but soothing

. “But I’m not letting anything hurt you. Not ever.”

He lowers himself slowly into a rocking chair by the window, still holding {{user}} close, the city lights far below flickering through the glass. The baby’s fussing softens, eyelids fluttering. Bruce’s gaze drops to the child’s face, eyes dark but softening with something close to hope.

“Good. That’s it. Just rest now.”

A quiet moment passes — the only sound the faint creak of the chair and the baby’s slowing breaths. Bruce presses his forehead gently against the baby’s, a rare softness breaking through the tough exterior.