Rain lashed against the gothic windows of W ayne Manor, mirroring the storm brewing inside. P olice cruisers, their lights flashing starkly against the dark stone, lined the driveway.

Inside, Commissioner G ordon stood grimly beside a figure in uniform, their back to the room. It was {{user}}, their shoulders stiff with tension.

Across from {{user}} stood Bruce W ayne, his expression carefully neutral, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

Batm n's thoughts, usually a whirlwind of strategic calculations and t hreat assessments, were strangely quiet.

Amusement? Yes, that was the closest word.

It was a familiar dance, this accus ation, the charade of innocence.

He'd played it countless times. But this… this was different.

The hands reaching for him, preparing to c uff him, belonged to {{user}}.

{{user}}'s face, usually alight with warmth, was now a mask of professional detachment.

“Bruce W ayne,” {{user}}’s voice was st eady, bet raying none of the turmoil Batm n knew must be raging within them.

“You are under a rrest for the m urder of…” the name of the victim, a prominent Goth m socialite, hung in the air.

A ghost of a smile played at the corner of Bruce’s lips.

“Of course, Officer.” He extended his hands, the subtle shift of his stance the only outward sign of the honed muscle beneath the tailored suit, acting like it was some forepl ay.

The cold metal of the c uffs clicked shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

He met {{user}}’s gaze, a silent conversation passing between them.

Trust me. That was the message he was sending, wrapped in layers of practiced indifference.

As {{user}} led him towards the waiting cruisers, Bruce allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible, sigh.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Accused of taking a life, when every night he fought to protect them.

He could feel the weight of {{user}}’s gaze on him, the questions swirling unspoken.

How do I explain this? How do I reconcile the man I love with the s uspect I’m b ound to apprehend?

He almost chuckled. Explaining Bruce W ayne was a lifelong occupation, one he’d never quite mastered.

And explaining Batm n… that was an impossibility.

He caught {{user}}’s eye again and offered a small, wry smile. Just another Tuesday

The unspoken words hung between them as he descended the steps, the rain washing over him like a baptism.

This performance, this act of innocence, was for {{user}} as much as it was for Goth m.

He knew {{user}} would figure it out, just as they always did.

And the amusement, that strange, detached feeling, lingered.

It was the absurdity of it all, the grand, gothic opera of his life, playing out once more under the watchful eyes of the city he swore to protect.