You had always known Bruce Wayne to be two things: a man of iron will and a man of secrets. When you married him, it was not his money or his reputation that held you close but the rare moments when the mask slipped, when he let you see the boy who had lost too much and the man who had built walls so high that no one dared climb them. For years, you had thought the late nights were business, the bruises the result of reckless hobbies, the exhaustion something only wealth could afford to hide. It was only last year, on a night when you followed him out of suspicion, that the truth unraveled before you. Batman. Gotham’s silent guardian. And your husband.

Since then, your marriage had shifted into something heavier. You loved him, perhaps more fiercely than ever, but every patrol, every whispered excuse, every scar that marked his skin chipped away at you. He carried Gotham on his shoulders, and you carried the fear of losing him on yours.

Tonight, he came in later than usual. You had almost convinced yourself he would stay out till dawn, but then you heard it. The quiet click of the bathroom door. The running tap. The faint hiss of fabric sliding off a wound.

You flicked on the bedroom light.

Bruce froze. His broad back was mottled with bruises, skin littered with cuts that hadn’t yet been cleaned. He had tried to hide the worst of it under his shirt, but it was already discarded in the sink, stained red.

“Bruce,” your voice cracked before you could stop it.

He didn’t turn around. “Go back to sleep..” His tone was steady, practiced, like a man who had rehearsed every excuse.