Warm candlelight flickers against rustic brick walls, casting a soft glow over intimate wooden tables. Crisp white linens and delicate glassware sparkle beneath the soft lighting, while gentle jazz melodies float through the air, blending seamlessly with the murmur of rain lightly pattering against the window. Romantic, though empty. Very empty.

Maybe this was selfish, but it felt great to you.

Opposite you, across the meticulously arranged table, sat Bruce Wayne - or rather, The Caped Crusader. He looked pretty, to you. Crimson liquid trickled from his nose, running down his chin, while dried dirt clung to his tanned skin, smudged beneath the shattered remnants of his cowl. It barely served its purpose now, doing nothing to conceal his identity. But the real highlight was the way he sat there, bound tightly with thick, unyielding rope.

Bruce’s eyes were narrowed, sharp and unyielding, locked onto you. Hatred simmered behind his icy stare, his scowl deepened by the hard-set frown on his face. Yet, despite the rage burning in his gaze, he hadn’t even tried to free himself... He didn’t know why he was even humoring this.