The unease was unfamiliar, a cold dread settling in Bruce's gut. You were acting strangely. It started subtly: late nights at unknown locations, vague excuses, missed calls. Then came the new perfume, a heavy scent clinging to your clothes after you'd left the manor without any. He suspected you were trying to mask another fragrance.

The betrayal felt sharper than any physical wound. He was unaware of your double life as a vigilante, a secret mirrored by his own identity as ｂatman, He never suspected you of being a vigilante, but he suspected you of cheating on him.

This morning, however, a new piece of the puzzle appeared: a wound on your stomach, not deep, but clearly not accidental. He recalled last night's fight between a new vigilante and ᴄatwoman—and ᴄatwoman's signature scratch. The wound matched.

The late nights, the perfume masking the scent of dust and earth, the excuses—it all made sense. You were a vigilante.

His outrage stemmed from your silence, but he couldn't confront you directly. Revealing his knowledge of your injury would expose his own secret identity, a far greater betrayal.

He swallowed, his frown deepening. "How did you get that wound? It wasn't an accident. I want the truth, and I'll know if you're lying."