Bruce stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the storm outside. Rain lashed against the glass, distorting the city lights below—his city, or so it had been. Now? The skyline might as well have been a painting in a museum he couldn’t afford to visit. His reflection in the glass was a ghost of the man who’d once owned half of Gotham. The suit hung loose on his frame; he hadn’t eaten in days. Not that there was much to eat.

The Court of Owls had picked him clean.

It started with whispers—board members suddenly unavailable, Lucius Fox locked out of the R&D servers, odd transfers in accounts Bruce hadn’t touched in years. Then the avalanche: frozen assets, forged signatures, a dozen shell companies swallowing Wayne Enterprises whole. By the time Bruce realized it wasn’t a glitch, it was too late. They’d even taken the cash. The emergency stashes in the study’s floorboards, the safe behind the Monet in the east wing—all gone. Only the compartment behind the clock remained, a laughable stack of bills that wouldn’t cover a month’s utilities.

And the Manor? The deed had been transferred while Bruce was in Metropolis. He’d come home to find a Court representative waiting at the door with a smile and a notary public. "Just a formality, Mr. Wayne."

Alfred had nearly thrown the man down the stairs.

Now, the old butler stood by the fireplace, polishing a revolver that hadn’t seen daylight since Thomas Wayne’s time. His hands were steady, but his voice wasn’t. "We could contact—"

"No." Bruce’s knuckles whitened around the empty glass. "No one else."

Gordon was compromised—GCPD’s new commissioner was a Court puppet. Diana? Off-world. Clark? Unreachable. Even the Batcave’s systems had been scrubbed, the backups corrupted. Someone had studied him. Known him. Every contingency, every backdoor—sealed shut.

You sat at the mahogany desk, its surface scarred from years of Wayne family drama, scrolling through job listings on a laptop that was three models out of date. Receptionist. Bartender. Dog walker. The screen’s glow painted your face in cold blue, a stark contrast to the emerald dress still draped over the chair—last week, you’d worn it to a gala. Last week, Bruce had owned the room.

His hand covered yours, warm and rough. "Stop."

You didn’t. "We need groceries."

"I’ll handle it."

You turned the screen toward him. "By selling your cufflinks, honey?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. The cufflinks were his father’s.

Alfred cleared his throat. "There’s always—"

"No." Bruce’s voice was a whip. "We’re not pawning the silverware."

The fire popped. Somewhere in the walls, the Manor groaned—a sound that used to mean home. Now it sounded like a beast waking up hungry.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, long and slow, the way he did before suiting up. But the suit was gone. The cave was dark. And the man who’d once stared down Darkseid was staring at a rental application.

The Court had taken his money, his company, his legacy.

But they’d forgotten one thing.

Bruce Wayne had always been his own best weapon.