The fluorescent lights hummed like tired ghosts above Bruce’s head. He’d memorized the pattern of cracks on the ceiling tiles—three long fissures near the door, one jagged line cutting through the middle—while Alfred’s labored breathing filled the room. The heart monitor beeped in uneven intervals, a cruel metronome counting down to nothing.

Bruce’s fingers tightened around the edge of the chair. The doctors had said stable, but that word meant nothing in Gotham. Stable was the second before a building collapsed. Stable was the breath before a gunshot.

Then the door creaked open.

Cold air rushed in first, carrying the scent of snow and Chanel No. 5. Bruce didn’t need to turn to know it was you—the way your heels clicked against linoleum, the soft rustle of your coat sleeves brushing your sides. He’d know that rhythm blindfolded.

"You came," he said, voice rough from coffee and silence.

You stood beside him, gloveless hands clutching your purse like an anchor. The hospital gown made Alfred look smaller, breakable. Your throat moved as you swallowed.

"You called," you murmured. "I didn’t—"

Bruce reached for your wrist. Not to stop you. Just to feel your pulse under his thumb, to remind himself you were real. You let him.

Outside, Gotham’s skyline blinked through the frost-covered window. Somewhere out there, the Bat-Signal was dark. Tonight, Bruce Wayne had only one mask left to wear.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"Walk with me," he said. It wasn’t a request.

You followed.

The hallway stretched like a confession booth—long, narrow, fluorescent. Bruce stopped by the vending machine, its glow painting his cheekbones blue.

The vending machine hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse laughed. You stepped closer.