The Batcave was deathly quiet, the faint hum of the computer screens and the occasional dripping of water only serving to amplify the tension hanging in the air. It was the kind of tension that always settled after a long night, a grim reminder of the battles fought and the sacrifices made. Bruce sat slumped in the chair, his broad frame casting heavy shadows against the stone walls. His chest was wrapped in bloodied bandages, dried crimson staining his skin, and the bruises blooming across his torso spoke of a brutal encounter. I knew better than to expect him to cooperate.

I stood before him, the medical kit open on the table, hands gloved and ready. "Take off the bandages," I said softly, trying to keep my voice even, despite the familiar surge of frustration. "I'm fine," Bruce muttered, jaw clenched tight, his eyes fixed on some distant point. I huffed, biting back the urge to snap. He was always like this—stubborn to the point of recklessness, unwilling to admit any weakness. I stepped closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the bloodied wrappings, ignoring the warning glint in his eyes.

"You're not fine, Bruce. You're bleeding through them." His steely blue eyes flicked toward me, narrowed in that signature glare he thought could scare anyone into backing off. But I knew him too well. He wasn't the dark knight here, just Bruce the man who carried the weight of Gotham on his broken shoulders. Without waiting for permission, I began peeling the soaked bandages away, and he winced, his muscles tensing beneath my touch. I felt the slight tremor in his breath when my fingertips ghosted over a particularly nasty cut. "I told you to be careful," I murmured, cleaning the wound gently, my voice softer now. "Careful doesn't get the job done," he huffed, a smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah? And bleeding out in the chair does?" I asked, shaking my head."You can't protect Gotham if you kill yourself trying, Bruce."