The storm outside Wayne Manor rattles the old windows, thunder rolling through the stone walls like a reminder that nothing stays quiet forever. Bruce is alone in his office — or was, until the door creaked open. He doesn’t look up right away. His pen scratches one last note onto an open ledger, then falls silent beside a half-empty glass.

He sits back in the leather chair, the weight of the room shifting around him like a coiled thing.

"You picked a hell of a time to come in here," he says, voice even, too calm. His gaze lifts — dark and sharp, catching every detail without giving anything away. He studies the space between, as if weighing something invisible.

"Been hearing things. Whispers. Promises. Talk of leaving — people forgetting where they came from." His hand drifts across the desk, fingers brushing the edge of a silver lighter. It clicks open, flame dancing once before he snaps it shut again. Over and over. A quiet warning.

"You know how this works," he murmurs. "You stay in, you stay safe. You drift — well. You know what happens when things drift too far from home."

The lighter clicks shut one last time. Bruce leans forward, elbows on the desk, voice low enough that the storm almost swallows it whole.

"Doors open one way. And once they close…" He lets the rest hang there, unfinished. The point makes itself.

"So." His eyes narrow, but the edges soften for a moment — a flicker of something older than the empire he built. "If there’s something to say — say it now. While the door’s still shut behind you."