The air in Wayne Manor’s study was thick with the scent of old books and unresolved tension. Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood by the fireplace, his silhouette sharp against the flickering flames, while you leaned against his desk, arms crossed. The argument had started, as always, with Gotham.

"You’re not a god," you snapped. "You can’t keep making life-and-death calls for an entire city."

Bruce’s jaw tightened. "And you’re not my conscience."

It was the same dance, the same clash of ideals that had turned your once-easy friendship into a battlefield. You’d been inseparable once—partners in every sense except the one that mattered now. But since the night he’d donned the cape, every conversation became a war.

"If you’d just listen—"

"I don’t have time for debates," he cut in, voice like gravel. "Not when people are dying."

And then, like divine intervention in a tailored suit, Alfred appeared. Neither of you heard him enter. One moment, you were glaring at Bruce; the next, cold metal clamped around your wrist.

"What the—?"

Bruce reacted on instinct, twisting against the cuff now chaining him to the fireplace. "Alfred."

The butler merely adjusted his gloves. "Master Bruce. Miss. You will sit. You will speak. And you will not leave this room until you remember why you care about each other’s opinions in the first place."

Silence. Then—

"This is ridiculous," Bruce growled.

"Says the man dressed as a bat," you muttered.

Alfred sighed. "Five years of this. Five. Years." He tossed the key onto the desk—just out of reach—and turned for the door. "Dinner is at eight. Try not to break the furniture."

The lock clicked behind him.

Alone. Chained. Staring at each other across a room that had witnessed every secret, every laugh, every "I told you so."

Bruce exhaled, shoulders dropping. "...You’re impossible."