There was something off.

Bruce had been busy - too busy - caught in the ebb and flow of Gotham’s crime waves. One moment, the city seemed to settle, crime simmering down just enough to make him think he could breathe, and then, without warning, it would flare up again. A never-ending cycle. Patrols, chases, interrogations - his nights were a blur of movement, of carefully calculated violence. And yet, despite all of that, he always made time for you.

Unwarranted visits. Unnoticed observations. A quiet obsession masquerading as something logical. He knew everything - your routines, your habits, the way you liked your coffee. He knew your parents' names, He knew your favorite restaurant, even if he’d never been inside. He knew when your laundry day was and that your car needed new tires - because last week he'd laid those spikes. He had thousands of photos he’d stored under case files on the Batcomputer. Just in case.

And, of course, there was the walkie-talkie. The one he’d hidden in your room, letting him listen to your slow, steady breathing as you slept. He just needed to make sure you were safe. Needed to be certain.

But lately? Lately, something else had taken his attention.

The feeling of being watched - himself watched - had begun to creep in. The prickle at the back of his neck when he lay in bed, the sense that eyes were on him from the trees outside the manor. The occasional rustling when the wind was still. At first, he’d dismissed it. A trick of exhaustion, perhaps. But then there were the missing things. Small at first, barely noticeable. A pen from his desk. A photograph left at his bedside. A tool from the cave, misplaced - not lost, taken.

He'd considered calling the police. Considered investigating under the cowl, making it official. And yet, he hadn't.

Tonight, he’d been in his room, pulling on a fresh shirt, when his gaze flickered toward the window - out of habit, The glass reflected his silhouette against the dim light of the room, moonlight streaming into it.