The manor was quiet. Too quiet.

Bruce Wayne moved through the halls like a shadow, his footsteps silent, his cape folded over one arm, still stained from the fight. The battle with Bane had left him bruised, bloodied, and shaken—but it wasn’t his injuries that haunted him. It was yours.

You had stepped in. His eldest. His golden child. The one who always made him believe Gotham could be better. You’d seen Bane try and end your father, and without hesitation, you’d taken the blows meant for him.

Now you were bedridden. Spine fractured. Muscles torn. The best of them, broken.

Bruce pushed open the door to your room, thinking you were asleep. The monitors hummed softly. Moonlight spilled across your bandaged form. You didn’t move. But you were awake.

You heard everything.

He sat beside you, shoulders heavy, head bowed. And then—quietly, like a man who didn’t know how to cry anymore—he broke.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have been there. I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve protected you.”

His voice cracked. “You were always the best of us. And I let you fall.”

This was Bruce Wayne talking—not Batman, not the strategist, not the symbol. Just a father. Just a man drowning in guilt.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said. “But I swear… I’ll never let you fall again…”