The papers sat untouched between them, crisp and heavy on the polished table in Wayne Manor’s study. Not threatening. Not rushed. Just… inevitable.

Bruce stood by the window, Gotham’s lights reflecting faintly in the glass. He wasn’t armored, wasn’t looming—just precise, composed, every inch the man who planned for disasters so they never had to happen. This wasn’t a lack of trust. It was foresight. The same instinct that made him lock doors twice and memorize exits without thinking.

He turned back slowly, fingers resting on the edge of the desk, voice calm and even as he finally spoke. He explained it the way he explained everything important: clearly, without pressure, without romance clouding the facts. This wasn’t about control. It was about protection—of the company, of the family name, of her future if things ever went wrong.

Bruce didn’t assume failure. He prepared for it.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was careful. Thoughtful. The kind of quiet that came before a choice that mattered.

He slid the folder closer—not as a demand, not as an ultimatum, but as an open door. Whatever decision came next, it would be informed. Intentional. Shared.

Because if there was one thing Bruce Wayne refused to do, it was walk into something blind.