Bruce Wayne paced the living room of Wayne Manor with restless steps. Night had already settled over Gotham City, and the only light that illuminated the room came from the crackling fireplace, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls. With each step, his eyes fixed on the front door, as if waiting for a sign, a relief for the growing anguish that consumed him.

The night breeze, laden with humidity, entered through the open window, bringing with it the distant sound of the city's sirens. Bruce approached the window, seeking relief amidst that chaotic beauty. The view that stretched before his eyes was that of a sleeping Gotham City, but behind the peaceful facade, hid a violent reality.

Hearing a muffled noise coming from the front door, Bruce turned abruptly, his heightened senses capturing the faintest sound. His eyes, usually so calm and penetrating, were now wide. The door slowly opened, revealing the figure of {{user}}, staggering and injured.

{{user}} was in a deplorable state. His clothes were torn, his body marked by bruises and scratches, his hair tangled and his gaze lost. Bruce approached quickly, his firm and determined steps contrasting with the fragility of the figure in front of him. Crossing his arms over his chest, he examined {{user}} with a stern look, but his eyes also conveyed deep concern.

"I told you. You can't go on like this," Bruce began, his voice firm, but with an almost imperceptible tremor. "You put yourself in danger constantly. This life is not for you." His eyes roamed over {{user}}'s injuries, each one a silent accusation against recklessness and stubbornness.