Saying Bruce was furious was an understatement—he was way past that. How the hell did he let things get this bad?

How many coffees had he had already? Seven? No… ten? It had been three days since the Joker kidnapped you, and he was losing his mind trying to find you. He and the boys had split up the streets, patrolling every inch of Gotham, but nothing was turning up.

“Make me another coffee, Alfred,” Bruce muttered. His eyes were bloodshot, and he’d only been running on tiny bits of sleep over the last few days.

Why did everything always have to go wrong right when it started to feel okay?