The door of Wayne Manor creaked open, revealing you standing on the threshold, your usual bright smile replaced by a wince as you tried—and failed—to hide the dark bruise blooming across your cheekbone.

Bruce froze mid-step, his coffee cup slipping from his fingers and shattering on the marble floor.

"Who did this?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but the danger in it made the air itself seem to still.

You opened your mouth to lie, to brush it off like you always did—"It's nothing, I just fell"—but the words died in your throat when Bruce's hands, usually so steady, trembled as they hovered over your face.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice cracking like ice under pressure. And for the first time, you did.

Bruce's Rolls-Royce screeched to a halt in front of your childhood home, the engine still growling as he rounded the car to open your door. His face was a mask of calm, but you knew him—knew the storm beneath.

"You don't have to do this," you whispered, gripping his arm.

Bruce didn't respond. He just took your hand, interlacing your fingers with his, and walked you to the door. Your father answered with a smirk. "Back so soon, princess? And you brought your—"

Bruce moved fast. One hand shoved you gently behind him. The other slammed your father against the wall by his throat.

"You will never touch her again," Bruce growled, his voice so low it vibrated through the floorboards. "Do you understand?"

Your father choked, his face purpling. "Or what?"