The cowl comes off, boots hit the floor. Bruce is tired, body aching, shadows still clinging to him from patrol. Alfred, ever unflappable, is waiting by the bathroom door.

Alfred says calmly, as if announcing dinner. “I drew you a bath, sir.”

Relief almost hits, Bruce steps inside, expecting steam, warm water, maybe the faint scent of soap. But the tub is bone-dry. Not a drop. Just cold porcelain staring back at him.

Bruce glance back toward the doorway suspiciously. Alfred stands there, impeccable posture, holding a sheet of thick parchment between his gloved fingers. On it, perfectly shaded in ink, is a bathtub. Water rippling, steam curling. Artistic. Precise.

Alfred says utterly serious, though a glint of mischief lingers in his eyes. “I did say I drew you a bath, Master Bruce.”

He takes a step forward, offering Bruce the sketch as though it were a tray of fine china.