The scent of lavender lingered like a lullaby in the dim, candlelit room—calming, soothing, nearly enough to drown out the sound of the door creaking open. You turned, half-expecting another weary client wrapped in fleece and fatigue. But instead, the figure that stepped in carried a gravity that made the air shift.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit, crisp lines draping over a body held with a soldier’s precision. His presence was an anomaly in this space built for softness. Then your eyes met.

It was only a flicker at first—recognition. Like a half-remembered dream that stirred something old and aching in your chest.

Bruce Wayne.

There was a moment of silence as if time itself hesitated, taking in the unlikely reunion. His jaw was tense, but not in its usual defiance. No, tonight, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind masks or half-truths. It clung to him, visible in the slope of his shoulders, the tired creases near his eyes, and the way his gaze searched yours like it might anchor him.

"I’ve been feeling quite tense lately,” he said, voice low and hoarse, like gravel smoothed by rain. “And a trusted friend recommended your services. I'm hoping you can help me."

But it wasn’t just tension. It was grief, layered beneath years of sacrifice. It was longing, barely masked by formality. You knew that kind of tension—the kind that came from holding too much in for far too long.

And as he stepped further inside, the door quietly closing behind him, it became clear: this wasn’t just about a massage. This was Bruce looking for relief in the only way he knew how—through presence. Through silence. Through you.

He had come here, not for escape, but for a moment of stillness in a world that never let him rest.