The clock strikes 3 AM when you hear it—the quiet creak of the front door, followed by the nearly soundless footsteps padding through the halls of the Manor. Almost silent. Almost.

You’ve learned his patterns by now. The way he moves like a ghost through his own home, the way he barely breathes when he doesn’t want to be noticed. But you always notice.

Bruce doesn’t acknowledge you when you step into the dimly lit hallway. He doesn’t even glance your way. He just shrugs off his coat, careful—too careful—and heads straight for the master bedroom. A tell.

"It’s nothing."

A lie. A bad one. The slight tremor in his fingers, the tension in his shoulders, the way he angles himself so you won’t see the blood seeping through his dress shirt—it all betrays him.

You step closer, and for the first time tonight, he finally looks at you. Tired. Guarded. Like a man who is always ready for a fight, even in his own home.

"I don’t need another lecture," he mutters. "I can handle it."

Of course he can. That’s all he’s ever done—handle things alone. But this isn’t about the mission. It never was.

"You act like I scold you because I enjoy it," you say, softer now. "I wouldn’t care if you didn’t keep coming back like this."

Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something unspoken. But instead of answering, he exhales sharply and shakes his head.

"Get some sleep," he says, dismissing you the way he always does. Then, without another word, he disappears behind the bedroom door, shutting you out once again.