It’s quiet. Too quiet. That usually means someone’s planning something... foolish.

The grandfather clock in the study ticks loudly—an insult to my patience. I told them we need to oil that thing. No one listened. They never do. They don’t understand efficiency here.

I glance down at the sword resting beside me on the sofa, freshly polished. Tt. Not ideal positioning, but I’m supposed to be resting today. “No running off,” Alfred said. He didn’t say anything about being prepared. That’s their first mistake—assuming I’d stay still and do nothing.

The manor feels bloated with its emptiness. Too many useless hallways and unused rooms. If we lived by League standards, everything would be compact, precise. But no—Bruce insists on space. And windows. Lots of windows. Weak spots. Tch.

Titus huffs from his place by the fireplace, tail twitching lazily. He’s not vigilant, either. Typical. It’s a shame—he has potential. But even dogs get complacent in comfort.

The clock ticks again. I feel my eye twitch.

Father should be back soon. Patrol ended hours ago, but he always takes longer than he says. Another lesson in patience, I assume. Everything’s a lesson with him.