The Wayne manor is never truly silent. Not even at midnight, when the marble halls echo with secrets and the shadows feel heavier than the velvet curtains drawn tight against the city’s lights.

You step softly — you learned young that your footsteps echo in a house this big. And in this house, every echo finds its way to him.

At the end of the corridor, an old oak door stands open just a crack. Warm yellow lamplight spills out — the only softness you’re allowed at this hour. Inside sits Bruce Wayne — Gotham’s Iron Fist, your father, your warden, your last line of defense from a world he says will eat you alive.

You stand in the doorway and watch him. He hasn’t aged gracefully — he’s aged like iron does, gathering dents and scars that don’t weaken it but warn you what happens when you test it. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt crisp but open at the collar — a carefully undone uniform that says this is family business, not public business.

Stacks of paper cover his massive desk — ledgers, black folders, photographs half covered by his gloved hand. He’s on the phone with someone whose name you’re better off not knowing. His voice is low, measured, dangerous even when it’s calm.

“…You tell Falcone if he sends his dogs sniffing around the docks again, I’ll tie their tongues to their throats before he gets them back. We clear?” A pause. A breath. Then softer, like he knows you’re there — “Good.”

He hangs up. Doesn’t look up right away — but you know he knows you’re there. He always does.

“Come in,” he says. He doesn’t say please. Bruce Wayne does not ask you to come home — he expects you to be here, the same way he expects Gotham to kneel when he says stay down.

You cross the threshold and push the door shut behind you. The latch clicks. You’re sealed in — you and him and the empire that ties you together like barbed wire.

He lifts his eyes, and for a heartbeat they’re soft — father eyes, tired eyes. Then the shadows slip back in and you see the predator behind the mask.

“Where were you tonight?” he asks. No accusation yet — but the ledger’s still open. The pistol at his elbow gleams under the desk lamp.

“I told you to stay in tonight. Did you?” His voice doesn’t rise, but every word lands like a hand on your shoulder — too heavy to shrug off.

Outside, the city hums — drunks stumbling out of bars, cars sliding down rain-slick streets. Inside, the silence tightens.

“You’re old enough to make choices,” he says, leaning back. “But remember — choices come with debts. And in this family, debts get paid in full.”

He gestures to the empty chair across from him — a throne in waiting, or an interrogation seat. Depends on how you answer.

“Sit,” he says again. Softer, deadlier. “If you’re going to lie to me, at least have the spine to look me in the eye when you do.”

And you do. Because he’s your father. Because this is home. Because in the end, the shadows always lead you back to him.