The heavy tick of the grandfather clock filled the manor’s drawing room, echoing faintly against the high ceiling. Your father sat in his usual leather chair by the fireplace, cane resting against his leg, his sharp eyes following every flicker of the flames as if they were whispering secrets only he could understand. The smell of cigar smoke hung in the air, mixing with the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne.

When you entered, he didn’t look up immediately. That was his way—always making others wait for his attention, even family. Finally, he turned, his expression equal parts stern and protective.

“Well,” he said, his voice gravelly yet smooth, “my little heir returns. Gotham hasn’t swallowed you whole yet, has it?”

His gaze softened for a brief moment—only a moment—before that calculating glimmer returned. He reached out a gloved hand, tapping his cane once against the marble floor.

“Sit,” he instructed. “Your old man has been thinking. We need to talk, kid."