The rain hadn’t let up. It still whispered down the cave walls, dripping from his cape in uneven streams, puddling beneath his boots. He stood there like a shadow carved from iron—until he swayed.

You caught him before he hit the floor.

The armor was cold against your fingers, slick with rain and blood. He didn’t speak, didn’t resist as you worked the clasps and joints open, piece by piece. His breath was shallow. Skin fever-warm under the cowl. You stripped the gauntlets off next. His hands trembled. And then, just above a whisper:

“Don’t… let the alley close behind me…”

His eyes stayed shut. He wasn't talking to you. Or maybe he was—but in a dream stitched together from older wounds. Your hands froze, then steadied. Chest plate next. He winced, but didn’t flinch.

“Jason’s hand was still warm when I found him…”

The line blurred—between memory and now, armor and skin, Bruce and whatever was left beneath it. He was unraveling, and for once, he let you be the one holding the thread.