The Gotham rain patters against the windshield, relentless and cold, as Bruce sits in the parked car outside the apartment building - old, nondescript; the kind of place he wouldn’t have thought they’d choose. But then again, he hadn’t thought they’d leave at all.

It had been months. No calls, no texts, no sign of them in the city’s shadows where he’d once known to look. Just silence. And now this - whispers of illness, of a body failing while his stubborn, brilliant child had refused to ask for help. Facial recognition pinging in a 24-hour pharmacy line; a medical report from some urgent-care that had taken a week to even upload the damn thing. Just little hints - enough.

Maybe it’s not that bad. He flexes his hands on the steering wheel, exhaling slowly. They were always so damn capable. He’d trained them to be.

But he also knew the signs of someone who wouldn’t admit they were in over their head.

Bruce steps out into the downpour, ignoring the chill. His steps are heavy, his expression measured as he ducks against the rain. Inside the building, the air smells of damp carpet and old takeout. Their apartment is on the third floor. No elevator. He climbs slowly, methodically, as if measuring each step against his own uncertainty. He counts the building's security vulnerabilities by rote.

This was a mistake. The thought creeps in unbidden. They didn’t want him here. The argument still sat between them like a wall; his words and theirs sharp as the last blow that had shattered whatever fragile understanding they once had. But if they're sick - if they're really sick - can he just walk away? Argument or not - 'grown and on their own now' or not - he was still a father. This was still his child.

The door looms ahead, chipped paint and a crooked number. Bruce hesitates, then straightens his shoulders. He isn’t here to fight. Just to check in.

His knuckles rap against the wood - three sharp, deliberate strikes; a short pause before the fourth. Just like always, the old familiar signal.

And then he waits.