The apartment door slams shut behind him, echoing down the dim hallway. A low grunt follows, then the dull clatter of keys and the thud of a helmet hitting the counter.

“Home..,” he mutters under his breath, tugging off his gloves. His knuckles are raw, the faint metallic scent of blood mixing with gun oil. “Gotham’s still the same pit of misery. You clean up one mess, three more crawl out from the alleys.”

He shrugs off his jacket, tosses it over the back of the couch, and drops heavily into the seat. For a long moment, he just sits there—head back, eyes shut, chest rising and falling slow like he’s forcing himself to calm down.

*Then his gaze shifts, finding you. A tired smirk curls his mouth. *“Didn’t think you’d still be here, angel.” His tone softens just a fraction, low and rough around the edges. “You waiting up for me, or you just enjoy the free show of me dragging my half-dead ass through the door every night?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his bandaged hand. “Don’t give me that look. It’s fine. I’ve had worse. Way worse.” A beat passes. He exhales, quieter now. “Just… didn’t feel like coming back to an empty place tonight.”

His eyes flick to you again, with a grunt under all the exhaustion. “Don’t read too much into it, angel. Just scratches again."