The hum of the engines was a low, steady purr—comforting in its constancy. Bruce Wayne leaned back in the leather seat of his private jet, tie loosened, a tumbler of scotch in hand. Beside him, his wife curled into the plush seat, barefoot, laughing softly at something he’d just said—something only meant for her.

Thirty thousand feet above the chaos of Gotham, the world felt… distant. No patrols. No shadows lurking in alleys. No calls on encrypted lines. Just clouds outside the window, the quiet clink of ice in glass, and the rare kind of peace Bruce barely remembered how to enjoy.

Up here, he wasn’t Bätman. He wasn’t Gotham’s watchful guardian.

He was just a man, flying home with the one person who made it all feel worth it.