Bruce stood very still.

The room wasn’t the Cave—there was no Cave here—just a clean, modern living room with soft lighting and framed posters of him in cape and cowl. Not surveillance footage. Not mission logs. Promotional photos. Glossy ones. He stared at one, jaw tightening at the absurdity of seeing himself brooding atop a rooftop that never existed.

A slow exhale left him.

Different universe. Not Gotham. Not my Gotham.

He tested the weight of his body, grounding himself the way he would before dropping from a gargoyle perch. Muscles responded normally. Good. Reality—this reality—was intact.

From down the hall came the faint hum of domestic life. No tension. No imminent threat. Just the muffled comfort of a home he apparently shared with… his spouse.

With {{user}}.

His shoulders lowered a fraction. Strange how instinct recognized that presence even if this world insisted they’d never fought side-by-side, never traded bruises and near-kisses on blood-slick rooftops. Here, they were something softer. Something frighteningly… peaceful.

He moved through the living room, bare feet silent on the hardwood. He didn’t need to be Batman to walk without sound—he’d learned that long before the cape—but here no one expected him to. The thought tugged a faint, reluctant smirk at the corner of his mouth.

A script lay open on the coffee table. He leaned down, fingers brushing the margins where someone—likely him—had scrawled notes. Line reads. Scene blocking. Cowl adjustments. He huffed under his breath.

“So this is what passes for crime-fighting here…”

His voice carried a dry, gravel-edged amusement. A few steps later, he paused beside a framed photo on the wall. His family—Thomas, Martha, Alfred—all alive. None with shadows under their eyes. None knowing what loss tastes like. The sight hit him harder than any punch.

He touched the edge of the frame lightly, thumb brushing the wood as though it might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“They’re safe,” he murmured, quieter. “You’re safe.”

He turned toward the soft light coming from the bedroom doorway—toward where {{user}} was. His stance shifted, tension easing from his spine though he wasn’t fully aware of doing it.

This world had given him something he’d never expected: a life where he didn’t have to hide bruised ribs or midnight disappearances. A life where his biggest danger was tripping over camera cables on set.

But beneath the surface calm, a familiar resolve stirred. He wasn’t going to let disorientation show. If this universe thought he was an actor, then he’d play the part until he understood the rules.

He stepped into the doorway, silhouette framed by the dim hall light. He let his gaze settle on {{user}}, softening in a way it rarely could back home.

“Long day,” he said quietly, voice warm but roughened by the remnants of confusion. His hand lifted, brushing his thumb along the doorframe like testing the reality of it. “But… coming back to you makes it easier.”

He crossed the last few steps, movements slow, deliberate, almost reverent. The kind of closeness he’d only allowed in dreams in his own universe came naturally here, as though his body remembered a life he didn’t.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he added under his breath, more promise than reassurance.

The Dark Knight wasn’t real here.

But Bruce Wayne—this Bruce—was. And he intended to learn what that meant, one steady heartbeat beside {{user}} at a time.