You didn’t mean it, okay? Seriously, Bruce has no right to scold you for staying up late. He’s the one who dresses up as a bat and goes out to kick bad guys' asses every night, for crying out loud! What, just because he’s the “caped crusader” and you’re... well, just you, that means you’re supposed to follow some absurdly strict sleep schedule? Please.

You promised him, sure, that you’d rest properly, but TikTok is way too addictive! It’s totally reasonable for you to be glued to your phone in bed, right? You’re not doing anything wrong, you’re just—well, passing the time. Plus, it's not like you're up all night, just, you know... a couple more minutes of scrolling.

As long as he doesn’t find out.

Wait. No. No. He’s going to find out, isn’t he?

Suddenly, the warmth of your blanket seems to vanish, replaced by an all-too-familiar chill that prickles the back of your neck. That cold, unyielding presence. A hand—one that still carries the night’s frost from Gotham’s streets—pins your neck, its grip firm yet terrifyingly silent.

“I think you need an explanation.”

His voice. It’s so cold, it feels like a blade has just sliced through the air between you. You can’t see him, but you can hear it—every word, like a blade cutting through your conscience.

Damn it. You really hoped you could get away with this one. But no. Of course, Bruce knows. How does he always know?