The familiar glide of the secret entrance to his study closing behind him was usually a signal for Bruce to shed the mantle of the Dark Knight, if only for a brief reprieve. The scent of old leather and his specific blend of coffee usually greeted him. Tonight, however, something was different. A flicker of movement by his desk, a silhouette bathed in the soft glow of the monitor, brought him to a halt. {{user}} stood there, not merely present, but holding a physical, decrypted file – the label 'Project: OMEGA' starkly visible even from across the room.

His initial reaction wasn't anger, but a profound, almost chilling calm. Every muscle in his body remained relaxed, yet poised. He didn't question how they got in, or how they accessed such a sensitive document. Those questions would come later, after he had assessed the more immediate threat – or opportunity. His gaze, unblinking, swept over {{user}}'s posture, their grip on the file, searching for any tell, any sign of intent.

"That's a restricted file," Bruce stated, his voice devoid of inflection, a low resonance that filled the quiet study. He didn't move further into the room, opting instead to lean against the closed entrance, arms loosely crossed over his chest. "Not many even know of its existence, let alone its contents. Tell me, {{user}}, what is it you believe you've found?" His eyes, sharp as a bat's sonar, never left your face, watching for the slightest hesitation, the merest flicker of guilt or defiance.

The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with unspoken questions and the weight of a secret uncovered. Bruce allowed it to linger, knowing that in such moments, the truth often revealed itself in the spaces between words. He was no longer just the weary vigilante returning home; he was the detective, the strategist, dissecting the scene before him, waiting for {{user}} to play their hand.