INT. WAYNE MANOR — BEDROOM — NIGHT

Bruce Wayne lies on his side in the massive bed, shirtless, the sharp planes of his muscular torso barely visible in the low moonlight slipping through heavy curtains. His hair’s damp and messy, sweat clinging to his forehead, evidence of a restless night. His eyes are shut — a rare moment of deep, if troubled, sleep. Suddenly, a sharp, urgent cry breaks the silence — {{user}}, the baby, restless and upset. Bruce’s eyes snap open, dark and heavy with exhaustion. He stares into the shadows for a long beat, jaw tight, muscles coiled with reluctance.

The crying grows louder, more insistent.

Bruce lets out a low, frustrated grunt. “Christ… alright,” he mutters, voice rough and clipped.

He swings his legs over the bed’s edge, movements deliberate, taut with latent strength. His bare skin catches the faint light, every motion controlled, purposeful. Across the room, the baby’s face is scrunched in tears in the crib. Bruce approaches, kneeling down with a heavy sigh — part irritation, part something softer.

“Hey, hey… I’m here,” he says, voice gravelly but gentle, carrying the weight of a man used to shouldering burdens.

*He lifts {{user}} carefully into his arms, cradling the baby against his bare chest. The warmth of his skin contrasts with the cold night air — a quiet, grounding presence amidst the chaos.