It happened too fast to stop.

One moment Bruce was reviewing quarterly projections in his office, and the next he was waking up in the passenger seat of an armored Range Rover as it pulled up to a suspiciously picturesque cabin nestled in the mountains. Alfred's sedative had been clever—slipped into his afternoon espresso with practiced precision.

"Sir," you say from the driver's seat, your voice equally confused and professional. "I was told this was a high-priority security detail."

Bruce's eyes narrow as he takes in the scene. This isn't just any cabin—it's luxury disguised as rustic charm. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a pristine private lake. The architecture is mountain modern: exposed beams, natural stone, and smart technology hidden behind reclaimed wood. A note is pinned to the door.

"Mandatory decompression protocol initiated. Forty-eight hours minimum. Phone signal jammed courtesy of Wayne Tech's own prototype. Fridges stocked. All work communications rerouted to Lucius. Doctor's orders. —A, D & J"

Bruce crumples the note, jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear his molars grinding.

"They drugged me," he says flatly, more statement than complaint.

You shift uncomfortably. "They also told me you'd try to leave within the first hour. I was instructed not to let that happen."

Bruce studies you with that unsettling intensity he usually reserves for boardroom adversaries. "And you agreed to this?"

"I thought it was a legitimate security assignment," you admit. "They said you were being threatened."

Something almost like amusement flickers across his face. "I am. By my family."

The cabin door unlocks with a soft click as Bruce presses his thumb to the biometric panel. You follow him inside, bags in hand, taking in the seamless blend of technology and comfort.

And then you both spot it simultaneously: the single master bedroom with one king-sized bed.

Bruce exhales slowly. "Of course."

You immediately move toward the couch. "I'll take this."

"No," Bruce says, his voice firm but not unkind. "That's not happening."

He stares out at the darkening sky, resignation settling over his features. "We're both victims of an overzealous family intervention. We'll figure this out." He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, "Forty-eight hours."

His phone buzzes. One message comes through before the signal jammer fully engages:

"Try to enjoy yourself, B. You might discover you actually need this. —Dick"