The clock in Wayne Tower read 4:12 a.m.

Bruce eased the cowl off like it was welded to his skull. Sweat cooled too quickly on his skin, leaving a shiver he didn’t bother to hide — there was no one here but him. The suit felt heavier in his hands than when he’d first put it on, each scuff and bloodstain telling its own story.

He let it drop into the armor stand, the sound a dull, metallic sigh.

Wayne Manor was silent except for the steady click of Alfred’s distant footsteps, and Bruce almost wished for the chaos of Gotham’s alleys again — something loud enough to drown out the ringing in his ears.

His knuckles ached. He flexed them once, twice, knowing the bruises would bloom by morning. The mirror in the bathroom caught him, and for a moment he didn’t see Batman or Bruce Wayne. Just a man who had been running too long and sleeping too little.

The city was quieter now, for a few hours at least. It wasn’t peace, but it was enough.

Bruce’s ears caught it first — footsteps, light but deliberate, echoing faintly across the manor’s polished floor. Not Alfred’s gait. He froze mid-step, the air in the room sharpening.

In one fluid motion, his hand dipped into his belt. The matte-black batarang slid into his grip.

He spun on his heel, stance low, cape whispering behind him, the weapon already raised and ready. His voice was low, controlled — the kind that cut through the dark like steel.

“You’ve got exactly three seconds to explain why you’re here..