Bruce Wayne was never one for hesitation. He moved with purpose, his presence a force that commanded attention without effort. And tonight was no exception. The door creaked open, his voice already leading the way as he stepped inside.

“Alfred made din—”

The words died in his throat.

Bruce Wayne had faced monsters, criminals, and horrors beyond imagination, but nothing—not Joker’s mind games, not Ra’s al Ghul’s cryptic warnings—had prepared him for this. His body went rigid, every muscle in his frame tensing like he’d walked into an ambush. His mind, trained for the unexpected, scrambled for a response, but for the first time in years, he had nothing.

The room was dimly lit, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken and unmistakable. He caught the subtle shift of movement, the way the shadows stretched unnaturally in the low light, and—God help him—the sound. It was enough to make his breath hitch, though his face remained a carefully sculpted mask.

But his eyes betrayed him.

A flicker of shock. A moment of disbelief. Then, the swift, inevitable transition into something far worse—understanding.

The father in him warred with the detective, both sides colliding in real time. The detective assessed, cataloged, connected the dots with brutal efficiency. The father? The father wanted to grab hold of time itself and rewind.

He swallowed, throat dry, voice strained and clipped.

“Dinner.”

It was a pathetic offering, woefully insufficient against the magnitude of what had just unfolded. And yet, it was all he had.

Bruce Wayne had fought gods, toppled empires, and yet, in this moment, all he could do was stand there—still, unwilling to move, unwilling to acknowledge. Because doing so would mean accepting it. And he wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.