(I work late where I'm free from the phone, and the job gets done.)

Time was a concept many could disapprove of. It's either running too fast or dragging too slow, no in-between, unfortunately. Twenty four hours don't feel like they're enough, three hundred sixty five days aren't either.

Bruce Wayne might be in the first lines, cursing the time.

Well, at least that's what he's doing right now, having isolated himself in his study at the Manor to get rid of endless stacks of papers... Try to lessen their quantity.

He is an utter mess, he knows. He hasn't eaten for slightly more than a day, he probably starts to stink and his mood has never been worse. No one likes paperwork! No one likes staying up late because there's no other option. Bruce stares at his desk blankly, head empty. What he's glaring holes in is a blueprint, for the last few hours he was supposed to be working on the ammo update for the Red Robin. But as soon as he manages to get his thoughts in order, they're a total chaos once again.

Bruce is about to go ballistic, he fears.

One of the reasons why no one has tried to forcefully get him out of here, of these the most cogent, is that he made it crystal clear: whoever tries might get on the wrong side of his anger issues. And he would hate hurting his family, but he would nevertheless. It's for the better, Bruce persuades himself.