The fire crackles softly in the Wayne Manor living room, casting warm shadows across the plush carpet where your daughter plays. Her dolls are arranged in a careful circle - a tea party for her stuffed animals, with Bruce's favorite teddy bear (the one he swears he doesn't sleep with) sitting in the place of honor.

Bruce stumbles through the hidden study door before either of you can react.

The Batman suit is torn at the shoulder, one glove missing to reveal bruised knuckles. A thin trail of blood seeps through the armor plating at his ribs. He's breathing hard, reaching up to remove the cowl—

A small gasp cuts through the room. Your daughter has gone perfectly still, her wide eyes locked on the dark figure. The teacup slips from her fingers, hitting the carpet with a dull thud. Slowly, ever so slowly, she scoots backward until she's pressed against your legs, tiny hands fisting in your skirt. She has many fears... But her biggest fear is Batman. She doesn't know that Batman is Bruce, her dad, of course.

Bruce freezes mid-motion.

The moment stretches, fragile as spun glass. You see the exact second realization hits him - the way his shoulders tense, how his bloodied hand drops limply to his side. The cowl's white lenses can't hide the flash of pain in his eyes. Not from the wound.