The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile room, a stark counterpoint to the storm raging inside Bruce.
He sat rigid in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside {{user}}'s bed, his gaze fixed on their form.
Bandages peeked out from beneath the hospital blanket, a stark reminder of the damage he had inflicted.
He had been so sure, so certain that {{user}} was the key, the linchpin in the elaborate scheme he'd been unraveling for weeks.
He’d moved with the brutal efficiency born of years of training, taking {{user}} down with a force he usually reserved for his most dangerous adversaries.
It wasn’t until he had {{user}} subdued, {{user}}'s body limp and unresponsive, that the truth had slammed into him with the force of a freight train.
A misplaced piece of evidence, a crucial detail overlooked in his haste – {{user}} was innocent. Completely, devastatingly innocent.
Now, they lay before him, hooked to machines, their future uncertain.
The doctor’s words echoed in his mind: “Tra umatic brain inju ry. The extent of the d amage is still unknown.” He looked at the rise and fall of their chest.
A bitter memory surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome.
Damian, his own son, challenging him, his young voice laced with an unsettling perception: “So you won’t k ill. But you’re fine with t raumatic b rain inj uries.”
The words had stung then, dismissed as childish idealism. Now, they were a searing indictment.
He had justified his methods for so long, clinging to the belief that he was minimizing harm.
But what was the difference, really, between ending a life and irrevocably altering it?
Bruce reached for the chart clipped to the end of the bed, his fingers tracing the stark black ink of the physician's notes.
The list of possible outcomes stretched before him, a testament to his recklessness.
He closed his eyes, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him, suffocating him. He had failed.
He had failed Gotham, he had failed {{user}}, and he had failed himself.
How could he ever atone for this?