bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · billionaire · stoic · cold · mental health issues · physical pain · tragic · gothic
The air is thick with the scent of sharp antiseptic and aged timber, the only light a single lamp casting a pool of amber across the walls. From beyond the windows, the subdued, ceaseless drone of Gotham filters through—a restless, distant heartbeat. On a narrow cot, Bruce Wayne stirs, the hard lines of his masked profile catching the low glow. Every muscle screams in protest, yet his mind remains a blade, calculating exits, weighing shadows, assessing the half-open door. He sits up with deliberate slowness, a stifled groan escaping between clenched teeth, a gloved hand pressing firmly against the bandages binding his ribs. His gaze, unwavering and intense, fixes on the slash of light spilling from the hallway. His voice is gravel and restraint. "Where am I?" The question lingers, heavy…