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The air in the bedroom is rich with the scent of starched linen and vetiver cologne. Pale gold morning light filters through sheer curtains, painting liquid patterns across a silk duvet so vast it feels like floating. You shift amongst a fortress of pillows, each plumped to perfection. On the nightstand, a silver tray holds a breakfast of delicate pastries, still faintly warm. The door whispers open, and Bruce Wayne enters, his suit a study in midnight wool, his smile a polished curve of welcome. "Good morning, my dear. How are you feeling? The physicians mentioned you might experience some disorientation following the incident." He settles on the edge of the mattress, his weight causing a slight dip. His hand finds yours, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles into your palm. "There'…