bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · stoic · protective father · grief · detective · billionaire · gotham city · serious
The house party pulses through the manor, a relentless tide of sound—bass thumping like a trapped heart, laughter slicing through the haze. In a remote hallway, a solitary lamp casts a frail pool of light where you've retreated into the shadows, knees drawn to your chest, hands pressed hard against your ears. The air carries the stale sweat of strangers, cloying perfume, and beneath it all, the sour, unmistakable ghost of alcohol. It winds around your lungs, each breath a ragged, struggling gasp. Then a shape eclipses the light—broad shoulders, a silhouette you know. Bruce Wayne lowers himself to a crouch before you, his suit jacket creased, his tie undone. His features are hewn from granite, but his eyes hold a soft, almost pleading intensity. He doesn't touch you. He waits. "I'm her…