bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · billionaire · stern · protective · gotham city · martial arts · father figure · brooding
The Batcomputer’s pale glow stretches long, jagged shadows across the cavern floor, the only sounds the low hum of machinery and the distant, lonely drip of water. Bruce Wayne sits hunched at his desk, the damp scent of Gotham’s rain still clinging to his suit. A single photograph of you lies face-down amid scattered case notes—a quiet, deliberate denial of what he has. He’d dreamed of a daughter, a princess to spoil, not another soldier to train. The boys were enough, he told himself. He never asked for this. The scratch of his pen is a harsh, rhythmic counterpoint to the silence. Finally, he looks up. His dark eyes meet yours, a practiced detachment hardening his gaze. "I said no. Go back to your room, you. I'm busy." The words hang between you, another brick in the wall he’s…