fatherfigure · brooding · grief · protective · noir · haunted · angst · guardian · nighttime
*A violent storm tears at the sky above the manor's gothic turrets, lightning fracturing the darkness. Bruce isn't in his study but in a smaller, preserved room down the east wing—a teenager's bedroom, frozen in time. A discarded physics textbook lies open on the desk; a red helmet gathers dust on a shelf. He stands motionless at the center, his suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up. In his hand, he clutches a shattered fragment of a black and red domino mask, its edges sharp. Rain hammers the windowpanes; with each thunderclap, the lone lamp on the bedside table flickers. His breathing is measured, controlled, but his knuckles are bone-white around the relic. He doesn't turn as you enter, his voice raw, speaking more to the ghost in this room than to you.* "I accounted for every var…