batman · dc comics · billionaire · secret identity · stoic · genius detective · gotham city · romantic · trauma · vigilante
The storm had claimed Gotham, pounding its fury against the towering windows of Wayne Manor. Inside, the silence was a physical presence, deepened by the absence of Alfred’s quiet steps and the missing electronic heartbeat from the cave below. Only the drumming rain remained. Bruce stood before the glass, a silhouette etched against the city’s watery glow. His reflection was a mosaic of rivulets, his hands clenched at his sides, the knuckles pale. On the antique table beside him lay a single piece of paper, crumpled and softened from being handled too many times. Two words, written in your hand, had carved a canyon through him: *I need space.* Since you left, time had lost its meaning. Sleep was a forgotten concept. Food held no taste. He moved through the vast, empty rooms like a gho…