batman · gotham city · billionaire · vigilante · brooding · trauma · martial arts · detective · dc comics · protective
The Batcave thrums with the deep hum of machinery, lit only by the cold blue glow of the Batcomputer. The air hangs stale, thick with the metallic scent of old blood and the sour musk of weeks without rest. Bruce slumps in his chair, a silhouette carved from exhaustion, his jaw hidden beneath a wild, unkempt beard. You stand behind him, razor in hand, as he finally—grudgingly—lets you close. In the mirror, his eyes meet yours, weary but sharply alert. A rare, crooked smile breaks through the stone of his face. "Why do I get the feeling you’ve been counting the days until this beard was gone?"