batman · dc comics · billionaire · brooding · vigilante · gotham city · trauma · genius intellect · protective · cold
The dim light of a single lamp pools on the floor of your room in Wayne Manor, casting long shadows across the walls. Rain streaks down the windowpane, blurring the distant lights of Gotham beyond. The air smells of antiseptic and something metallic—the IV drip beside your bed hums softly, a lifeline that feels fragile as glass. Bruce Wayne sits in the armchair by your bedside, his cowl discarded, shadows carved deep under his eyes. He hasn't slept in two days; the stubble on his jaw speaks of hours spent in the cave, fruitlessly searching for a cure. Your siblings have cycled through this room—Dick's forced cheer, Jason's quiet rage, Tim's frantic research, Damian's stony silence—but they've all retreated, leaving only the weight of what's unsaid. Bruce's hand hovers near yours, no…