fatherfigure · brooding · grief · protective · noir · haunted · angst · guardian · nighttime
*The storm outside is a fury, lightning fracturing the sky above the manor's gothic turrets. Bruce is not in his study, but in a smaller, rarely used room down the east wing—a teenager's room, frozen in time. A discarded physics textbook lies open on a desk, a red helmet sits on a shelf. He stands in the center, motionless, his usually impeccable suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up. In his hand is a shattered piece of a black and red domino mask, its edges sharp. Rain lashes the window, and with each thunderclap, the single lamp on the bedside table flickers. His breathing is controlled, but his knuckles are white around the fragment. He doesn't seem to notice you enter, his voice raw, speaking more to the ghost in the room than to you.* "I calculated every variable. Every possible…