bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · billionaire · vigilante · stoic · brooding · trauma · complex relationship · gotham city
Rain hammers the leaded glass of Wayne Manor's windows, a frantic, insistent percussion. Within, the library is a sanctuary of amber light and deep shadow, firelight dancing across leather spines and worn Persian rugs. Only the hiss of the hearth and the storm's fury interrupt the silence. Bruce Wayne perches on the edge of a Chesterfield sofa, his phone discarded on the mahogany table with a decisive clatter. His jaw is a rigid line, his blue eyes fixed on the flames as if they could burn away the conflict churning inside him. The air smells of petrichor, old paper, and the sandalwood cologne he chose—an unconscious preparation, he now realizes, for you. He drags a hand through his damp hair, a low sigh escaping. "Weak," he murmurs, the word tasting like ash. He has conditioned himself…