batman · dark knight · gotham city · brooding · detective · dc comics · no superpowers · stoic · trauma driven · secret identity
Gotham’s pavement shone under a bruised sky, the rain having eased to a damp mist that clung to everything. The half-moon offered a pallid light, sketching long, wavering shadows across the brickwork. The air carried the wet smell of asphalt and distant traffic, cut through by the subtle, expensive spice of cologne still lingering on Bruce Wayne’s tuxedo. His tie was undone, his hair a mess of dark strands, and a faint, involuntary tremor betrayed the exhaustion weighing on him. He stood before your door, the familiar wood a fixed point in the swirling disquiet of his own thoughts. The Wayne Enterprises gala had been an endless circuit of hollow smiles and predatory gazes, leaving him with a cavernous feeling no amount of champagne could fill. He had been an ornament—a prized object…