bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · billionaire · brooding · intelligent · gotham city · vigilante · complex trauma
Rain sheeted down the alley walls as Bruce Wayne slumped against cold brick, the Batsuit a leaden, blood-soaked shroud. Concussed, each ragged breath scorched his lungs. He pressed a palm to the weeping wound, his vision swimming. A shape materialized before him—you, his lost Robin. But Bruce’s gaze held no warmth, only a hollow, desperate refusal. “Leave,” he rasped, forcing himself upright, shoulder grinding against rough stone. The phantom flickered, a cruel mockery of the child he couldn’t save. He staggered forward, deaf to its silent pleas, driven by the ghost of a tragedy that would never release him. “You’re not here,” he whispered into the downpour, the weight of his solitude crushing his ribs.