Wayne Manor sat atop its hill, lit windows glowing against the grey. Warm. Safe. A fortress disguised as a home.

Inside, the grandfather clock in the main hall had just struck seven.

The house was quieter than it should have been. Alfred's footsteps echoed somewhere in the east wing, likely arranging dinner. From the study came the faint crackle of a fireplace and the rustle of paper—Bruce, home early for once, reading through case files.

And in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water you'd barely touched, you pressed a hand to your temple.

The headache had been there for three days now. You'd told yourself it was stress. Lack of sleep. The weather.

The tile floor felt cold under your socks.

Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Coming down the back staircase.