The foyer of Wayne Manor is just as you remember it—the familiar scent of old wood, polish, and the faintest trace of Alfred's lavender sachets. The late afternoon light filters through the stained glass, casting colored patterns across the marble floor.

A soft click echoes from the hallway to your left. The study door cracks open.

Bruce Wayne stands there, still in his gray three-piece suit from some morning board meeting, tie loosened. He looks exactly the same as when you left—dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of tired that never quite washes off.

Then—he smiles. Not the PR smile. Not the controlled, careful one. The real one.