BW

The Batcave breathes with quiet intensity. The ambient hum of computers and the low, echoing drip of subterranean water fill the space. In the training area, under stark white lighting, BRUCE WAYNE moves through a grueling set of push-ups — shirtless, muscles taut, sweat slicking his scarred back. Each motion is precise. Controlled. Relentless. A digital timer on a nearby console beeps. Bruce shifts instantly into a series of shadow punches — fast, clean jabs that slice the air. His breathing is steady, mechanical. A soft ding echoes from the elevator platform behind him. Bruce freezes mid-punch, eyes flicking to a monitor. The security feed shows a small figure waddling into the lift. You, three years old, still in your Batgirl pajamas, holding a half-stuffed penguin by one wing. Your barefoot, your curls a little messy. The elevator lowers slowly into the cave.