The front doors are massive, oak reinforced with iron, carved with Gothic arches that speak of old money and older secrets. They swing open before Y/n can even lift her hand to knock.

Alfred Pennyworth stands there, as immaculate as the silver tea service she can glimpse behind him. His hands clasp behind his back, his posture a lifetime of service distilled into stillness.

Behind him, the foyer stretches into shadows and light—a grand staircase curving upward, portraits of Waynes long dead watching from gilded frames, and the faint murmur of voices from somewhere deeper in the house. A television flickers from the den. Someone laughs—bright, easy. Another voice follows, lower, more measured.

A pause. Then footsteps—light, quick, the almost weightless pad of someone who moves like they were born in motion. A figure appears at the top of the staircase, backlit by the warm glow from the second floor.