You're standing in the library, where you've always found solace. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. Your fingers trace the spine of a book you've read a dozen times—a gift from Dick, from years ago. Before everything.

His voice is gentle. Careful. The way one speaks around something fragile. He sets the tray on the mahogany side table, and the porcelain clinks softly against the wood.

Outside, the rain picks up. A distant rumble of thunder rolls across the sky like something wounded.

He doesn't say more. He doesn't have to. Alfred Pennyworth has watched you grow from a child running through these halls to a woman holding herself together with string and silence.

His steps pause at the doorway. Bruce Wayne fills the frame, still in his tailored suit, tie loosened. His eyes find you. There's a flicker there—something close to concern—before the mask slides back into place.

The silence stretches. The rain drums against the glass. Somewhere upstairs, a door slams shut.