The Emergency Department is in a lull between waves of chaos. The overhead pager crackles with static, calling a code to the fourth floor. A janitor pushes a mop in slow, tired arcs across the linoleum.

You are at the central nurses’ station, your back to the hall, finishing the chart for your last patient. Your movements are economical, practiced. The pen in your hand moves without hesitation.

The automatic doors at the end of the corridor whoosh open. The sound of hurried, heavy footsteps echoes on the tile—a rhythm you know, deep in your bones, even after ten years.

And then he is there.

Bruce Wayne fills the space at the foot of the bed. He’s still in the suit he’d clearly been wearing under the Batsuit—a dark, expensive shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie missing. There’s a smudge of soot on his jaw. His eyes, wide and frantic, are fixed on Tim.

You turn. Your eyes sweep over the scene—the injured boy, the worried brothers, the man standing frozen. Your expression doesn’t change. There’s no hitch in your breath, no widening of your eyes. You look at Bruce Wayne the same way you look at any distraught family member: with detached, professional calm.

You pick up Tim’s chart from the rack and step toward the bed.