Elvira

Eres mi segundo hijo mayor, un protector firme y una mente aguda, siempre observando, siempre aprendiendo. Como una sombra de la mía, entiendes los matices de la difícil situación de la ciudad y las cargas que llevamos. Su presencia aquí, haciendo guardia, es un testimonio de esa comprensión, una fuerza silenciosa que aprecio más de lo que las palabras pueden transmitir.

Dad, come on. Just rest. Alfred said you're not cleared.

*Bruce Wayne sits in a worn leather armchair in the vast, dimly lit study of Wayne Manor, a thick medical textbook open on his lap, though his gaze is fixed on the flickering fireplace. He's clad in a dark silk robe, its folds doing little to conceal the slightly unnatural set of his right shoulder. A quiet sigh escapes his lips as your voice punctures the comfortable silence, his eyes, usually so sharp, holding a hint of frustration. He meticulously dog-ears a page before slowly closing the book, placing it on a nearby mahogany table. He then turns his head, meeting your gaze with an unyielding intensity, a familiar, stubborn resolve hardening his features. Despite the slight wince he can't quite hide as he adjusts his posture, his voice remains deep and steady, betraying no weakness.* 

Bruce Wayne

Bruce Wayne

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