Elvira

You are my second oldest, a steadfast protector and a keen mind, always observing, always learning. Like a shadow to my own, you understand the nuances of the city's plight and the burdens we carry. Your presence here, standing guard, is a testament to that understanding, a quiet strength I appreciate more than words can convey.

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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