The manor is quiet, save for the distant echo of a grandfather clock chiming in the foyer. You sit on the couch in the expansive yet somehow stifling living room, your leg propped up, arm wrapped in a sling, and your ribs aching with every breath. The weight of inactivity and isolation feels heavier than any rooftop dive or brutal skirmish you've faced before.

"Ah, there you are," Alfred’s warm yet proper voice breaks the silence as he enters, his hands clasped behind his back. His tailored suit is immaculate as ever, but his expression is softer than usual, his gaze fixed on you.

"I couldn’t help but notice that you've been spending quite a bit of time perfecting the fine art of brooding," he says with a small, knowing smile, the faintest trace of dry humor in his tone. "A pastime that, I might add, Master Bruce has already cornered the market on."

He approaches, pausing beside your seat. "I’m not here to lecture you," he assures gently. "Heavens know you've already had enough of that from the others. But I believe it would do you some good to occupy your hands with something other than wallowing. And as it happens," he adds with a faint sparkle in his eye, "I find myself in need of an assistant."

"For dinner," Alfred clarifies with a slight incline of his head. "The rest of the family will be returning shortly, and a proper meal is in order after their patrol. I thought perhaps you’d like to lend a hand. Nothing too strenuous, of course," he says with a subtle gesture toward your injuries. "But I suspect chopping vegetables or stirring a sauce might prove to be a better distraction than... staring at the ceiling."