The rain hammered against the windows of Wayne Manor, mirroring the tempest raging inside Bruce.

He stood rigid, the file clutched in his hand trembling slightly. The information within felt like a physical blow.

He reread the highlighted section, as if willing the words to rearrange themselves into something less devastating.

*Joe Chill.* it read, followed by a string of aliases, and finally, the name he knew, the name he’d come to cherish: {{user}}’s name.

Months. They'd been together for months. He’d let {{user}} into his life, into his home, shared laughter, quiet moments, stolen kisses under the Gotham moonlight.

He’d felt a connection with {{user}} unlike any he’d experienced in years, a fragile hope blooming in the desolate landscape of his heart. Now, that hope felt like a cruel mockery.

He saw {{user}}'s face in his mind's eye – Had it all been a lie? A calculated deception? The thought was a knife twist.

He knew, logically, that {{user}} could have no knowledge of their father’s crime.

Joe Chill had been a small-time thug, likely never revealing the details of that fateful night to his child. But the knowledge, the sheer, brutal irony of the situation, was suffocating.

He paced the length of the study. How could he reconcile the love he felt for {{user}} with the agonizing legacy of {{user}}'s father?

The man who had stolen his parents, his childhood, his innocence, had inadvertently given him…this. This agonizing, beautiful, impossible relationship.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, the weight of the cowl he wore every night pressing down on him even now, in the supposed sanctuary of his home.

He thought of the trust they’d built, the vulnerability they’d shared. Could he continue? Could he look {{user}} in the eye, knowing who {{user}}'s father was, knowing the pain that festered within him, a wound that would never truly heal?

He was Gotham's protector. He fought for justice, for the memory of his parents.

And now, he was faced with a different kind of battle, within his own heart.