Chapter Text
The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.
It wasn’t a downpour, not the kind that came fast and left the gutters screaming, but a persistent, grey drizzle that clung to the skin like sweat. Gotham’s sky stretched low over the skyline - a blanket of thick, bruised clouds hanging like breath just waiting to collapse. The streets glistened under half-dead streetlights, pools of rainwater turning sidewalks into dull mirrors.
It was barely past five a.m., but Bruce was already moving, lungs burning as he pushed himself into the damp wind cutting through the city’s East End.
Jogging wasn’t for fitness anymore - it was a ritual.
It was one of the few routines that kept him tethered, allowing the noise in his head to go quiet. The rest of the world was still sleeping, still pretending that the dark hadn’t seeped into everything.
His hoodie clung to his shoulders, soaked and heavy. Damp hair stuck to his forehead. Each step echoed off the crumbling brick buildings that flanked him, a steady rhythm in the silence.
Except it wasn’t silent.
He felt it - not sound, not something tangible - but a pressure, a tension in the back of his neck that had become familiar over the past few weeks. The kind of thing you feel when someone’s eyes are lingering too long.
When a room that was supposed to be empty isn’t. It was subtle, at first.
Easy to dismiss.
Now it was constant.
He didn’t slow down, but his chest tightened as he turned the corner near the old theater - the one long abandoned, boarded up and papered with posters no one bothered to tear down anymore. The windows were black, reflecting only the thin glow of streetlamps and the sheen of wet pavement. But even then, Bruce’s eyes flicked up.
There.
A flash of movement behind glass. Not obvious. Not bold.
But there .
He stopped, hands on his hips, letting the burn in his legs crawl upward into his spine. Steam curled from his breath. His heartbeat wasn’t from exertion now. It was that sick, dragging pulse that crawled beneath the skin when something wasn’t right.
For a few seconds, he stared at the window. Nothing moved. The city didn’t speak.
He told himself it was nothing. That the last letter had gotten into his head again. That maybe Alfred was right - maybe he was slipping. Getting too careless. Letting paranoia chew at the edges of his judgment. But that didn’t stop the feeling.
The feeling of being followed. Of being watched like a photograph behind glass.
He reached for the small blade strapped to the inside of his waistband - a precaution, one of many. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. But the familiar weight grounded him. Reminded him that even in the stillness, Gotham always watched back.
The rain thickened. It painted his eyelashes, ran down his temples. Across the street, a car passed, tires hissing on wet asphalt. The movement in the window was gone now, if it had ever been there to begin with.
Bruce exhaled.
Turned.
Kept running.
He wouldn’t say anything to Alfred. Not yet.
He didn’t want the lectures, didn’t want another morning of being asked if he’d read the emails from his security team. He didn’t want to talk about the letters - the ones with no fingerprints, no return address, just his name carved into paper like an accusation. He burned the last one in the sink.
But something had changed.
This time, he wasn’t just being watched.
This time, whoever was watching wanted him to know .
By the time Bruce stepped into the manor’s grand foyer, the world outside had collapsed into a pale smear of fog. The rain still hadn’t stopped.
It clung to the windows like breath, trickled in crooked lines down the stained glass that framed the arched doorway. His shoes left dark prints across the tile floor, each step echoing just a second too long in the vast silence of the house.
Wayne Manor was too large for one man.
It had always been too large - a sprawling relic of power and prestige, with cold hallways and rooms that hadn’t been touched in years. Even when he was a boy, it had felt cavernous.
Now, it just felt hollow.
He dropped his soaked hoodie by the front stairwell, its fabric heavy with the city’s filth and rain.
The shirt underneath stuck to his chest, the seams pulling at his shoulders as he peeled it away. It hit the floor with a quiet slap.
He didn’t bother with the lights - the gloom suited him, suited the mood that had rooted deep inside his chest the moment he saw the movement in that window.
Upstairs, the bathroom was already fogging by the time he stepped in, warmth blooming from the marble walls, but it was the kind of heat that didn’t touch bone. Bruce moved on autopilot - shedding the last of his clothing, stepping into the rainfall of the shower like someone stepping onto a ledge.
Water struck his skin in a steady downpour, echoing off his shoulders, slicking down the curve of his neck, his spine.
The jets were scalding, but he didn’t flinch.
Pain was grounding.
Pain reminded him he was still here . That the world, however warped, was still solid beneath his feet.
He tilted his head back, let the stream beat against his closed eyes, against the ridges of his cheekbones. His breath came out in slow, deliberate exhales. The kind taught in therapy sessions he never went back to.
You didn’t see anything, he told himself.
It was nothing. A trick of light. A tired mind.
Paranoia.
He turned slightly and let the water pound into the space between his shoulder blades. There were scars there - some visible, others too deep to trace with fingers. He’d lived in the public eye long enough to know the weight of being watched.
But this didn’t feel like that.
Paparazzi wanted a photo. Fans wanted a moment. This felt… closer .
Personal.
There’d been someone there. He was sure of it. A shadow at the edge of the glass.
A presence. Watching - not carelessly, not from curiosity, but with intention.
And the worst part? They knew he saw them.
Bruce leaned forward, pressing both hands against the cool tile as the water continued to fall around him. His hair hung in dark strands over his face, water tracing the edge of his jaw, slipping past his lips.
He closed his eyes again.
Behind them, flashes of that window returned - the old theater, the broken glass, the hollow sockets of a building long forgotten. And in it, that brief flicker. Not bold. Not reckless. Just calculated . A whisper in motion. The kind of thing you don’t really see, you feel .
He’d felt it before. In alleys. In hotel lobbies. At galas when a stranger’s eyes stayed on him too long. But this was different. This wasn’t someone wanting a selfie. This was someone studying him. And it had been weeks now - the same moments of unease, of glances he couldn’t place. The letters had only made it real.
The first one was vague.
Just his name.
No return address.
No message.
The second had come with a photograph - blurry, black and white, taken from a distance. Him on his balcony. Drinking coffee.
The third was what made Alfred furious.
A note. No threats. Just a single sentence:
“Do you still sleep with the window open?”
Bruce ran both hands down his face and turned under the stream. The water now pooled around his feet, steam clouding the air in thick ribbons. His skin flushed from the heat, the pressure. But none of it melted the weight between his ribs.
Was he imagining it? Losing grip? He hadn’t slept properly in days.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw shapes in the dark corners of the room. Movement in reflections. The edges of something watching, waiting.
And yet, he kept telling Alfred not to worry. Told him it would pass. Told him he could handle it.
But even he knew deep in his guts that those words were hollowed promises. Promises to ease the mind, to calm the ticking bomb. He knew better.
The house was quiet in the way that unnerves rather than soothes.
The kind of silence that lets your mind wander into the wrong places. Beyond the tall windows, Gotham still hadn’t shrugged off the rain - it pressed against the glass in misty veils, the grey light of dawn diffused through thick clouds that seemed determined never to part.
Wayne Manor, nestled on the outskirts of the city, was too large to ever feel warm. Cold stone and shadowed corridors stretched in every direction, and the silence inside was more ghost than peace.
Bruce stepped out of the bathroom, steam rising around him like a second skin.
A towel hung low around his hips, droplets of water tracking down his chest and disappearing into the fabric. His hair was soaked, dark strands plastered to his forehead.
He looked tired, not in the obvious sense - not from lack of sleep, though that was a constant - but worn down in ways people couldn’t see unless they knew him well enough to catch the signs.
Shoulders set too tight. Eyes too still. Movements were too careful, like every step he took was premeditated.
Alfred was already in his room.
It wasn’t unusual - Alfred had been entering rooms before Bruce could speak, had raised him in the spaces between grief and routine - but this morning, the tension hung heavier than usual.
Alfred stood near the fireplace, an untouched cup of coffee in one hand, a small stack of envelopes in the other. He was dressed immaculately, as always: white shirt pressed, charcoal vest buttoned with clinical precision, tie a sharp line under his jaw.
But his face betrayed him - lined with worry, jaw clenched too tight, like he was preparing for another argument he didn’t want to have.
- Morning, - Alfred said, trying for casualness, but the word landed flat between them.
Bruce didn’t answer. He moved toward the dresser, pulling on a black shirt, damp skin making the fabric cling. He didn’t meet Alfred’s eyes.
The older man placed the coffee down on the nightstand and stepped closer, setting the envelopes beside it - the top one already opened, the flap neatly slit with a letter opener.
- I took the liberty, - Alfred said, his voice lower now. - They delivered early again. Second time this week.
Bruce didn’t look at the letter, but his body stilled, a breath caught halfway in his chest.
- You shouldn’t -
- I should , Bruce. - Alfred cut him off gently but firmly, voice hardening around the truth. - Because you won’t.
Bruce finally turned, his expression unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes.
Something between anger and weariness.
He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the shirt clinging to the curves of his shoulder blades. He looked down at the envelope, the cream color so out of place against the dark mahogany furniture, the handwriting too childish - like a child trying to hold onto a crayon, scraping down different letters to learn their deep set of meaning.
- You opened it? - Bruce asked.
Alfred didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he crossed his arms, looking at the envelope like it might explode. - I don’t need to read every word to know it’s the same pattern. Cryptic language. Praise. Obsession. Familiarity that hasn’t been earned.
Bruce’s fingers curled slightly, knuckles pale.
- They’ve been watching, - Alfred continued. - They knew when your morning jog would shift routes. They knew when you stopped taking the car. Whoever this is… they’re not a fan. They’re a threat.
Bruce looked out the rain-streaked window, the city blurred in silver and grey. - There’s no evidence.
- There is . - Alfred’s voice rose - a crack in the calm. - You just don’t want to admit it.
Bruce stood slowly, crossing the room toward the window.
His reflection stared back at him, faint and distorted, like a version of himself he no longer trusted. In the reflection, he could still see Alfred - rigid with tension, jaw tight.
- Do you even believe that this could be a greater threat to you?” Alfred asked quietly. - You’ve been in the public eye ever since you were a child Bruce. Do you believe this could be something bigger or are you already trying to convince yourself it’s nothing?”
Bruce didn’t answer. The rain tapped harder, the sound sharp like fingernails on glass.
- I’ve seen you shaken before, - Alfred continued. - But never like this.
There was silence for a long moment. Bruce turned, slowly, the tension radiating off him like a storm front.
- What are you suggesting? - he asked.
- I’ve already started making calls, - Alfred admitted, and there was something almost apologetic in his tone. - Discreetly. There’s someone available. MMA trained. Keeps things quiet. Someone who can be near without drawing attention.
- A bodyguard? - Bruce asked, a bitter twist to the word.
- A set of eyes, - Alfred corrected. - One that’s not yours. Because whatever this is, Bruce… It's personal. And if you’re already doubting your instincts, then you need help.
Bruce walked back to the bed and sat down again, slower this time. He picked up the envelope, turning it over in his hands like it might offer answers if he stared long enough.
He didn’t open it.
- You know what this looks like, - Bruce muttered. - To the press. To the Board. Security detail screams weakness.
- It screams survival , - Alfred snapped, and then softened again, dragging a hand down his face. - And I don’t care what it looks like. I care if you’re safe. You don’t have to be alone in this. Not this time.
For a second, Bruce looked almost young - not the billionaire who hated every second of this, not the stone-faced public figure, but the boy left in a cavernous house full of ghosts. The one who had to learn to stop flinching in silence.
He exhaled slowly and finally spoke.
- Set the meeting.
Alfred nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.
Outside, Gotham loomed - vast, unforgiving, and unblinking.
But for the first time in weeks, Bruce wasn’t entirely alone in it.
The clang of iron and the echo of fists hitting leather filled the otherwise silent basement gym - a cold, windowless floor deep beneath Apex Private Security’s Metropolis headquarters.
Concrete bled into steel, sweat into skin.
The air was sharp with the sterile bite of disinfectant and the low hum of fluorescent lights, casting the space in a sickly blue-gray glow. It was the kind of place designed to strip distractions, to break focus down to the barest essentials.
No music. No mirrors. Just breath, blood, and the ache of repetition.
Clark Kent stood alone on the mat, shirtless, wrapped hands striking the heavy bag in a rhythm that bordered on obsessive.
Jab. Jab.
Right cross.
Reset. Left hook.
Breathe. Again.
The sweat poured from his brow, muscles tightening with every movement. His chest rose and fell in quiet bursts, steam curling from his skin in the chill.
There was no audience, no one to impress. That was the point. This wasn’t for show - this was a ritual. A way to stay sharp.
Present. Grounded.
Clark’s fighting style was carved from years of brutal training in underground MMA circuits - the kind of places that didn’t sell tickets, just silence. He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. Every punch he threw was calculated, efficient, and restrained.
Even in a world of blunt-force men, he carried precision like a weapon.
He wasn’t here to prove anything. He was here to remember who he was underneath the calm, beneath the easy smile that made people underestimate him. The gym was one of the few places he didn’t have to shrink himself down.
A final round.
He pivoted into a rear-leg kick that made the bag swing wildly on its chain, let it sway, then caught it with a closed fist before stepping back. Breathing deep.
He rubbed his knuckles with a towel and dropped to a crouch near the wall, sipping from a half-empty bottle of water as the fluorescent lights buzzed again overhead.
Then: a static click. The overhead speaker crackled to life.
“Kent. Lane’s office. Now.”
The words were curt, grainy. No need for pleasantries. Sam Lane didn’t have time for manners - or he just didn’t believe in them. Either way, Clark barely blinked. He pulled his hoodie over his damp shoulders, the fabric clinging slightly to his skin, and stood.
The trek from the basement to the executive floor was a stark transition - from worn-out mats and iron bars to bulletproof glass and polished obsidian tile. Apex wasn’t built like a traditional agency. It was more fortress than office, more vault than workspace. The kind of place where discretion was a selling point, and your past could be rewritten in a single secure file.
Clark didn’t look at the security cameras. He knew where they were. He knew who was watching. He just didn’t care. He walked like a man who belonged.
The elevator doors opened to reveal Lane’s private floor - colder than the rest of the building, somehow, like it had been stripped of warmth on purpose.
The lobby was empty. His assistant desk was bare. Only a low-pitched radio hum played from somewhere behind a tinted wall.
Sam Lane stood with his back to the window, arms folded, sleeves rolled up over his forearms like he was still in the military and waiting to brief someone on a field operation. The man never changed - gray buzz cut, hard lines around the mouth, eyes that never softened.
His office was just as stark.
No family photos, no framed awards. Just black furniture, a world map etched in chrome, and a faint ticking from the analog clock mounted above the reinforced door.
- You’re late, - Sam muttered without turning.
- I’m not, - Clark said, voice even.
Lane snorted and turned, pulling a thick folder from his desk. - You will be if you keep arguing.
Clark stepped forward and took the file, flipping it open casually. The name hit him immediately. A weight behind the ink.
Wayne, Bruce.
Clark’s eyes lingered on the name, on the pages underneath - press clippings, security logs, threat evaluations. Patterns of surveillance. Vague emails escalating to graphic handwritten letters. Photos taken from across the street, some at night. A figure in the distance. A watcher. Always a watcher.
- I thought you didn’t do celebrity protection, - Clark said quietly.
- I don’t, - Lane answered. - Not unless the celebrity in question is on the verge of being hunted.
Clark looked up, brows pulling together slightly. - Stalker?
Lane nodded once. - Possibly worse. Whoever this is, they’re clever. No digital traces. No predictable cycle. Just moments. Appearances. The client - Wayne - claims he’s being followed, watched. Said he saw someone this morning during his usual run. No footage. No face. But it’s not the first time.
Clark set the folder down.
- I don’t think he’s being paranoid, - Lane added. - And I don’t think this is about a ransom or tabloid grab. This feels… personal. Deep-rooted. Like someone’s building something.
Clark stared at the man across from him, studying the way his jaw tightened when he said it. Lane didn’t rattle easily. But he looked on edge now.
- What do you need from me?
Lane leaned forward, elbows on the desk. - A shadow. Quiet. Smart. Someone who can read a room, slip through doors, and disarm threats without drawing heat. Wayne doesn’t want a team. Doesn’t want the headlines. But he finally agreed to one man. Discreet. Skilled.
- And expendable, - Clark muttered.
Lane didn’t disagree.
Clark exhaled slowly, letting his fingers drum once against the file. Bruce Wayne. Public face of Gotham’s elite. Rich. Brooding. The kind of man tabloids tore apart weekly but no one actually knew . He wasn’t Clark’s kind of client. He wasn’t anyone’s, really.
And yet…
There was something behind those still frames - those rare, unsmiling portraits. A stillness. A tension. A quiet kind of exhaustion Clark recognized. Men like Wayne didn’t ask for help until they were two inches from drowning. Until it wasn’t about fear anymore, but survival.
Clark reached for the file again.
- When do I meet him?
Lane smirked slightly. - Soon. First, we get you inside the house.
Clark raised a brow. - You want me living there?
- His call, not mine. He wants you close. But invisible.
Clark didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just studied the files in his hand, like he was waiting for a sign, for something to reach out and tell him this was the right thing to do. He didn’t do this stuff, not anymore.
Then: Fine.
Lane’s eyes narrowed slightly. - Are you sure about this?
Clark met his gaze, unblinking. - Do I have a choice?
Lane smirked again. Like the man and Clark himself already knew the answer to that.
Rain streaked the windows in silver veins, blurring the edges of Gotham like a painting left out in the storm. The city passed by in a gray smear - sharp rooftops, waterlogged alleys, silhouettes pressed to neon-lit glass. Every street felt like it had a story no one wanted to tell.
Clark sat in the backseat of the black, unmarked SUV, arms folded across his chest, the seatbelt a loose afterthought. His black shirt tightly clinging to his frame, the faint scent of steel and chalk clinging to him like a second skin. Outside, Gotham loomed -not upward, like Metropolis did, but inward. As if it were curling into itself.
Protective. Suspicious. Broken.
Sam Lane sat beside him, rifling through a tablet, eyes flicking across intel with practiced speed. The car was quiet, save for the whisper of windshield wipers and the occasional murmur of the driver checking the route. The world felt closed in. Dim.
- Wayne’s an odd one, - Lane said finally, without looking up.
Clark glanced sideways but said nothing. He waited.
- Heir to the Wayne fortune. The Tower. The legacy. Parents murdered when he was eight - robbery gone wrong, but half the city still has conspiracy theories pinned to their walls about it. Grew up under the care of the family butler, of all people. Reclusive even as a teenager. Went off the grid for years - travel, training, no one really knows. Showed back up with a polished face and a dead stare, ready to take over his family’s empire. And he did. Publicly, at least.
Clark’s gaze followed the buildings outside. Their windows were lit in flickering patches, dimly glowing behind bars or security grates. Everything felt drenched in shadow.
- And privately? - Clark asked.
Lane exhaled, leaned back in the seat. - He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t mingle. Rarely does press, unless it’s prearranged down to the syllable. Keeps his circle microscopic. Few business partners. No visible security detail until now. No partner. No scandals. Just a long string of evasions, contradictions, and silence.
Clark let the words hang there for a moment, then said softly, - I’ve heard about him before.
Lane raised an eyebrow. - Tabloid stuff?
- Some of it, - Clark replied. - But mostly from others in the field. Some security clients. High-end executives who couldn’t get a word out of him. They said he’s either broken or built like stone. Nothing in between.
Lane nodded slightly, as if he’d heard the same.
- He watches people, - he added. - Even in public. Not in a rude way. Just - studies them. Like he’s looking for something underneath the surface and never quite finds it.
Clark hummed. - Or maybe he already knows and just doesn’t like what he sees.
They didn’t speak for a while after that.
Gotham turned more industrial as they moved further west - warehouses, floodgates, rusted train bridges hanging over streets like skeletal remains. The city seemed to get darker the closer they got to the manor, as if light itself was wary of crossing that boundary.
Finally, the SUV turned down a long, winding road flanked by skeletal trees, the stone of the road slick with rain and age. Fog crept low along the ground, hugging the roots, curling around the iron gates ahead. The gates groaned open on command, revealing a long drive carved through a weeping forest. Beyond it: Wayne Manor.
It rose from the hill like a monument to loss.
Gray stone, arched windows, ivy that had long since claimed sections of the wall. Lights glowed faintly behind shuttered glass, golden in patches, like the house itself was still half-asleep. Rain clung to the roof in sheets, water rolling down gargoyles that looked more like watchmen than decoration.
At the foot of the stone steps stood an older man - straight-backed, suited, with gloved hands and a quiet air of dignity. He didn’t carry an umbrella, though the rain hit him freely, soaking into the wool of his coat. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
- That’s Alfred Pennyworth, - Lane murmured. - House manager. Legal guardian. Some would say father figure. He’s the one who called me.
The car slowed to a stop.
Clark glanced up at the towering house once more, then back at Alfred.
- And him? - he asked.
Lane gave the ghost of a smirk. - The only person Bruce ever listens to.
The driver cut the engine.
And the rain kept falling.