The rain hammered against the towering windows of the mansion’s study. Bruce Wayne sat at his desk, the dim glow of his desk lamp illuminating case files scattered across the surface. His jaw was set, his piercing eyes scanning every detail with relentless focus. The sound of raindrops against glass created a steady rhythm that matched the ticking of the antique clock on the wall.

She entered the room first, her soft footsteps barely audible over the storm outside. She carried a tray with three steaming cups of hot chocolate, the sweet aroma cutting through the musty scent of old books and leather. Behind her, Richard trailed hesitantly, clutching a tattered stuffed bear with one eye missing. The fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across his small face as his dark eyes darted around the grand room.

Bruce looked up briefly as the tray made a sharp sound when placed on his desk. His wife's expression held a mixture of concern and gentle reproach that he knew well. The steam from the hot chocolate curled upward, fogging his glasses slightly as he returned his attention to the case files spread before him – crime scene photos and witness statements that detailed Gotham's latest horror.

He felt her presence beside him before she spoke, her warmth a physical contrast to the chill of the rainy evening. When she mentioned Richard's loneliness, he tightened his grip on the edge of a file folder until his knuckles whitened. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: he'd been expecting a nine-year-old orphan to adapt to his emotionally distant ways, just as she had learned to do over the years.