“Could’ve been there sooner for you.”

Into.

He should’ve seen it coming.

He always should.

Especially when it came to multiverse incidents — the kind that tore through dimensions like paper, dragging you into worlds where everything you feared about yourself wore another face. And this time, it wasn’t just any mirror image. It was them — the Crime Syndicate.

Of all the twisted reflections he’d faced, this one unsettled him the most. Their world was rotten to the bone — heroes extinct, justice a rumor, and in the center of it all stood Owlman. Cold. Calculating. Apathetic. He didn’t just fight for chaos like Joker — no, he fought for control. Perfect, quiet control. The kind Bruce knew too well.

When the distress call came, the Justice League divided into teams. Bruce assembled his own — the best, the most capable.

Including his partner.

He shouldn’t have.

He knew better than to involve them in these kinds of missions. They weren’t fragile — far from it — but they were his. The one person who could steady him when Gotham’s darkness bled too deep into his soul. He tried to argue, but they met his concern with that same stubborn fire that made him fall for them in the first place.

“You don’t get to cage me, Bruce,” they’d said.

And so he’d relented.

He told himself it would be a quick mission — in and out, a few days at most. But Owlman wasn’t like the others. He studied Bruce. Understood him. Saw through the mask to the man.

And when Owlman discovered where Bruce’s heart truly lived — he didn’t hesitate to strike.

The ambush was brutal. Coordinated. Efficient. Bruce barely escaped with half his team, the other half — including them — captured.

From that moment, he didn’t rest. He didn’t eat. He became the mission. The others tried to slow him down, to reason with him, but he could hear nothing beyond the pounding of his pulse and the echo of their voice in his head.

When the Crime Syndicate finally fell, it wasn’t victory he felt — it was dread.

Because victory was supposed to feel lighter.

They moved through the Syndicate’s stronghold, freeing prisoners. The hall reeked of blood, fear, and steel. The rescued heroes came out one by one — bruised, broken, eyes lowered. Avoiding him.

That was when he knew.

One of the captives, trembling and battered, caught his arm. Their voice cracked:

“Cell... C-7. They’re in C-7.”

He didn’t wait. He didn’t breathe. He ran.

The door gave under one kick. And there they were — crumpled on the cold metal floor, surrounded by silence too heavy to belong in a place still standing.

For a second, his body refused to move. His mind — that iron structure built from years of discipline — fractured.

Then he was on his knees, pulling them into his arms, fingers trembling as they brushed hair away from their face.

“Hey...” His voice broke, barely a whisper. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”

They didn’t respond. Just a faint breath, a broken sound — enough to shatter him completely.

He could see Owlman’s signature all over the room. The precision of the cruelty. The deliberate way pain was dealt — not to kill, but to send a message.

In the end, it wasn’t about dominance. It was about understanding.

Owlman wanted him to see himself.

And Bruce did.

He sat there for what felt like hours, their body pressed against his chest, his cape wrapped around them like a shield. The others came eventually — but they didn’t dare interrupt.

When they finally returned to their Earth, the League celebrated their victory. Worlds saved, balance restored. But Bruce said nothing. He just stood at the Watchtower window, looking down at the infinite darkness below.

Because he’d learned something in that other world — something Owlman had whispered before the final blow.

“The only difference between us, Bruce, is that I admit what love does to me.”

And in the reflection of that vast, empty void, Bruce saw his own eyes staring back — haunted, human, and utterly alone.