It's Kingsley, bijj

-

The bass rattled the walls of Harvey Dent's parents’ house. It was one of those big suburban homes that always looked too perfect during the day, but tonight the curtains were drawn and the place smelled like beer, perfume, and cheap smoke.

Clark Kent wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d told Ma and Pa he was sleeping over at Pete Ross' because of the project they're working on. Technically true—Pete was somewhere in the kitchen doing keg stands. Clark just… neglected to mention the party part.

Bruce Wayne wasn’t supposed to be here either, but for entirely different reasons. He didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t like people much, either. But Wayne’s name carried weight even in high school, and when someone dared him, Bruce never backed down. That was his problem. He was a people pleaser.

The two of them ended up sitting near each other in the living room when the circle formed. Cushions and beanbags, a couple kids cross-legged on the carpet. Plastic cups clinked together, and someone shouted over the music:

“Alright! Game time. Gay Chicken!”

Clark tilted his head, brows furrowing. “What’s… Gay Chicken?”

The kid explaining—Dent, of course it was Dent—grinned wickedly. “Two straight guys act gay until one chickens out. First to pull away loses.”

Laughter rippled through the circle. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else muttered “this is gonna be good.

“Easy. Kent and Wayne.” Dent pointed at them both like a referee calling players to the field.

Clark blinked. “Wait, me?”

“Yeah, farmboy. You’re so clean-cut it hurts. You’ll bail first.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his jaw setting with that competitive stubbornness he always carried. His reputation didn’t let him refuse. “Fine.”

The circle whooped. Space was cleared in the middle. The rules were simple: no leaving, no excuses, no chickening out.

Clark sat down across from Bruce. His cheeks were a little pink, but not from embarrassment. He could already feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on them.

“Okay, just… start small,” Dent said, grinning. “Hand holding. Let’s go.”

Clark reached out his hand. Bruce didn’t hesitate—he gripped it firmly, maybe a little too firmly. The circle hollered.

“Closer!”

Bruce leaned in. Clark followed. Their knees brushed.

“Eye contact!”

Clark’s blue eyes locked with Bruce’s sharp, calculating stare. For a moment, neither of them blinked.

The crowd jeered louder. “Man, you guys are too good at this!”

The air grew thick. Clark could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Everyone else faded, just laughter and chanting in the background.

Clark gave the smallest smile. Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move.

And then—

“Next round: almost kiss!” Harvey barked, practically bouncing off the couch.

The circle roared. Someone chanted, “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Cups sloshed, phones tilted to record, and the whole party leaned in like it was the championship game.

Clark’s cheeks went red. Heat climbed up the back of his neck. He wasn’t embarrassed about the idea of kissing another guy—not really. It was the *audience.* The way the whole school was holding its breath for him to panic, to laugh nervously, to chicken out.

Bruce didn’t laugh. He didn’t panic. He just leaned in.

His expression didn’t shift; no smirk, no twitch, no blink. Calm. Unshakable. Like this was just Tuesday for him. His gray eyes locked on Clark’s, steady and unreadable, and the crowd’s noise blurred into a muffled hum.

Clark swallowed. His hand was still caught in Bruce’s—firm grip, unrelenting. Bruce’s face was so close now he could feel the ghost of his breath.

The crowd screamed louder.

“Holy crap, they’re actually gonna—”

“Wayne’s insane, man!”

“Clark’s blushing! Look at him!”

Clark tried to breathe evenly, but the air caught in his chest. He wasn’t about to pull away, though. No way was he going to be the one to lose. He set his jaw, leaned just enough to match Bruce’s pace.

Their noses nearly brushed. The chanting hit a fever pitch.

And Bruce looked like he was staring down an algebra problem. Completely calm. Completely serious.

“Damn, he’s not even sweating,” someone whispered.

Harvey threw up his hands. “He’s a freak! A freak of nature!”

That broke the circle—half of them cackling, half shrieking, phones flashing as Clark froze between wanting to laugh and wanting to crawl into the floor.

Bruce finally pulled back—not fast, not dramatic, just slow and measured. Like he’d proved a point. His hand slipped from Clark’s, and he straightened his shirt like nothing happened.

“Done,” he said simply.

Clark’s ears were still burning. “That’s… that’s it?”

Bruce gave him a flat look. “You didn’t chicken out. Neither did I. Game over.”

The crowd groaned and booed. Dent was losing his mind. “You’re not supposed to be good at Gay Chicken! You’re supposed to break, Wayne!”

Bruce just raised an eyebrow. “Then you shouldn’t have dared me.”

The room erupted.

The circle was still buzzing when Dent clapped his hands together like a coach. “Alright, new rule! Kent and Wayne have to keep it up. Whole party. Let’s see how long the ice kings can last.”

The crowd howled with approval. Phones went up again, and suddenly Bruce and Clark were the main event of the night.

Clark burst out laughing, shaking his head. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?!” Someone shouted over the music. “This is history in the making!”

Bruce’s jaw ticked. His instinct screamed at him to shut it down, to growl “no” and vanish into the shadows like he always did. But then… that would mean bowing out. Chickening out. Losing.

He refused to lose.

“Fine,” Bruce muttered, voice low and tight.

Clark glanced sideways at him, still laughing. “Fine? Seriously?”

Bruce’s gray eyes burned with stubbornness. “I don’t lose games.”

And so it began.

For the rest of the party, Bruce hovered just close enough to Clark to count. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen while Clark grabbed sodas. Sitting at his side on the back porch while kids passed around a guitar. At one point, someone yelled “arm over the shoulder!” and Clark, grinning, obliged. Bruce endured it like a soldier under fire—expression blank, but muttering curses in his head every second.

Clark noticed. Of course he noticed. The way Bruce’s grip never faltered, the way he leaned in whenever someone called them out. But what Clark also noticed was that Bruce never once said stop.

By Monday, the party was just a memory for most. But not for Dent. Oh no—Dent wasn’t letting this go.

At lunch, he slammed his tray down at their table. “Game’s still on, boys.”

Bruce nearly crushed his apple in his fist. Clark chuckled, shoulders shaking. “Dent!, come on—”

“Nope!” Dent grinned wickedly. “Until one of you admits defeat, it continues. Gay Chicken: Wayne vs. Kent. The eternal battle!”

The cafeteria erupted with laughter.

And so it stretched into days.

Clark didn’t mind. He was naturally affectionate, naturally unbothered, and—if he was being honest with himself—he kind of liked it. He liked brushing shoulders in the hall, leaning close to whisper a joke in Bruce’s ear, catching the way the normally unflappable Wayne clenched his jaw tighter every time.

Bruce, on the other hand, was furious. Not outwardly—outwardly, he was calm as ever, because to show irritation would mean Harvey had won. But inside? Every time Clark laughed like this was fun, every time another student teased them, Bruce wanted to snap.

He told himself Clark must be just as competitive. That was the only reason he hadn’t pulled away yet.

He told himself that as the weeks stretched on.

He told himself that as Dent crowned them “undefeated champions” in the middle of gym class.

He told himself that as Clark leaned in, grinning, during chemistry lab and whispered, “Still not chickening out?”

Bruce’s face remained stone. His insides, however, were screaming.

It started small.

Bruce found himself seeking Clark out in the halls. At first, he justified it—if Clark wasn’t around, people would assume he’d chickened out. Simple. Logical. So he started showing up near Clark’s locker before class, trailing him during study hall, sliding into the seat next to him at lunch.

Clark blinked at him once, grinning. “Since when do you sit here?”

Bruce’s answer was clipped, deadpan. “Since now.”

Clark shrugged, amused, and kept talking with his friends. But when Bruce leaned his shoulder just slightly against Clark’s, the table exploded with laughter.

And so it became routine.

If Clark stretched his arm along the back of the bench, Bruce leaned into it without hesitation. If Clark brushed their hands together, Bruce gripped it like a lifeline. If Clark laughed and nudged his knee, Bruce pressed back. Always reciprocating. Always holding ground.

Clark didn’t mind. Honestly, it was… nice. He liked Bruce’s quiet presence, his stubborn weight at his side. It felt natural, even if Bruce’s face was carved from stone.

But Bruce… Bruce was unraveling.

Every time Clark smiled at him, something sparked in his chest. Every time Clark leaned close, warmth crawled up the back of his neck. And every time he caught himself enjoying it, he clenched his jaw harder.

It’s the game, he told himself. He’s just trying to win. Don’t lose.

But then came that night.

Bruce sat at his desk, chemistry homework spread in front of him. The formulas blurred into nonsense. His pencil tapped restlessly. His mind drifted back—Clark’s laugh echoing in his ear, the warmth of Clark’s hand gripping his under the cafeteria table, the way his eyes softened whenever they locked.

Without thinking, Bruce opened his laptop. Logged onto the school forum. Pulled up Clark’s profile.

The picture was simple—Clark was on the farm, a bird perched on his shoulders. Bruce stared longer than he should have.

He clicked through. Debate team photo. Yearbook candid. A blurry shot from the football game, Clark waving at someone in the crowd.

His chest tightened. He didn’t feel like he was “studying his opponent.” He didn’t feel like this was about Harvey’s stupid game anymore.

Bruce rubbed his face with both hands, muttering curses into the dark.

Am I…?

The thought clung to him like smoke. The one thing he refused to put into words.

Am I actually gay?

The pencil rolled off the desk. The chemistry homework lay untouched. And Bruce Wayne, master of control, sat in the silence of his room feeling completely, utterly unsure of himself for the first time.

Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. Days of tension knotted his shoulders, weeks of pretending everything was normal when it wasn’t. Every accidental brush of Clark’s hand, every shared laugh, every lingering look—it wasn’t just a game anymore. It couldn’t be.

By fourth period, he felt like his chest was going to crack open.

So when he saw Clark heading into the boys’ lavatory between classes, Bruce followed.

The door swung shut behind them, muffling the noise of the hallway. Clark was at the sink, washing his hands, when he caught Bruce’s reflection in the mirror.

“Hey,” Clark said with a grin. “You’re late for history.”

Bruce’s fists tightened at his sides. His voice came out harsher than he intended. “I’m not playing anymore.”

Clark blinked. “Huh?”

“The game.” Bruce’s eyes were sharp, his jaw locked. “I’m done.”

Clark tilted his head. “...What game?”

Bruce stared at him, silent for a beat too long. “Gay Chicken.”

There was a pause. Then Clark started laughing. Not mocking—just stunned, warm laughter bubbling out of him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Bruce,” Clark said, still chuckling, “that game ended a day after the party.”

Bruce froze. His stomach dropped like a stone.

“What?”

Clark turned, drying his hands, his expression soft. “Yeah. Harvey got bored. Everyone else moved on. I thought you knew.”

Bruce’s mouth went dry. His mind reeled, flashing through every stubborn lean, every handhold, every moment he’d thought was Clark refusing to back down.

“You mean…” His voice cracked against his will. “You weren’t still playing?”

Clark’s smile faltered, shifting into confusion. “No. I thought…” His eyes searched Bruce’s face. “I thought you just liked me.”

The words hit Bruce like a punch. His carefully controlled expression shattered, replaced with raw, startled panic.

“I—” Bruce’s throat closed. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides. “I thought you were—”

They stared at each other in the echoing quiet of the tiled room. Clark, wide-eyed but calm. Bruce, mortified, feeling the ground slip out from under him.

For once, he had no strategy. No comeback. Just the realization that he’d been fighting a war no one else was playing—except maybe himself.

Bruce’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. The silence between them stretched, suffocating, and Clark’s words kept echoing.

I thought you just liked me.

Bruce’s face burned so hot he thought it might combust. His breath came sharp, uneven, and every cell in his body screamed at him to retreat.

He snapped.

“Don’t—don’t talk to me anymore, Kent!” Bruce blurted, his voice cracking like he hadn’t heard it do since middle school. He jabbed a finger toward Clark’s chest, even as his eyes betrayed him by avoiding Clark’s gaze. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you so much! Goodbye forever!” Bruce barked, cutting him off. His ears rang with mortification, the words tumbling out faster than he could stop them.

Then, before Clark could get another word in, Bruce spun on his heel and bolted out of the lavatory.

The hallway swallowed him, his shame practically flaring behind him like a stormcloud. He didn’t stop until he was outside, gulping down air, salt-stung by the burn of embarrassment.

Inside the bathroom, Clark stood blinking at the empty doorway, lips pressed together to stifle the laugh bubbling in his chest.

“Goodbye forever, huh?” he murmured to himself, shaking his head with a small, bewildered smile.

Because even if Bruce didn’t know it yet—Clark was certain this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The pages of the leather-bound diary were nearly full, the faint scratch of pen the only sound in the quiet study. Bruce sat hunched at the desk, the lamplight catching silver strands at his temples. His handwriting was sharp, deliberate, but the words that sprawled across the page felt almost too ridiculous to belong to him.

“Don’t talk to me anymore, Kent! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you so much! Goodbye forever!”*

I was seventeen. It wasn’t my finest hour. In fact, it was probably the most humiliating thing I’ve ever said out loud. I thought I’d ‘chickened out’ of a stupid game. I thought Clark was still playing. Turns out, the game had ended days before, and I was the only one still fighting ghosts in my head.

Now, I'm thirty-seven, and married to the same idiot who let me believe that. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really stopped playing. Maybe neither of us did.

Bruce set the pen down, his lips twitching against his will.

Behind him, a warm chuckle rumbled low. “Are you seriously writing that down?”

Bruce didn’t turn. “It’s called documentation. For posterity.”

Clark leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, amusement softening the lines of his face. “Posterity, huh? So when Dick finds it one day, he’ll know his dads’ great romance began with a game of gay chicken at a house party?”

Bruce shot him a withering look over his shoulder, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, curving upward. “I’m burning this before that happens.”

Clark crossed the room, leaning down to press a kiss to Bruce’s temple. “You won’t. You’ll keep it. Because deep down, you love remembering how you ‘hated me forever.’”

Bruce closed the diary with a snap, sliding it into the drawer, though his faint smirk lingered.

That night — that stupid, reckless night — had changed everything. Not with fireworks, not with a confession, but with a game that refused to end.

And maybe, Bruce thought as Clark’s hand brushed his, it never really had.

-

The Watchtower’s meeting room buzzed with unusual noise. Not from the usual mission reports or debates—but gossip.

“I’m telling you,” Guy Gardner leaned back in his chair, boots crossed on the table. “The guy’s a vampire. All the signs are there. Pale skin, nocturnal, creepy castle back home, broods like it’s his second job—”

Plastic Man stretched across the table, fans made of folded printer paper dangling from his mouth. “Blah! I vant to never pay taxes!” He threw a makeshift cape over his shoulder, swooping around the table. “Fear me, I’m the Count of Gotham!”

Flash snorted into his drink. “Ten bucks says he sleeps in a coffin. You know, part of his whole mood lighting setup.”

Diana massaged her temples. “Are you finished?”

“Not even close,” Gardner said with a grin. “Next thing you know, we’ll find out he can turn into a bat cloud and—”

“Enough.” Bruce’s gravelly voice cut through the chatter. He didn’t look up from the datapad in front of him, but the weight of his tone snapped Gardner’s mouth shut.

Clark tried to smooth the tension with a half-smile. “He’s not a vampire. He just… doesn’t get much sun.”

“Thank you,” Bruce muttered.

But then J’onn, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “Except…”

The room hushed. Even Plastic Man paused mid-dramatic swoop.

J’onn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “There is… something else. I have read fragments in his mind before. Layers of shadow, yes, but beneath them… remnants of souls. Magic. And one familiar face.”

Bruce’s jaw tensed. “Stop reading my head, Martian.”

“Who?” Diana asked carefully.

J’onn’s gaze swept the table, then landed on Bruce. “Goes by the name John Constantine.”

The silence was deafening.

Clark’s brow furrowed. “Bruce? You know Constantine?”

“Unfortunately,” Bruce said curtly.

Gardner let out a bark of laughter. “Wait—you hate magic. And trench coats. How the hell did that happen?”

Plastic Man grinned wide. “Oh, this I gotta hear. Spill it, Batsy.”

Bruce’s glare promised death, but the rumor had already sunk its claws in. And now there was no escaping it.

~

The bar smelled of wet wood, salt, and cheap whiskey. Bruce sat in the farthest booth, glass untouched, eyes on nothing. He looked like a man trying to disappear into the dark.

Then the the man arrived.

“Hell of a face you’ve got,” came the drawl. Smoke preceded him before Bruce even registered the man himself. Blonde hair, tired eyes, tie dangling loose. He dropped into the opposite seat without asking. “Seen it before. Blokes who’ve already buried themselves, just waitin’ for the body to catch up.”

Bruce didn’t move. “Seat’s taken.”

“Not anymore. The name's John Constantine.” the stranger said cheerfully, flicking ash into Bruce’s water glass.

They sat in silence for a moment. Bruce’s silence was deliberate. The other man’s was restless, broken by muttering under his breath.

“Perfect candidate. Look at him. Tall, broody, probably hasn’t laughed since nappies. Yeah, yeah, I know—dodgy idea. But if it sticks? Well, could be funny.”

Bruce frowned. No comm. No earpiece. He was arguing with himself.

“Crazy,” Bruce muttered.

The stranger grinned, smoke curling around sharp teeth. “You don’t know the half of it. John Constantine. Exorcist, demonologist, pain in the arse. At your service.”

Bruce didn’t shake his hand. "You already said your name... For the love of Merlin."

Constantine blurs out, filling the silence with half-truths and cigarette smoke. “I know a Merlin. He talks like this..”

Then came the words—slurred, mumbled, as if tossed carelessly into the air.

“Old Brittonic rubbish, this. Soaks up the souls ‘round ye, keeps you stickin’ on this side of the dirt. Doubt it works. Consider it a party trick.”

He waved his hand like he was flicking smoke into the air. No circle. No ritual. Just nonsense and a sprinkle of salt.

And out of randomness, he kissed the man on his cheek... Which Bruce found absolutely pervy. Might get a beard rash anytime soon.

Bruce stood. He didn’t say goodbye. He left Constantine muttering to himself, trench coat soaked in salt, suit reeking of smoke.

One could only hope it was just a nightmare.

~

Bruce told himself it was just another business trip. The yacht gleamed under city lights, sleek and arrogant against the dark sea. Men and women in tailored suits clinked glasses, trading deals between sips of champagne. Their laughter sounded hollow in his ears, every chuckle like porcelain about to crack.

He moved among them in his tuxedo, offering polite nods, pretending to care about shipping routes, profit margins, expansions. The role was suffocating, but familiar.

He drifted to the deck when he couldn’t stand the noise anymore. The horizon was black silk, the sea deceptively calm. Bruce pressed his palms against the railing, the salt air biting. He thought of the man in the trench coat—how his laugh had followed him out of that bar. He thought of the muttered spell, words Bruce dismissed but couldn’t quite forget.

Then the storm came fast.

First, a ripple of wind sharp enough to snuff lanterns. Then, the sea itself rose, slamming the vessel like a toy in a giant’s fist. Glass shattered. Screams broke the air. Someone shouted to cut the engines.

Bruce rushed to help, but the world lurched sideways. He slammed into the deck rail, ribs cracking, ears ringing. Then he saw the mast—snapping like a bone, crashing down.

The impact was a thunderclap. He barely felt the wood splinter into him, or the railing give way beneath his weight. The last thing he registered was the sky, ripped open by lightning.

And then—silence.

When he opened his eyes, there was no sky. Only water.

It filled his nose, his throat, his lungs. He kicked, instinct screaming, but it was useless. The pressure crushed him, folding his chest inward. A strange calm washed over him as the dark closed in.

Bruce Wayne died.

And then—

His body convulsed. His chest expanded like something had punched breath into him. He hacked seawater out of his lungs, gasping, retching, clawing for air. The pain was sharp, the cold absolute, but he was alive.

Alive when no one else was.

Around him, figures floated. Men and women he’d spoken to hours before, their eyes open and unseeing. He swam to one, shaking them, dragging their body upward. But the skin was cold, the weight limp. Another. And another. All gone.

Bruce clung to the surface, throat raw from salt and screams that never came out. “What the..?” His voice broke, stolen by the storm. “I died.. I died. I felt it, didn't I?”

The waves carried him until he collapsed on a jagged shore, salt crusting his suit, the taste of iron still in his mouth. Every breath was a theft.

And he hated himself for taking it.

It took him three days to stagger back into the city. His body bore the storm’s fingerprints—bruises, cuts, ribs aching with every breath. But it was the silence that followed him. The silence of the dead.

When he pushed open the door of the bar, it was like stepping back into a memory. Same damp wood. Same stale smoke. Same trench coat in the same booth, like he’d been waiting.

The TV above the counter spat static before clearing to the evening news.

“Wayne Enterprises’ heir, Bruce Wayne, confirmed as the sole survivor of last week’s yacht disaster. Investigators found no other bodies showing signs of life. Wayne, still in recovery, has not made a statement—”

The bartender glanced at Bruce, then back at the screen. Constantine just stared.

“…Bloody hell.” The words dropped like a stone. He stubbed his cigarette into an overflowing tray, eyes raking Bruce from head to toe.

“You’re supposed to be six feet under,” Constantine said finally, voice low. “That was a proper shipwreck.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “I was.”

The grin that usually curled Constantine’s mouth never came. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying Bruce as though he’d grown horns. Then, a short, incredulous laugh escaped him.

“…Don’t tell me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself. “Bloody spell worked. Drunken, half-arsed, Brittonic rubbish—and it bloody worked.”

Bruce braced both palms on the table, leaning in. “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Constantine shot back. “I was takin’ the piss. Drunk as a bishop and makin’ jokes to myself. You weren’t supposed to—” He stopped, eyes narrowing. “Wait. How long were you under?”

Bruce’s silence was answer enough.

Constantine whistled low. “Four minutes in the drink and you come back coughin’? Mate, that ain’t luck. That’s a bloody curse stitched to your ribs.”

Bruce’s knuckles whitened against the wood. His voice was a quiet snarl. “I don't want this! I don't want this, take it back!!” He effortlessly lifts up the Brit a few inches off the ground.

“You think it’s that easy?” Constantine scoffed. “Soul magic ain’t a receipt you can return, sunshine. You’ve got a hundred lives in you now, give or take. Every poor bastard who died near you’s hitchin’ a ride, keepin’ you stitched together.”

Bruce’s stomach turned. He thought of the floating bodies, their faces pale in lightning’s glare. His voice cracked despite him. “…I don't want this— Undo this!!”

For the first time, Constantine looked unsettled. He lit another cigarette, hand shaking just enough to betray him.

“Well,” he said hoarsely, smoke curling between them. “Guess I owe you an apology. And a drink. Mostly a drink.”

Bruce didn’t sit. He just stared, a shadow carved in flesh and salt, and thought that death had cheated him in the cruelest way possible.

“This is worse than the Lazarus pit.”

He then turns to the man. “Don't show yourself to me again, Constantine!”

And left...

And it was the last he saw of him.

~

The Watchtower meeting room was too quiet at first. Bruce’s story hung in the air like smoke that no one dared to wave away.

Then Flash broke it.

“So… you’re not a vampire. You’re just… like, a people sponge. A walking group chat of ghosts.”

Bruce didn’t look up from the datapad in front of him. “If you ever repeat that sentence again, I’ll eject you into orbit.”

Plastic Man leaned so far across the table his face nearly kissed Bruce’s cowl. “Come on, admit it! How many lives do you have stashed in there, huh? Nine? Ninety? Infinite?” He stretched into a cartoon calculator. “Because if you’re running some kind of buy-one-get-one-free deal, I’d like to subscribe.”

Diana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Plas.”

“No, no—think about it!” Plastic Man’s body coiled into a big “9” with a makeshift cape. “Batman doesn’t need Kryptonian powers or Amazon training. He’s literally powered by the souls of the dead! That’s like, the most metal origin story ever.”

“Shut up,” Bruce said. “It's burdening me. This is the most ridiculous thing that's happened to me.”

Gardner kicked back in his chair, grinning like a wolf. “So the broody billionaire is just Constantine’s magical guinea pig? Man, this is rich. You hate magic, you hate Constantine, and now you’re basically stuck cosplaying as his mistake.”

Clark tried to smooth things over with a small, hopeful smile. “What matters is that he survived. And—”

Bruce cut him off. “What matters is that I don’t want to see Constantine again.”

Silence. Then Clark cleared his throat. “...About that.”

Bruce’s head turned slowly. “What did you do.”

Clark’s voice wavered. “I might have… recruited him. As a consultant. Only for occult threats.”

Plastic Man slapped the table so hard his arm bounced off like rubber. “You hired the trench coat! Oh, this is the best day of my life.”

Gardner was doubled over now. “Bats, you should’ve seen your face. Pure betrayal. Like he told you he ate your last protein bar.”

Before Bruce could retort, a voice floated lazily from the doorway.

“Consult, was it? Always nice to be wanted.”

Every head turned.

Constantine leaned against the frame, cigarette dangling from his lips, trench coat damp with rain and smelling like ash. His grin was all teeth. “Hell of a clubhouse you’ve got here. Satellite view, fancy table. Bet it even comes with a minibar.”

Bruce’s fists tightened. “Get. Out.”

Constantine grinned wider. “Don’t worry, luv. I’ll grow on you.” He took a long drag, exhaled smoke in small halos.

“Anyway, any of you wankers got a cigarette?"

Bruce looked two seconds away from homicide. Diana sighed, rubbing her temples again. Plastic Man whistled low.

“Yup,” Diana said grimly. “We’re doomed.”

××××

And he most likely kissed him like this:

--

The Metropolis Aquarium was buzzing louder than Clark Kent’s patience. Families shuffled through wide halls lined with tanks of tropical fish, their colors spilling across the walls like a living kaleidoscope. Clark adjusted his glasses and smiled faintly down at Jon, who was skipping a little ahead, pamphlet clutched tightly in his small hands.

“Careful, champ,” Clark said, though he couldn’t keep the warmth out of his voice.

“It says here they’ve got jellyfish, sharks, and—” Jon flipped through the pamphlet with dramatic flair, his eyes widening. “—Papa! A merman show!”

Clark chuckled, brushing it off. “Sure, buddy. I’ll believe it when I see it.” He hadn’t even looked at the schedule Jon shoved into his hands earlier; birthdays were about making your kid happy, not memorizing aquarium programs. “It’s your birthday. If you want to see… well, mermaids, then that’s what we’ll see.”

Jon grinned, bouncing in his sneakers. “You’ll see. It’s real.”

The massive aquarium was packed when they arrived, rows of children pressed to the glass of the massive central tank. Music swelled faintly over the speakers—something airy, whimsical. Clark found them a spot at the railing, hands steadying Jon as he leaned forward eagerly.

Then the water shimmered.

At first, Clark thought it was just divers with fancy costumes. A trick. A stunt. But when the figure swam into the light, tail flashing in holographic greens and indigos, the disbelief caught in his throat.

The man glided like he belonged there—movements smooth, practiced. His dark hair rippled in the water, framing a face marked not only with painted glitter and beautiful rhinestones but also with pale scars etched across his chest and arms. Clark blinked. Whoever this was, he wasn’t the sanitized fairytale prince aquariums usually hired for shows. He looked… real. Raw. Alive. Aaaand a pretty hot one too.

“Papa, look!” Jon squealed, slapping his palm against the glass. “He’s right there! A real one!”

Clark swallowed, nodding slowly, eyes fixed on the man behind the glass. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “He sure is.”

The performance began with easy tricks: loops in the water, bubbles blown into shapes, a flourish of hands that drew laughter from the children. The merman pressed his hand against the glass, and Jon instantly matched it with his own, giggling. The man smiled brightly, scars catching the light.

Clark’s eyes lingered too long. He traced every line of muscle, every mark, every flick of the scaled tail. He forgot to breathe, just as the man inside the tank did.

Because suddenly, Clark realized, the merman wasn’t coming up for air.

At first it seemed intentional—an extended trick, a way to impress the crowd. But one minute became two. Then three. Clark’s survival instincts kicked in: his chest tightened, his gaze sharpened. He glanced around, but the crowd of kids was too dazzled to notice.

By the fourth minute, Clark saw the slight wince, the strain in the merman’s movements. His hands moved slower. His chest heaved against the pressure of water.

Clark gripped the railing. “He’s—he’s been under too long,” he muttered, more to himself than Jon.

Jon blinked up at him. “Papa?”

And then with his last straw of effort, the man broke the surface elegantly, gasping where the crowd can't see. The kids cheered, thinking it part of the act. Clark didn’t. He watched the way the man rescued his own self, his own chest rising and falling, eyes narrowed as though fighting pain that wasn't his.

Jon frowned. “Papa… why did he stop?”

Clark forced a smile, though his voice softened. “Maybe… maybe he needed to tend to his injuries.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. He looked back at the tank, concern bright in his young eyes. “I’m worried for the mermaids. They feel pain too, right?”

Clark rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If he comes back down… tell him. Tell him you want to help.”

When the merman dove back into the water, his movements were slower but more deliberate. He swam toward the children again, blowing bubble hearts, spinning in tight circles that made the little ones shriek with laughter.

Jon leaned close to the glass, raising his hands. His fingers moved carefully, signing words he had practiced. “Hello! I'm Jon! What's your name? Are you okay? I’ll take care of your wounds.“

The merman stilled for a moment. Then he smiled—an actual smile—and signed back, hand steady against the glass. “My name is Myrce” He looks at Clark and sneaks a little detail about himself. “But my mermaid friends like to call me Bruce. That offer is very kind, Jon! I would need your magic human powers to help me!”

Jon giggled, clapping. “Papa, he answered me!” He turned back to the glass, signing eagerly. “My papa's name is Clark! He treats my wounds. He can heal you too.”

The merman’s eyes flicked up, just for a second, locking onto Clark’s. Heat rushed through Clark’s chest, unexpected and uninvited. Behind the glass, the man actually blushed too.

Clark’s ears warmed in return. He adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat, but he didn’t look away. Neither did the merman.

The performance ended with a graceful flip of the tail, the merman sending one last stream of bubbles spiraling upward. Children clapped and cheered as the performers disappeared behind the curtains of water.

Jon tugged at Clark’s sleeve, his face lit with the glow of wonder. “Papa,” he whispered. “Do you believe in mermaids now?”

Clark looked down at him, at his wide trusting eyes, then back at the tank where he had seen a man who felt far too real to be just fantasy. His voice came firm, steady.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

--

Bruce was a nurse known to show no or less emotions to anyone. It was perhaps due to the fact that he was quite used to seeing people die. It's become a thing for the man. The closest he can do with his mouth is talk or frown.

His patient, a man named Clark Kent was one of the people who wanted to see him smile or even scoff out a small laugh. It feels like luxury, probably.

The door swings open, revealing the nurse carrying a med tray, wearing his usual face.

"Hi, Nurse Wayne." His patient greeted.

Bruce stood by the bedside, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the frail figure before him. The usually vibrant and energetic Clark Kent now lay weakened, his once radiant smile reduced to a mere shadow. Bruce's stoic expression belied the turmoil within him, a silent struggle between his duty as a caregiver and the unexpected stirrings of empathy.

"Mr. Kent," he acknowledged curtly, his deep voice devoid of its customary warmth. He adjusted the IV drip with practiced precision, his gloved hands moving with calculated efficiency. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm feeling really good.. I can't wait for everything to get settled. If I get out of here, I'd be really happy." Clark responds with a weak smile.

Bruce's gaze flicked briefly to Clark's face, noting the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes. He felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest but quickly dismissed it.

"You should rest," he advised firmly, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "I'll be here if you need anything."

His words were clipped, almost abrupt, but there was a subtle undertone of concern beneath the aloof exterior.

"When's my meal, Mr. Wayne...?"

Bruce's eyebrows furrowed slightly at Clark's cheerful demeanor, a stark contrast to his weakened state. He found himself both admiring and perplexed by the man's optimism.

"Your meal will be here shortly," he replied, his tone softer than before. Bruce glanced at the chart in his hand, making a mental note of Clark's nutritional needs. "I'll ensure they bring something that suits your appetite."

He paused, studying Clark's face for a moment. The small smile playing on his lips seemed to illuminate the room, and Bruce felt an inexplicable warmth spread through his chest.

Clark looked up and saw that small small smile that formed on the man's face, making him sit up. "Hey--! "Oh my— did you just smiled...?"

Bruce's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by Clark's observation. He quickly composed himself, his expression returning to its usual stoic mask. However, a faint blush crept along his neck, betraying his momentary lapse in composure.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered gruffly, averting his gaze. Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unaccustomed to such scrutiny.

Clearing his throat, he changed the subject abruptly. "You should focus on recovering, Mr. Kent."

Despite his attempt to maintain a detached demeanor, Bruce found himself drawn to Clark's infectious optimism and the way it seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed walls.

Bruce’s presence became routine in Clark’s dimly lit room. He came with his tray, his chart, his steady hands—but something in the rhythm had shifted. He lingered longer now, not because protocol demanded it, but because Clark always had something waiting.

“You know,” Clark said one afternoon, tapping his pen against a notebook Bruce hadn’t noticed before, “I’m writing a manual. Not sure if it’s a bestseller, but maybe you’ll pick it up one day.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “A manual?”

Clark grinned faintly. “Something like How to Survive 400 Days in the ICU Without Losing Your Mind. It's a working title!! Chapter one: Make the nurse smile."

Bruce scoffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re failing at that.”

“Am I?” Clark asked softly, eyes bright despite his frailty. And for a fleeting second, Bruce’s lips curved upward before he caught himself.

Clark laughed—a fragile, breathless sound, but genuine. “There it is,” he whispered. “Worth every word I’ve written.”

Bruce turned back to the chart, masking the flicker of warmth with his usual composure. Yet as he adjusted the IV, his gaze lingered longer on Clark’s notebook than he cared to admit.

Bruce Wayne was a nurse known for his silence. In the ICU, where death lingered in every corner, he learned to wear stillness like armor. His eyes were sharp, his hands precise, and his voice, when used, carried no warmth.

When he first stepped into Room 317, tray balanced carefully in one hand, chart tucked beneath his arm, he expected the same detached routine. Another patient. Another set of vitals. Another body withering beneath too many tubes.

That was why Clark Kent unsettled him.

But the man inside—Clark Kent—lifted his head weakly from the pillow and greeted him with a voice that was far too alive for this ward.

It was nothing more than he’d told dozens of patients. But Clark looked at him as though Bruce had just promised him the world.

Clark never failed to greet him. Always the same warmth, even when his hands shook from weakness or when his voice cracked from exhaustion. Bruce told himself it was just optimism—irrational, dangerous optimism—but part of him lingered longer in that room than he should.

One late afternoon, Bruce entered Room 317, he was greeted not by Clark’s usual cheerful “Hi, Nurse Wayne,” but by the sound of furious scribbling. The patient was hunched slightly forward, one arm trembling from the effort of holding up a pen, his lips pursed in concentration.

Bruce set the tray down quietly. “Your meal,” he said in his usual low tone.

“Mm,” Clark hummed without looking up, the pen still dragging across the page.

Bruce frowned, crossed his arms, and waited. A nurse had to monitor vitals, not watch a man duel with paper, but something about Clark’s focus made him pause.

Finally, Clark stopped, exhaled like he’d just climbed a mountain, and smiled weakly at the fresh page. “There. Another chapter done.”

Bruce raised a brow. “Another chapter?”

Clark looked up, eyes bright. “Yep. Not So Helpful Guide How to Be a Good Son. Don’t worry, Nurse Wayne, I’m not writing about you. Unless you want in on the dedication.”

Bruce blinked slowly. “Pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Clark said with a grin. “But don’t be surprised when it becomes a bestseller.”

Bruce shook his head, checking Clark’s IV. “You should conserve your strength, not waste it writing manuals no one will read.”

Clark tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe no one will. But maybe someone will. And even if no one does, the act of writing it makes me feel alive. You can’t take that away from me.”

For once, Bruce had no immediate retort. He pressed his lips together, glanced at the stack of notebooks on the table—two now, not one—and busied himself scribbling notes into the medical chart.

Clark’s smile softened. “You should try it sometime, you know. Writing. Or at least talking more than three sentences. I bet you’ve got stories.”

“I don’t,” Bruce muttered, not looking up.

“Everyone does,” Clark countered, voice lighter than the machines around him. “Some people just need the right person to listen.”

Bruce finished his check in silence, but the words hung heavy. He adjusted Clark’s blanket with more care than was strictly necessary, then moved to leave.

“Hey, Bruce.” Clark’s voice stopped him at the door.

It wasn’t “Nurse Wayne” this time. Just Bruce.

Bruce turned back, jaw tight. “What?”

Clark smiled faintly, too tired for his usual brightness, but still managing a spark. “Thanks. For staying longer than you have to.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but the door closed more softly than it usually did.

Over the next week, the notebooks multiplied. Clark would introduce each one like a magician unveiling a trick.

“This one’s 'Broadcasting Principles and Practices,'” he explained one afternoon, holding up a slim journal with messy handwriting bleeding through the pages. “Don’t laugh. I used to work in journalism. Thought I’d leave behind a few notes, just in case.”

Bruce arched a brow. “A self-help book for reporters?”

Clark smirked. “Something like that. Not everyone has your way with silence, Bruce. Some of us have to speak for a living.”

Bruce didn’t answer, but Clark caught the ghost of a smirk before it vanished.

And then came the strangest one.

“How to Take Care of Farm Cows 101,” Clark announced proudly, thumping the cover with his pen.

Bruce stared. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Clark said, completely serious. “Raised on a farm in Kansas. Cows are complicated creatures. This could save lives.”

Bruce gave him a flat look. “…Lives?”

Clark’s eyes danced. “Okay, maybe not lives. But definitely sanity. Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never been curious how to milk a cow.”

“I haven’t,” Bruce said firmly, jotting down the vitals with quick strokes.

“You’d be surprised how much they can teach you about patience.”

Bruce closed the chart. “I already have patients.”

Clark groaned, but his laugh filled the room anyway.

Bruce never admitted it, but he found himself listening for that laugh when he walked the halls. It had become part of the rhythm of his day—the greeting, the teasing, the ridiculous notebooks stacked higher on the bedside table. Clark’s optimism pierced through his armor bit by bit, and though Bruce never dropped the mask completely, he found himself staying longer, speaking more, even letting the faintest cracks in his silence show.

One evening, as he adjusted the monitors, Clark’s voice grew softer. “You know, if I don’t make it out of here, maybe these notebooks will outlive me. Someone should read them. Maybe you.”

Bruce’s hands stilled. His eyes flicked to the notebooks, then to Clark. “Focus on living, not leaving instructions.”

Clark smiled faintly, closing his eyes. “Maybe I’m focusing on both.”

The decline came gradually. Bruce noticed it first in the way Clark’s pen dragged slower across the page, letters shrinking, sentences breaking off mid-thought. His smile remained, but his breaths came shallower, his strength faltered, his voice faded to a whisper.

Bruce worked around it in silence. He adjusted pillows, coaxed Clark to drink a few sips of water, checked monitors with more vigilance than he admitted. He told himself he wasn’t attached. He told himself this was routine. But he lingered at the bedside, reading aloud medication schedules he knew Clark wasn’t really listening to, just to fill the quiet.

Then one morning, everything was different.

Bruce stepped into the room expecting the usual frailty — but instead found Clark sitting upright, hair brushed back, color faintly returned to his cheeks. The notebooks were stacked neatly at his side, and he was writing. Not just scrawls, but clear, strong handwriting.

“Morning, Nurse Wayne,” Clark said, voice steady. Too steady. He grinned as though nothing was wrong. “You’re late.”

Bruce froze. His eyes flicked to the monitors — vitals stronger than they had been in weeks. The lines on the screen had smoothed, the numbers were climbing. For the first time, they looked… normal.

“You look—” Bruce hesitated, words catching in his throat. “Better.”

Clark laughed, and it was startling, loud, full, not the breathless rasp Bruce had grown used to. “Don’t sound so shocked. Maybe I just needed the right audience.”

The staff noticed it too. Other nurses whispered in the hallway, doctors murmured at charts. Clark Kent was improving. Against all odds, improving. Meals were brought with renewed urgency, medications adjusted with cautious hope.

For the first time since Room 317 became routine, Bruce allowed himself to sit — not as a nurse, but almost as a friend

Clark noticed. “You’re finally smiling without me begging for it.”

Bruce blinked, realizing too late that he was. A small, fleeting curve of the lips. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered.

Clark leaned back, eyes brighter than the sun through the blinds. “I already have.”

Days passed like a dream. Clark wrote page after page in his notebooks, speaking with the energy of a man with a future. He teased Bruce endlessly, asked about his childhood, and insisted on hearing his stories.

“Come on, you must’ve done something reckless as a kid,” Clark pressed one evening. “Climbed a roof? Fought a bully? Snuck into a movie?”

Bruce crossed his arms, lips twitching. “…I jumped into a frozen pond once. Nearly broke my leg.”

Clark beamed. “See? That’s a story. That’s living. Don’t hide that away.”

Bruce shook his head, but the warmth in his chest betrayed him.

It lasted three days.

Then the strength began to fade again. First a stumble in his handwriting. Then a cough that wouldn’t stop. Then the laughter turning breathless once more.

But Clark never let on. He smiled through it, even as his body betrayed him. One night, as Bruce adjusted the machines with quiet frustration, Clark whispered, “Don’t be sad. This was the best week of my life.”

Bruce stopped, his hand stilling on the IV line. His chest tightened. He wanted to tell Clark not to say things like that, to fight harder, to not go. But the words never left his mouth.

Clark smiled anyway.

-

The ICU was quieter at night, lights dimmed to a dull hum, the hallway thick with antiseptic and exhaustion. Bruce sat by Clark’s bedside as he often did, the monitors beating their steady rhythm in the background. Clark had been fading again — but the last week of lucidity still haunted Bruce. It had been too vivid, too alive. He couldn’t shake the image of Clark laughing, teasing, filling the sterile air with warmth.

“You should eat,” Clark said, voice hoarse but tinged with that old stubbornness. His lips curved faintly. “Even Batman needs his midnight meal.”

“Tsk. I'm no Batman.” Bruce gave him a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling,” Clark shot back, eyes closing for a moment as if the effort of speaking was enough to tire him. “Go on. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Bruce hesitated. He glanced at the monitors — vitals steady, numbers stable. Clark’s breathing was shallow, but consistent. Against his own instincts, Bruce stood.

“I’ll be back,” he said, more firmly than he felt.

Clark cracked a tired smile. “You always are.”

The cafeteria was nearly empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as Bruce forced down a sandwich he couldn’t taste. His hands were restless, his mind still circling Room 317. Something gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside. Clark was stable. Clark had promised.

The hallway smelled faintly of burnt coffee and bleach. Bruce walked back from the cafeteria with a paper tray in his hands—half a sandwich, untouched fruit, and a lukewarm cup of coffee. He told himself he only left for ten minutes. Clark was stable, more alert than usual, even cracking a joke about how Bruce needed to “loosen up and taste hospital gelatin at least once.”

Ten minutes.

When Bruce pushed open the ICU doors, the sound hit him first—the shrill, piercing alarm of the heart monitor. His stomach dropped.

“Nurse Wayne, move!” one of the doctors barked as he sprinted past him. Another nurse followed, cart rattling with emergency equipment. The door to Clark’s room swung wide open, and suddenly Bruce’s feet were carrying him forward before he even thought about it.

“Patient unresponsive—pulse weak!” a nurse shouted.

“Prepare epi!” the attending doctor snapped.

“Charging, clear!”

The sight was a blur: Clark’s frail body jerking under the defibrillator pads, the hollow thud echoing off the sterile walls, the sharp smell of antiseptic mixing with adrenaline and panic.

“Come on, Kent,” Bruce muttered under his breath, frozen at the threshold. His hands tightened around the tray until the coffee spilled, scalding his skin, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“Another round—clear!”

Clark’s body jolted again. The monitor gave a flat, unbroken line.

Bruce stepped in finally, dropping the tray with a dull crash against the floor. “Clark,” he rasped, voice breaking. His colleagues didn’t look at him, too focused on procedure, on protocol, on salvaging what little time was left.

But deep down, Bruce knew.

After what felt like both seconds and eternity, the lead doctor lowered his hands, pulling the mask from his face. The room fell into a heavy, dreadful stillness. The monitor’s flatline screamed into silence.

“Time of death: 12:47 A.M.”

The words carved into Bruce like a blade.

Hours later, when the doctors and nurses had filed out, when the machines were turned off, Bruce sat alone at Clark’s bedside. The untouched cafeteria tray had been discarded, but his hands still trembled as if holding it. His eyes burned. His chest felt carved open.

“You’re unfair, Kent,” he said at last, voice hoarse and cracking.

He pressed his palms against his face, dragging them down in anguish. “You fight for months, you make jokes, you make me—damn it—you made me believe you were getting better. You had no right. No right to make me…” He swallowed, choking back the wave. “…to make me care like this.”

“I thought I had time. Just one more meal break. Just one more night. But I come back, and you’re—” His breath hitched. He stared at the still form beneath the sheets. “…you’re gone. Just like that.”

His voice cracked into a whisper. “You’re so damn unfair.”

The tears came then, unrestrained, dripping onto the sterile floor as Bruce hunched over the bedrail, clutching it like an anchor in a storm. The man who never let himself feel, the nurse who built walls to survive the endless cycle of life and death, finally broke.

And in that silence, it wasn’t the alarms or the flatline echoing in his head. It was Clark’s last smile, bright and stubborn, asking him to sit just a little longer.

The ICU room was stripped bare by morning. Sheets folded, machines wheeled away, bed disinfected until no trace of life remained. Only a cardboard box sat on the counter, filled with Clark Kent’s belongings: a pair of thick glasses, a worn flannel folded neatly, and that was when he noticed them—four battered notebooks stacked neatly on the table, waiting. Bruce’s hand trembled as he reached for the first.

Book One: Not So Helpful Guide: How to Be a Good Son

He opened to a random page. The handwriting was uneven, slanted, as though Clark had written in bursts of failing strength.

“Lesson two: never forget to call your mother, even if you’re terrible at small talk. Trust me, she doesn’t care what you say, she just wants to hear your voice.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a hard line. He shut the book, too quickly, before the sting in his chest could spill over.

Book Two: Broadcasting Principles and Practices

He opened it and found Clark’s characteristic humor threaded through technical notes.

“Rule #7 of radio: keep your voice steady, even if your heart isn’t. People listen less to words than to tone. If only life worked that way, huh?”

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, though his eyes softened.

Book Three: How to Take Care of Farm Cows 101

The absurdity of the title had made him scoff earlier, but now, opening its pages, his throat tightened.

“Cows know when you’re nervous. Animals feel what you hide. People do too, I think. Especially the ones who care enough to look.”

Bruce swallowed hard and closed the book with deliberate care, as if any roughness might scatter Clark’s voice to dust.

Book Four: Making Your 400 Days Worth It

His hand lingered on this one the longest. Finally, he opened to the very first page.

At the top, in Clark’s shaky handwriting, was an Author’s Note:

“If you can open this notebook without anyone swatting your hands off, it means I’m gone. I’m sorry. But hey, at least you won. You got to read my words after all.”

The mask cracked. Bruce’s breath hitched, a ragged sound in the quiet room. His hand pressed hard against the page as if he could anchor Clark there, drag him back from the ink.

Bruce lingered over the cover, thumb brushing the spine as though warming it might summon Clark back. His jaw tightened, his breath shallow. Then, slowly, with the kind of reverence he had never shown any relic or prayer book, he opened past the author’s note and landed on one of the middle pages.

The ink was smudged, as if Clark had been writing with trembling hands.

“Day 237. Today Nurse Wayne frowned at me again. (Surprise, surprise.) But I caught him watching me when he thought I was asleep. His eyes aren’t cold when no one’s looking. They’re… tired. Heavy. Like he’s been carrying the weight of the world and forgot he could set it down. I don’t know if he’ll ever believe it, but I think he’s kinder than he knows. If I get through this, I want to make him laugh properly. If I don’t… then I hope he remembers someone saw him. And that was enough.”

The words blurred as Bruce’s eyes burned. His hand pressed harder into the page until the paper creased under his gloves. He bowed his head, shoulders trembling, lips parting in a broken exhale that echoed in the quiet room.

He closed the notebook, holding it tightly to his chest like a fragile heartbeat. The other three sat stacked beneath it, four small testaments to a man who had given away his light even while fading into shadow.