The elevator chimed.
The penthouse doors slid open with a quiet hiss.
Bruce stepped in, soaked in rain and shadows. His coat hung heavy off his shoulders, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight. He moved like a man stitched together by caffeine and muscle memory.
Talia was already waiting by the fireplace, arms crossed, hair cascading down her back like black silk. She didn't say anything at first. Just watched him drop his keys on the marble table and pull off his gloves.
"I heard what happened," she said, finally breaking the silence.
Bruce didn't look at her right away. He just exhaled and slipped off his coat, letting it fall over a chair.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Someone's coming after your mother."
Talia's eyes narrowed. "And?"
Bruce walked to the bar, poured himself a glass of water, and drank half of it in one go. His hand trembled slightly.
"And they're not amateurs. They're ghosts. Smart, fast, precise. Everything screams trained."
He leaned against the counter, eyes flicking to hers.
"You need to be careful when you go out. Don't use the same routes. Change your patterns. If you usually take fifteen guards—take thirty."
Talia gave him a look. "You think I'm scared?"
"I think you're on someone's list," Bruce said, dead serious. "And I don't trust this to be just about Diana."
She was quiet for a moment. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then back to him.
"You look like hell."
"I feel worse."
She studied him, then brushed a strand of wet hair from his forehead.
"You go take a shower, I will be joining you in a bit."
Talia said as she walked to the bedroom to get her phone to call the woman who gave birth to her.
Bruce nodded aaas he made his way to the master's bathroom.
The steam curled up from the marble tub like lazy smoke, filling the air with heat and silence. Water trickled down Bruce's back as he stood under the rainfall showerhead, eyes closed, forehead resting against the cool tile. The bruises on his ribs were already turning purple, and there was a thin cut above his collarbone, still fresh.
He didn't move for a while. Just let the water run. The city noise felt miles away.
Outside the frosted glass, he heard footsteps.
Soft. Bare.
He opened his eyes.
"Talia," he said, voice low.
"I didn't say anything," she replied from the other side, her tone calm.
The door slid open.
She stepped in.
The steam wrapped around her like silk. Her robe was already loose, sliding off her shoulders. She moved slowly, not dramatic—just real. Like this wasn't new. Like she'd done this a hundred times before.
Bruce didn't say a word. He just watched her.
Talia walked straight to him and stepped into the shower, the water instantly soaking her hair, running down her neck, down her spine. Her fingers gently touched the cut above his collarbone.
"You didn't tell me about this," she said.
"I didn't think it mattered."
"It does," she said quietly.
Her hands moved to his chest. Not rough. Just… steady. Familiar. She leaned in, resting her head against him. Water dripped from her lashes onto his skin.
"You always act like the weight's nothing," she whispered. "But it's not."
Bruce didn't argue. He just stood there, letting her press against him, letting her be close.
He touched her waist. Pulled her a little closer.
The moment lingered—long, silent, warm.
And then she tilted her head up and kissed him.
Not soft. Not desperate. Just… real. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was two people who knew each other, inside and out. People who had scars and history and fire still burning somewhere under it all.
The water kept running. Their breath mixed with the steam.
Her fingers curled into his back. His hand slid up her spine, under the wet robe clinging to her skin.
She broke the kiss for just a second, forehead against his.
"You never stay," she said.
"I'm not going anywhere tonight," he whispered.
And that was all she needed to hear.
Thanks for the update. Here's your revised scene with the new city name, no League involvement, and Diana Halbrook as the mayor instead of Wonder Woman. The tone remains anime-style, cinematic, and human-written with simple, grounded language:
---
VYRE CITY
The city woke to smoke.
It climbed into the grey morning sky like a ghost refusing to leave. Thick, black, ugly. A smear across the sunrise.
Screens lit up everywhere—phones, billboards, news vans, storefronts. The footage looped on every channel.
"Explosion at Vyre Shipyard—"
"Unknown perpetrators—"
"Terror attack? Message to City Hall?"
"Was Mayor Halbrook the target?"
"People are scared, angry, demanding answers."
Clips showed the aftermath: twisted steel, fires still burning, rescue teams in hazmat suits combing through rubble. The ship was gone. Completely. Like someone had wiped it off the map with a god's hand.
Some claimed they saw drones in the sky right before it happened. Others swore they heard chanting. One guy said he saw a figure walking away from the ship right before the blast—tall, wrapped in black, no face.
Theories were piling up like bodies.
---
MIDTOWN – NEWS CONFERENCE – 10:00 AM
Cameras flashed.
Reporters shoved each other for space.
And then she walked out.
Diana Halbrook.
Black suit. No frills. No flashy mayoral pin. Hair tied back tight. No entourage. Just presence. Calm, controlled, unshaken—even as the chaos screamed around her.
She stepped up to the podium. Microphones crackled.
Flashbulbs hit her face like lightning. She didn't flinch.
> "Last night, a tragedy took place on Vyre's industrial coast," she said, voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "An explosion leveled a cargo ship tied to an ongoing investigation. No lives were lost, but this was no accident."
More flashes.
More silence.
> "Someone wanted to send a message. They failed."
The crowd buzzed. Reporters raised hands. Shouted questions.
"Who's responsible?"
"Was this a terrorist group?"
"Was this about your administration?"
Diana's jaw tensed slightly.
> "This is not about me. It's about fear. Someone thinks they can scare us into silence. Into submission."
She looked straight into the cameras.
> "They're wrong."
For a moment, the noise died. The city seemed to hold its breath.
> "Vyre is strong. And we are watching. Whoever you are—we will find you."
She stepped down. Didn't wait for more questions.
The cameras followed her until she disappeared into the black SUVs waiting by the curb.
---
Dhark PENTHOUSE – SAME TIME
Bruce stood by the window, shirt half-buttoned, watching the smoke rise in the distance.
The TV in the background played the last few seconds of Diana's speech. Then cut to chaos in the studio—speculations, theories, fearmongering.
He muted it.
Behind him, Talia sat on the bed, scrolling through her phone. Her face unreadable.
"She handled it well," she said.
Bruce didn't answer.
He was staring at a photo taken by a drone from the explosion site. It was blurry—but in the smoke, behind the flames—something stood on the edge of the dock.
Something tall. Watching.
Like it wanted to be seen.