When Alfred set down the tray, Bruce was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.
"Your tea, sir."
The butler placed the cup on the bedside table. "Also, you have a visitor."
"Who?"
"A lady." Alfred paused, a note of hesitation in his voice. "She came in through the front door herself."
Bruce slowly turned his head. Talia al Ghul stood in the doorway.
She wore a sharply tailored dark gray dress, cinched at the waist with a wide belt in the same shade, her long hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. No scimitar, no assassin's attire, just the familiar Black Jade Bracelet on her wrist.
She looked like an old friend visiting someone in the hospital. Yet she stood one step inside the doorway, neither intruding nor giving ground. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the Monitor and the supports holding him in place before finally settling on him.
"Bruce."
Her voice was softer than he remembered, but beneath it lingered the texture of a desert wind, like the quiet instant before a scimitar left its sheath.
"Talia," Bruce said.
She approached, stopped beside the bed, and looked down at him.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
One minute.
She said nothing, merely studying his face, the hospital gown faintly outlining the bandages around his chest, and the two motionless lines beneath the blanket.
"So this is where your choices have led you."
At last, she spoke. He could not tell whether her tone held mockery or pain, or both. "You defeated my father with a set of metal toys, then tried to defeat visitors from another planet with them. And now you lie here like a puppet with its strings cut."
Bruce did not answer.
Talia reached out, her fingertips brushing his bandaged, immobilized left arm. The touch was