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Alfred had survived worse arrangements than Wayne Manor. He reminded himself of that on the mornings when the house felt too large, too quiet, the kind of quiet that made his shoulders itch and his jaw ache from clenching through dreams he didn’t quite remember. He had survived tents that smelled of oil and blood, orders barked through static, nights where sleep was a suggestion and not a promise. A mansion with polished floors and soft light should not have been the thing that undid him.
And yet.
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Or, Alfred knows how to be many things—loved is not one of them.