Batwoman sat slouched in a chair, her scarlet hair matted with sweat and grime, stark against the dim light of the loft. The moonlight crept through the cracked blinds, casting pale streaks across her bruised skin. Her black suit, torn and stained with blood, lay in a heap on the floor, replaced by a simple tank top and sweatpants. She winced as she tightened a bandage around her ribs, the ache of broken bones and torn flesh a sharp reminder of the previous night's battle.

The quiet loft had always been a sanctuary for Kate Kane, a fortress of solitude amidst the chaos of Gotham. But tonight, that emptiness felt heavier than usual. She relished the isolation, a grim solace in knowing no one else could see her like this—vulnerable, broken, human.

Her hands trembled as she wrapped her injured shoulder, teeth clenched against the pain. Despite the agony, she preferred this over letting anyone in. It was easier to fight alone, to heal alone. No one to worry about. No one to disappoint. Just silence.

Then came the knock at the door.

Her heart skipped a beat. Kate's gaze snapped to the entrance, her hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the table. Another knock—gentle, hesitant, but insistent.

"Kate? It's Barbara. Are you in there?"

Kate froze, the sound of Barbara Gordon's voice cutting through the fog of her exhaustion. She hadn't checked in with anyone since last night. Of course Barbara would be the one to notice.

"Kate? I haven't heard from you. I just want to make sure everything's okay."

Kate sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. Of all people, Barbara was the last person she wanted to see her like this. The unspoken bond between them, forged through years of mutual understanding, could be fragile. Kate wasn't sure if Barbara could handle seeing this version of her—the one who wasn't invincible.

But she couldn't exactly leave her standing there. Slowly, she got up, wincing as she crossed the room, every step a reminder of her battered body. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob for a moment, considering.

"Kate?"

With a deep breath, she opened the door.

Barbara stood on the other side, her red hair pulled into a loose ponytail, concern etched across her face. She was dressed casually, not in her Oracle gear, but her sharp eyes still flicked over Kate like they were taking stock of everything. And there was plenty to see—bruises, cuts, the stiff way Kate held herself.

"Oh my God, Kate," Barbara breathed, eyes widening. "What happened to you?"

"Just a rough night," Kate muttered, stepping aside to let Barbara in. She shut the door behind her and leaned heavily against it, exhausted just from that short interaction.

Barbara walked further into the loft, her eyes scanning the room—medical supplies scattered across the floor, blood-stained rags tossed into the corner. She turned back to Kate, hands on her hips, her expression shifting from concern to something more familiar: quiet, simmering frustration.

"You didn't call anyone," Barbara said, her voice tight. "You didn't check in."

"I'm fine," Kate replied, though even she didn't believe it.

"You don't look fine."

Kate moved to the couch, easing herself down carefully. "It's nothing I can't handle."

Barbara followed, her eyes never leaving Kate's form, her gaze sharp and concerned. "You can't keep doing this, Kate. Bleeding out alone in your loft because you think you don't need anyone." She paused, her eyes pleading. "You could've called. You should've called."

Kate leaned back against the couch, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. "I didn't need to."

Barbara stood there, fists clenched at her sides, her posture rigid with tension. "You're not even listening to me, are you?"

"I'm listening," Kate said, her voice emotionless, her gaze distant. She pressed a hand to her bandaged ribs, more out of habit than necessity. "But I don't need a lecture. I've been doing this a long time, Barbara. Longer than you think."

Barbara crossed her arms over her chest, her jaw set. "That's the problem, Kate. You've been doing this alone for so long, that you don't even see what it's doing to you anymore. You're shutting everyone out."

Kate's eyes flicked over to Barbara, a hardened edge creeping into her voice. "Maybe that's because I work better alone."

"Is that really what you think? Or is it just easier to be alone, so no one sees you fall apart?"

The room went still. Kate's expression darkened, and for a moment, there was a flash of something in her eyes—anger, hurt, maybe even guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

"Go home, Barbara," Kate said quietly, her voice low and cold.

Barbara's shoulders slumped slightly, the fight slowly draining from her. She stared at Kate, her eyes searching for any sign that her words had made an impact, that maybe Kate would let down her guard—just for a moment.

But Kate remained still, distant, her walls firmly in place.

Barbara sighed, stepping back toward the door, her heart heavy with a mix of disappointment and worry. She had been through this with Kate before, but it didn't make it any easier to watch. 

Barbara lingered by the door for a moment, waiting, hoping that Kate would say something, anything, to acknowledge that she wasn't fine—that maybe, just maybe, she needed someone. But the silence stretched on, thick and heavy.

Finally, with a shake of her head, Barbara opened the door. "You know where to find me if you change your mind," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. She waited one last beat, but Kate didn't look up. The disappointment in the air was palpable.

Barbara stepped through the door, the soft click as it closed behind her echoing in the now-empty loft.

Kate sat in the silence, the same cold emptiness settling back into place. She exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in her ribs and the throbbing in her shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing against her chest—the familiar, bitter comfort of solitude.

The quiet was suffocating, yet it was the only thing she knew how to deal with. Letting people in meant showing weakness, and weakness was something Kate Kane couldn't afford. Not anymore.

She looked toward the door where Barbara had just stood, a flicker of regret crossing her face before she pushed it down, burying it deep beneath her practiced indifference.

Alone again. Just the way she'd always handled it.