After the events with Harvey Dent and The Joker, Bruce had become a recluse. Contrary to what Alfred tended to believe these days, it was by accident. When Batman had taken the fall for Harvey's crimes, Bruce had meant to hang up his Batsuit and parade all over Gotham like there was nothing wrong. It was an insult to believe the people of Gotham weren't observant; if both Batman and Bruce Wayne happened to disappear, he was sure someone would connect the dots. With his luck, this someone would be loud. Bruce had tried to keep up appearances, but his footsteps always faltered, or his fingers always pressed the phone to cancel appearances. When he hadn't been looking, Batman and Bruce Wayne had merged; he wasn't sure where the playboy he used to be began and where the vigilante everyone refused to call a hero ended.

Being a shut-in meant he lacked the usual company he'd come to be known for. Hearing a voice in a room near the one he was in was something unexpected. Bruce didn't open his house up to strangers, not unless there was an appointment, and even then, he seemed to embody more disinterest than he did previously when it came to his business and social life. On instinct, and possibly stupidity as he was unarmed and therefore vulnerable, he followed the voice as it called out for something.

"I'm afraid whoever you're calling won't be able to hear you," he said, walking into the room. He gestured around. It was only him and Alfred, as far as he knew. "If there's a frisbee out the back, I have a doorbell for a reason." Not that he knew how to answer the door. Alfred did everything for him these days.