𝖲𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 5
a/n: a brief little insight on how our favorite bats are doing present time. im excited to say that we are closer and closer to returning to gotham...
The manor had been unusually full since Damian arrived. His presence was sharp, like a blade being forced into a drawer already overflowing with knives. He moved through the halls like he owned them, chin lifted, eyes constantly searching.
One evening, while wandering, Damian stumbled into a wing of the house he hadn’t explored yet. He pushed open a door, expecting storage or another study.
Instead, he found a bedroom.
It was neat but untouched, as though frozen in time. The bed was perfectly made, though the blanket looked worn from years of use. A few trinkets still sat on the shelves, an old sketchbook, a mug chipped on the rim, a stuffed animal dulled by age. Dust had started to gather, but Alfred’s careful hand clearly kept it from falling into disrepair.
Damian frowned, stepping inside. “Whose room is this?”
Later, in the training area, he asked outright.
“Grayson,” he said, sword resting against his shoulder. “There’s a bedroom upstairs. It looks lived in. Who does it belong to?”
Dick froze, mid motion with his escrima sticks. For once, his easy smile faltered. “That’s… complicated, Damian.”
“Everything is complicated with this family,” Damian retorted. “Answer the question.”
Tim, sitting at the Batcomputer, didn’t look up from the screen. His fingers stilled briefly on the keys. “It was hers,” he said quietly.
“‘Hers?’” Damian pressed, eyes narrowing. “There was another sibling?”
Silence stretched. Dick set his escrima sticks down with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. There was.”
Damian blinked, startled by how heavy the air became. “And where is she now?”
Alfred’s voice cut through before anyone else could answer. He stood in the doorway, a tray of tea in his hands, his expression calm but his eyes distant. “She is not here, Master Damian.”
“Not here? What does that mean?” Damian demanded, frustration flaring.
Alfred set the tray down carefully, his back straight. “It means only what it sounds like. She is not here. And that is all you need to know for now.”
Dick glanced away, Tim kept typing, and even Bruce, passing through the Cave above, didn’t speak. The silence was answer enough.
Damian’s frown deepened. For all his sharpness, he understood when he had struck a nerve. He didn’t ask again.
But that night, lying awake in his own room, he thought of the untouched bed and the carefully dusted shelves. Someone had lived here. Someone the family still carried like a wound.
And Damian Wayne hated not knowing why.
That night, after the house had quieted, Alfred carried a tray down the hall. The others were asleep, or pretending to be. Damian’s questions had unsettled everyone, tugging at scars that never really healed.
He paused at the door Damian had found earlier. Your door. His hand lingered on the knob before he pushed it open.
The room greeted him with its familiar stillness. Moonlight spilled across the neatly made bed, glinting off the small trinkets you’d left behind. Alfred stepped inside, setting the tray, tea he didn’t intend to drink, on your old desk. He moved with slow precision, as if afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile memory that hung in the air.
He straightened the already tidy blanket, smoothed the pillow, and dusted the shelves that hadn’t collected more than a day’s worth of specks. He did this every evening, a ritual as steady as the beating of his heart.
His fingers brushed across your sketchbook, the worn edges soft under his touch. He didn’t open it, he never did, but he lingered there, thumb pressed gently against the cover as though holding onto a piece of you through the paper itself.
Alfred’s chest ached. Damian’s voice echoed in his mind. Who does it belong to? Where is she now?
He had wanted to tell him. To say your name out loud again, to let the silence break. But the words had stuck in his throat. The truth was heavy, complicated, wrapped in grief and secrets too sharp for a boy Damian’s age to carry.
So instead, Alfred sighed softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “Wherever you are, my dear,” he murmured into the quiet, “I hope you know this home has never stopped being yours.”
For a moment, he closed his eyes. And in the silence of the manor, he could almost hear your laughter, faint and fleeting, like the ghost of a memory too precious to fade.
It was late in the Batcave when Damian asked. The hum of the Batcomputer filled the silence, monitors glowing across Bruce’s face as he typed, his cowl resting on the desk beside him.
Damian stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, his sword strapped across his back. He didn’t bother with the preamble. “Father. Who lived in the locked room upstairs?”
Bruce’s hands paused on the keyboard. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he resumed typing. “It’s not important.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Not important? I asked Alfred, Grayson, even Drake. All of them dodge the question. They avoid even saying her name. Why?”
“Drop it.” Bruce’s voice was firm, final.
But Damian Wayne wasn’t one to let go. He strode forward, his voice cutting through the hum of the cave. “If she was family, then I have a right to know. Was she a failure? A disgrace? Did you cast her aside the way you nearly cast me aside?”
Bruce’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he turned sharply. His glare was icy, but beneath it was something heavier, something Damian didn’t expect. Pain.
“She was your sister,” Bruce said at last, his voice low. “And she’s gone.”
The words hit harder than Damian expected. He blinked, caught off guard, but recovered quickly, his chin lifting. “Gone where? Dead? Missing?”
Bruce stood, towering over him, the weight of the cowl still present even when it wasn’t on his face. “Enough.”
The word cracked like a whip through the cave.
For a long moment, Damian just stared up at him. He saw the faint flicker of grief in Bruce’s eyes, the same grief that hung over Jason’s case, the same grief that seemed carved into the walls of the manor itself.
Damian’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated the silence. Hated being left out of the truth. But even more, he hated the way Bruce’s voice had broken on that single word: sister.
With a frustrated growl, Damian turned on his heel, storming back toward the cave stairs. But in his chest, a fire burned hotter than before.
Whoever you were, he wasn’t going to stop until he knew.
The manor was quiet that night, save for the crackle of the fireplace in Bruce’s study. The rain outside tapped steadily against the tall windows, filling the silence Alfred had let stretch between them.
Bruce stood near the fire, his cape draped over the back of a chair, his shoulders taut. Alfred set down a silver tray with two cups of untouched tea, his movements deliberate, calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
“You should have told him,” Alfred said at last. His voice was soft, but the words landed sharp.
Bruce didn’t turn from the fire. “He doesn’t need to know.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed faintly. “He asked. He found her room. How much longer do you intend to bury her memory beneath silence and locked doors?”
“She’s not here anymore,” Bruce said flatly. “The less Damian knows, the better.”
Alfred’s composure cracked, just slightly. His voice tightened. “And what does that make her, then? A ghost? An inconvenience to be swept aside?”
Bruce’s shoulders stiffened, but he still didn’t look away from the flames. “It makes her a liability. Damian is already carrying enough with Ra’s, the League, the expectations he’s drowning in. Adding her story… it’s not fair to him.”
“Not fair to him,” Alfred repeated quietly, his gaze hardening. “Or not fair to you?”
The words hung heavy between them. For once, Bruce faltered. His hand curled into a fist, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.
Alfred stepped closer, his voice gentling but no less firm. “She was your daughter, Master Bruce. Your child. Pretending she never existed won’t erase what was done to her, or the part you played in letting her slip away.”
Finally, Bruce turned, his expression caught somewhere between anger and grief. “I did what I thought was best.”
“And look where that has left you,” Alfred replied softly. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, toward the wing where your untouched room waited. “A house full of children, and yet somehow… always missing one.”
Bruce’s throat tightened. In the flicker of the firelight, he saw flashes of you, your small hands clutching Alfred’s sleeve, your eyes searching for his attention, the silence you wrapped around yourself like armor when you realized he would never give it. The guilt gnawed at him endlessly. You had been his responsibility. His child. And he had failed you.
He looked away first, his shoulders sagging just enough for Alfred to see the weight pressing him down. The rain beat harder against the windows, drowning out the crackle of the fire.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The fire popped in the hearth, the storm rumbled outside.
Bruce looked away first, his shoulders sinking just enough for Alfred to see the weight pressing on him. Alfred, as always, said no more, but in his chest, he carried the same vow he had made the day you left:
That no matter what Bruce chose to hide, he would never let your memory fade.
The Narrows were always alive at night. Neon signs buzzed faintly, half their bulbs dead, while the streets pulsed with crime and shadows. Jason moved through it like a ghost, helmet gleaming red under the flickering lights.
Another brawl. Another gang dumb enough to test the Red Hood.
The last thug went down with a crack, his pipe clattering uselessly against the wet pavement. Jason’s chest heaved beneath his leather jacket, smoke from his gun curling into the rain-heavy air.
But even as his enemies lay groaning around him, his mind wasn’t on the fight.
He’d seen your face for a split second, in the eyes of a terrified teen he’d yanked out of the line of fire. Wide, startled, too familiar. His stomach had lurched before reality snapped back. The kid wasn’t you. Couldn’t be you.
That was what Bruce told him when he first clawed his way back into Gotham’s underbelly, raw and broken. That you were gone. Just one more body swallowed by Gotham’s endless hunger.
Jason clenched his jaw, helmet tucked under one arm now. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, streaking down his scarred face. Gone. Bruce never elaborated. No grave, no details, just a hollow statement that twisted in Jason’s gut every time he thought of it.
But tonight, as he wiped blood from his knuckles, the flashes kept coming.
You, small and scrappy, laughing as you tugged his cape too big for your shoulders. You, chirping in his ear like the “Little Bird” nickname he couldn’t shake. You, clutching him tight when he first put on the Robin suit, pride glowing in your eyes.
Jason cursed under his breath, slamming his fist into the crumbling brick wall beside him. The Narrows swallowed the sound, uncaring.
“Where the hell are you, kid?” he muttered, voice hoarse.
Because for the first time in years, Jason wondered if Bruce had lied.
And the thought of you being out there somewhere, alive, hurting, thinking you were alone, burned hotter than any of his rage.
It was well past midnight when Jason slipped into the manor. He didn’t bother with subtlety, boots muddy, jacket soaked from Gotham rain. The place still smelled the same, old wood and polish, like nothing in it had changed since he was a kid. Except him.
He found Alfred in the kitchen, as he always did. The butler was just setting a kettle on the stove, sleeves rolled neatly, calm even in the dead of night.
Jason leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, helmet under his arm. “Still making tea at ungodly hours, huh?”
Alfred didn’t flinch. He turned, meeting Jason’s tired eyes with the same steady warmth he always had. “Some habits refuse to die, Master Jason. Much like some young men.”
Jason smirked at the jab, but it didn’t last. His expression hardened. “I need to know something.”
Alfred’s brow lifted. “And what might that be?”
Jason stepped forward, dropping his helmet onto the counter with a hollow clunk. “The girl. Y/N. Bruce told me she was gone. That was it. No grave. No explanation. Just gone.” His voice tightened, the edge of anger breaking through. “But I keep… I keep seeing her. Or thinking I do. So tell me straight, what the hell really happened to her?”
Alfred stilled, one hand resting on the teapot handle. His face betrayed nothing, but his silence was heavy.
Jason’s fists clenched. “Don’t you start too. I’ve had enough of Bruce’s half assed truths and Grayson’s pity looks. If she’s dead, just say it. If she’s not-” His voice cracked despite himself. “If she’s not, then why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?”
Alfred’s eyes softened, a flicker of grief breaking through his composure. He set the kettle aside and faced Jason fully. “She is not dead, Jason. At least… not in the way you fear.”
Jason blinked, his breath catching. “Then where-”
“That is not my secret to tell,” Alfred interrupted gently, though his voice wavered at the edges. “But know this: she was taken where Bruce believed she would be… safer. Whether that decision was right is another matter entirely.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. The words landed like a gut punch. Alive. Out there. And Bruce had let him believe otherwise.
Jason dragged a hand over his face, letting out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Safe? That’s rich. Gotham eats people alive every day and somehow he thought lying to all of us was the answer?”
Alfred’s voice dropped, raw with unspoken sorrow. “I argued with him. Believe me, I did. But in the end… Bruce chose, as he always does.”
The kitchen fell quiet, save for the soft whistle of the kettle. Jason stared at the floor, his chest burning with something between relief and fury.
Finally, he grabbed his helmet, slipping it back under his arm. “Thanks, Alfie. You told me more than he ever did.”
Damian hadn’t meant to overhear. He was passing through the hall when Jason’s raised voice caught his ear, sharp with frustration. Out of instinct, Damian lingered by the door, quiet as a shadow.
The words sank into him slowly. Alive. Alfred’s voice was steady, certain. His sister, the one everyone avoided speaking about, wasn’t dead after all. She was alive, somewhere beyond the manor’s walls.
When Jason finally stormed off, Damian stayed rooted in place, mind racing. He thought of the untouched room upstairs, of Alfred’s care in keeping it clean, of the way everyone had avoided his questions.
Later that night, Damian made his way into the Batcave. Bruce was at the computer, cape draped over the back of his chair, the glow of the monitors reflecting in his tired eyes.
“Father,” Damian said, his voice even.
Bruce glanced at him briefly. “You should be asleep.”
“I overheard Jason speaking with Pennyworth,” Damian said plainly. “He was asking about her.”
Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. “Damian”
“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Damian pressed, tilting his head. His tone wasn’t accusing, not angry, just curious, insistent. “My sister.”
For a long moment, the cave hummed with silence. Then Bruce sighed, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t confirm it directly, but he didn’t deny it either.
Damian stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back in an almost formal posture. “Why has no one told me? Why keep her a secret?”
Bruce’s gaze softened, though it was shadowed by something Damian couldn’t yet name. “Because her life took a different path. One that isn’t tied to this family the way yours is.”
Damian frowned, his brows knitting. “But she is family. My blood.”
Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. She is.”
Damian looked thoughtful, not combative. He nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch. “I would like to meet her one day,” he said at last. “To know her.”
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His eyes returned to the monitors, though his jaw tightened faintly. “Perhaps,” was all he said.
Damian didn’t push further. But as he walked away, his mind was already turning. He wanted to understand this sister who had been hidden from him. And deep down, he knew curiosity would one day drive him to find her, no matter what Bruce decided.
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