Feel Free To Look Around, Nothing Much Here

“Well, I sent you some money, so-” He rolls his eyes, “Stop I mean, just use it, okay, fuck your pride, this is important. Just a few more weeks.” He nods, and the guard signals it’s time for him to go. 

“See you next week.” He nods to you warily. “I’ll uh, I’ll spend your cash, just be safe for me, alright?” You stand and give him a little wave before he disappears on the other side of the glass. There are a few more people visiting, but the guard waves you through the open door, your shoes squeaking on the cement floor. He leads you down an unfamiliar hallway, it must be closer to where the prisoners are staying because you can smell the pheromones all around you. This was, after all, a prison for Alphas. Not a place you’d ideally like to be lost in. 

“Oh ah,” you stop and turn to the guard, “This isn’t um, this isn’t the way I came in.” The guard just shrugs, and opens a door, ignoring you. 

“This way.” He says firmly.

“Thank you.” You say politely, hands folded in front of your body as you enter what you thought would be a hallway, but looks like some kind of interrogation room, with a table and no windows. You let out a little terrified squeak as you make eye contact with three of the most terrifying-looking men you’ve ever seen, you whirl around but the heavy door closes behind you, and the handle doesn’t budge. They stare at you like you’re dinner, served up on a silver platter. You bang on the locked door, ignoring them to the best of your ability. “Um, Hello,” you call down the hallways, “It’s, there’s been a mistake, I think-” 

“Don’t bother, sweetheart.” The tallest alpha says, and his voice is low and rasping. You turn around and flatten yourself against the door. “He ain’t comin’ back until we get what we want.” You swallow. 

“She’s shaking.” The other man has candy-colored hair that’s been growing out at the roots, lavender fading to black. “That’s fuckin’ adorable.” 

“W-what do you um, what do you want?” You manage, voice betraying your fear. “I do um, I do have some money, I could give you, but the guards have my wallet and things-” 

“We don’t want your money.” The shortest man says, and his dark eyes bore holes into you. “Move away from the door.” You listen, scooting just a little to the left, still flat against the door. “I’m Mikey.” He says, sounding bored, “That’s Draken, and Ran.” He gestures to the other men, you swallow and nod to them. “We run this place.” You nod. 

“N-nice to meet you.” You stammer and Ran chuckles. 

“So what the hell is an omega doing here,” The tallest one, Draken, speaks first, “What the fuck was going through your head when you got out of bed this morning?” 

“I-” You swallow, all moisture promptly leaves your mouth at the anger in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, and he softens a degree. “I, there’s no one else to visit my brother.” You jiggle the door handle but it won’t budge. “Please, I-.” You whisper. 

“Relax sweetheart,” Ran smiles, his pronounced canines glinting in the fluorescents. “We’ve got a deal for you, I think you’re gonna want to take it.” 

“What’s the deal?” You whisper, hands shaking so badly you clasp them together to stop their trembling. 

“You’re gonna be a very, very good girl for us,” Draken drawls, “And we’re not gonna kill your burnout brother.” Your mouth goes dry. 

“I, um,” you take a short shallow breath, “I’m n-n-not sure,” 

“Baby’s having a panic attack,” Ran coos, “C’mere sweetheart, calm down.” Ran strides across the room to you, monstrously tall and lanky, “Gimme your hands,” His orange prison shirt is unbuttoned, and when he leans forward it swings open, revealing a colossal tattoo covering half of his chest. He smells like cigarettes and pine trees, and you’re so terrified you can hardly move, but somehow you summon the will to hold your hands out to him. He flattens them between giant palms and leads you over to the table, which is chained to the floor in the middle of the room. 

“Good omega,” Draken repeats, putting a hand on your shoulder and starting to slip your jacket off. “Just do everything daddy says and it’ll all be fine.” You nod. 

“Fuck,” Ran breathes, looking you up and down, “Been so fucking long since I’ve had pussy,” 

“Tough,” Mikey says sharply, from where he’s leaning against the wall. “I’m going first.” You’re still shaking and Draken starts rubbing your back, setting your jacket on the table. He slips out of his shirt, revealing broad shoulders and tattooed muscle. He’s got one tendril of hair falling out of his dark braid. 

“We’re not gonna hurtcha,” Draken practically growls in your ear, sending shivers down your spine, you feel his lips on your neck, and moan softly. Ran leans down and kisses you tenderly, cupping your face with one hand. Mikey clears his throat. 

“Easy, boss,” Ran straightens up, “We’re just calming her down.” He smooths your hair then Draken spins you around to face Mikey, who still looks bored. He walks over to you, hands in his pockets. He’s taller than you, but barely, eyes so dark they’re nearly black. 

“You got a boyfriend?” He asks, and you shake your head. “You a virgin?” You shake your head again. “Good.” He moves you then, so quickly you barely realize it’s happening, he bends you over the metal table, and yanks your skirt down to your ankles, your panties soon follow. You whimper quietly as he parts your folds and slips a finger inside you experimentally. “Fuck,” he looks at the other two men, “She’s fucking wet.” You moan with embarrassment and your hands fly to your face. Draken pulls them away, pinning them to the cool table. Ran rubs a circle on your back as Mikey scissors his fingers, and then roughly pushes himself inside you. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, “Oh my fucking god,” he throws his head back, sighing deeply. 

“Yeah?” Draken says, tightly holding your wrists. Mikey nods. 

“Missed this so fuckin’ much,” He says softly, before setting a brutal pace, you moan loudly, and Ran covers your mouth. “Good slut,” Mikey says, massaging your ass before burying himself inside you to the hilt and stilling, enjoying the way you feel wrapped tightly around him. He’s long, and with every thrust of his heavy cock you feel him nudging against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You warble something out against Ran’s hand, and the tall man tangles long fingers in your hair, massaging your scalp. 

“You’re doing so well,” He says, “Such a good little lamb.” You sniffle a little, tears in your eyes. 

“You on birth control?” Draken asks and you shake your head desperately. He smirks and looks at the other two men. “Bet I breed her before you can.” 

“Go to hell,” Mikey chokes out, “I’m so fucking close,” his grip on your hips becomes bruising as you feel him get impossibly hard inside you, and then relax, finishing with a stream of violent swearing. You tremble on the table and Ran releases your mouth. 

“Please,” you whisper, “Please, please don’t hurt me.” Draken chuckles darkly. 

“I’m pretty big, baby,” he coos in his low rasp, “It’s gonna hurt,” You swallow. 

“Her pussy’s something else,” Mikey says, collapsing in a chair, not helping Ran hold you down. 

“It’s just been eight months on the inside,” Ran rolls his eyes, “All pussy is something else.” 

“I like this omega,” Mikey complains, “I’m keeping her.” You freeze just as Draken lines up behind you, 

“You’re scarin’ the poor thing,” Draken coos, rubbing your back affectionately. “Don’t worry, baby we’ll take such good care of you, now that you’re ours.” You shiver, and Ran squeezes your hand, pinning your wrists to the table. You feel him start to push his length inside you and your mouth drops open, and your eyes flutter shut. He reaches up and takes one fistful of your hair and then rests his other hand heavily on your lower back, groaning a little as he slowly starts to fuck you. “Oh my god,” he mutters, “How much d’ya think we’d have to bribe the guards to take her back to our cell?” 

“Too much.” Ran says icily. “But don’t worry, lamb, we’ll have our men keep an eye on you while you’re not here.” You’re barely coherent, Draken is fucking you deep and slow, with the patience of a saint, savoring every thrust, sending you closer and closer to your high without sending you over the edge. 

“Gimme her hands.” Draken snaps at Ran, who obliges, Draken folds them behind your back and uses them as leverage as he picks up the pace, “Fuck baby,” he groans, “I’m gonna breed this tight little cunt, make it fuckin’ mine,” he hits the last word hard, half snarling, feeling you start to clench down on him. “You wanna cum?” He says, taking his free hand and brushing some hair from your face, “You wanna cum, baby, ask daddy for permission.” 

“P-please,” you warble. “Please daddy,” 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Draken snaps, “Yeah, fuck yeah,” he rakes his nails down your back as you cum hard on his cock and he follows soon after. You’re crying quietly, and he sighs happily, tracing a pattern on your back for a minute before taking Ran’s seat when he stands. Ran pulls you to your feet and then knocks your legs out from under you, laying you on the table on your back. 

“I wanted to see your pretty tits,” he coos, pushing your shirt up as Draken pins your wrists above your head, “Since you’re such a pretty crier.” 

“She is,” Mikey breathes, leaning back in his chair. Ran cracks a smile at his boss, reaching down and playing with your puffy little clit, making you squirm on the table. 

“Tell me something,” He says to you, ‘What do you do?” 

“M-marketing and data analysis.” You mumble, trying to focus even as he teases you. 

“I didn’t know omegas could have jobs like that,” he coos, “And how much do you make?” He asks, draping your legs over his shoulder, watching your back arch up off the table. 

“Ninety thousand a year.” You get out, closing your eyes, lifting your hips into his touch. He chuckles darkly. 

“If you’re a good girl for us,” He smirks, “I’ll double it.” He pushes his cock inside you and you gasp at the sudden intrusion. He doesn’t fuck you like Draken, doesn’t start slow, he’s immediately thrusting with full speed and power, palming your tits with one hand, the other holding your legs while he pounds into you. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “Missed pussy so goddamn much,” he throws his head back, swearing, his hands sinking into the plush of your thighs. Your breath is coming in short sharp gasps, you’re barely aware of what’s happening around you, of Draken softly carding his fingers through your hair, of Mikey watching smugly as Ran loses his composure on top of you. 

“If you wanna cum,” He says icily, “Better start begging.” The words pour from your mouth, nearly unbidden, it just feels so good, and he reaches down, and closes his fist around your throat. “Go ahead, slut, cum for me.” He orders and you obey, your orgasm ripping through your body, feeling like you’ve tumbled over the edge into a free fall. When you’re aware again a  few minutes later, he’s cumming deep inside you and lightly slapping your face. “Say thank you alpha.” He instructs. 

“Th-thank you alpha.” You whisper, lying on the table. You’re only partially aware of Ran and Draken helping you back into your clothes. Draken takes your chin in one hand, gently but firmly. 

“You’re gonna come back next week, same time.” You swallow, glancing at them nervously, legs shaking.

“A-a-are you sure?” You ask. He laughs, looking at the other men. 

“We sure?” His voice drips sarcasm. 

“Yes.” Mikey says flatly, but he reaches for you, and the other men step away. He holds you tightly to his chest. He buries his face in your neck, sighing before letting you go. Your hands are still shaking so he takes them. “Same time, next week. No one but us will touch you.” You get an odd look on your face and Mikey cocks his head, expecting resistance.

“H-he’s not eating.” You blurt out, and they look at you, confused, “My b-brother, he’s not eating and he’s, he’s only 19.” You look down at your hands. “If I-I come back, c-could you make sure, make sure no one is taking his food.” There’s a brief silence. “I’ll be good,” you promise, looking up at them, desperately, “I’ll be so good for you.” The men exchange glances and for a moment no one speaks.

“Yeah,” Draken relents, and the other men look at him quickly. “Yeah, we’ll make sure no one’s fuckin’ with his food.” You let out a deep sigh of relief. You leave the room, and you’re ushered down a hallway, given your keys and wallet, and shove them in your pocket. Your first thought, when your car starts, is emergency contraception. You speed to the nearest Walgreens and don’t even wait until you get home to take the pill. 

You flop on your couch in your apartment, head spinning, and then jump into the shower, avoiding your reflection in the mirror, sure there will be bite marks and bruises. 

“Got a soft spot for the bitch already?” Ran teases, leaning against the wall and smoking while Draken curls a weight. 

“We’ve been in here for eight months,” Draken grunts, setting the weight down, sweat glistening in the late afternoon sun. “And she’s the first omega who set foot in this building.” He shrugs. “You don’t wanna be her favorite?” Ran chuckles, taking a long drag. 

“It’s a good point. Surprised Mikey even went for it.” 

“I’m not.” Draken goes back to curling the weight. “He’s used to gettin’ it whenever. In his world, pussy costs money and he’s willing to pay.” 

“Yeah.” Ran looks out at the setting sun. “Honestly, I didn't give much of a shit about the bitch, nice pussy, nice face, I like her tits.” He shrugs. “Thought it was cute though. That she was ready to do whatever for her little bro.” 

“Considering you’re serving Rin’s time.” Draken grunts, setting the weight down again. “Makes sense that you’d feel that way.” “Already looked into it, by the way,” Ran confirms. “She was right, there was a group of guys keepin’ him from the mess hall.” Draken stretches, setting the weight on the ground.

“Yeah?” He smirks. “How long are they in hospital for?” 

“Few weeks.” Ran returns his smile. “Felt good.” 

The whole week you’re on edge, locking your doors, jumping at every little noise. A few times you think you’re being followed. On Saturday morning you put just a little bit more makeup on than usual, wondering why you’re dressing up for them, putting on nice underwear, matching your bra. Your car doesn’t start right away, and you have a little panic attack before you realize you need to turn the key all the way. You get there early, and you feel like you’re being watched, handing over your wallet and phone to the guards, checking your coat. You're wearing a skirt again, and a soft sweater. Your brother looks better, you decide, a little less haggard, a little less tired. You feel a vague sense of accomplishment, chattering with him happily. 

“A few weeks,” You give him a warm smile. “And mom’s got a room for you, I’ve got a job lined up for you, everything’s gonna be fine.” He manages to crack a smile. 

“Yeah.” He looks down at his hands. “Warehouse shit, huh?” You nod. “Not bad.” He nods. “Am I stuck with the graveyard shift?” You shrug. 

“I don’t know, I can find out?” You offer, and he nods. 

“S’weird. Looking forward to something.” He leans back. “I’ve been so focused on surviving for so long.” 

“Listen,” you lean forward, attempting to close the gap he’s drawn. “Addiction is an illness, and you’re clean. You have a support system. We’re all here for you.” He nods, and the guard signals that his time is up. “See you next week.” You say quickly, and he smiles. 

“Yeah, of course. See you next week.” He stands up and the guards lead him away. Your

stomach does a backflip as the guard leads you down the hallway again, bypassing the exit. He opens the door and this time your hands are almost not shaking as you hear the heavy metal door slam behind you. They’re waiting, Ran’s sitting at the table, and Mikey and Draken are leaning against the wall. This time none of them are wearing their shirts and you suppose you can’t blame them, it’s an unseasonably warm fall. Somehow your legs carry you forward but you stop just short of them. 

“Whatsa matter,” Ran drawls, “You need instructions?” You nod despite yourself and he laughs genuinely. “Fuck that’s adorable,” he reaches a hand out like lightning and it curls around your wrist, yanking you into his lap. Draken pushes off the wall and pulls your sweater over your head, palming your breasts through your bra. Ran doesn’t even take your panties off, just slips them to the side and starts roughly fingering you, pulling a short gasp from your lips. “You can touch me,” he says, smiling evilly, and you reach forward experimentally, wrapping your arms around his neck. He decides, evidently that you’re prepped enough, shoving his pants down and bullying his cock inside you. You moan a little, half pain, half pleasure, and he wraps two muscled arms around your waist, setting a brutal pace. He doesn’t let you ride, he lifts your body up and slams it down on his cock. 

“Oh my god,” you repeat over and over again, “Oh my god, oh my god, fuck,” your mouth drops open. 

“Tell me you love it.” Ran says, “Tell me how much you love my cock.” 

“L-love it,” you choke out, “Love your cock alpha, thank, thank you,” you tighten your grip on his neck. 

“This pussy belongs to us,” He snaps, and you lift your head to hold eye contact with him when you nod. 

“Yes sir,” you gasp again, “Fuck, fuck-” you lose yourself in it, relaxed a bit now that you know they’re not going to hurt you, feeling an odd sense of purpose while pleasing them. 

“Cum for me.” He orders, “I wanna feel you cum while I split you fuckin’ open,” you whimper and he watches you lose control for a moment, babbling something incoherent while your orgasm overtakes you. He cums inside you a few moments later, tucking your body into his own, burying your teary face in his neck. Draken clears his throat. 

“We don’t have time for that shit.” He says. “You can cuddle her on the outside.” If you weren’t still cockdrunk that might have set off some alarm bells in your head. Ran gives you a little squeeze and then acquiesces. Draken pulls you to your feet, but your legs give out from under you. He catches you dexterously, cradling your body to his warm broad chest, and laying you down on the table, taking your panties off. Ran’s eyes are closed, he’s blissed out, but Draken turns to Mikey. “You’re fucking quiet.” The blonde shrugs. 

“I didn’t finish her last time.” He mutters, looking away. “I wasn’t sure we’d have half an hour.” Draken shrugs. 

“Didn’t realize you cared about that.” 

“I don’t,” Mikey says, still grumpy. “Hurry the fuck up.” Draken shrugs again and eases himself inside you, watching the expression on your face as he fills you up, watches you struggle to take it, squirming a little to get out of the way. 

“Where ya goin’,” he teases, “Too much for you, is daddy’s cock too much?” You nod, and he reaches out and wraps a hand around your neck, not exerting any pressure, but you freeze. “That’s a good girl,” he says, starting to fuck you slowly, “Stay still f’me.” He chokes you just a little and feels you clench down on him. “You like that,” he asks, “Like it when daddy chokes you?” You nod. He picks up the pace just a little, choking you harder, “Fuck, yeah,” he groans, “You ready for me to cum inside that pussy, fill you up?” You nod again, emphatically and he chokes you even harder as he finishes, feeling you struggle for air, squirming on the table but he closes his eyes, letting his own high sweep him away. By the time he lets go of your neck you’re gasping for breath, Ran runs his long fingers through your hair affectionately. 

“So rough,” He teases, “So rough with our sweet thing.” 

“Fuck off,” Draken snaps. “You slapped her last time.” Ran grins. 

“Did I forget this time?” He muses. “Hm.” Draken ignores him, plucking you off the table and holding you against his chest, rubbing your back. Mikey rolls his eyes, taking the shirt that’s tied around his waist and folding it on the floor. 

“Give her to me.” He says softly, and Draken obliges. Mikey takes you and sets you on your knees on his shirt. He arranges you so that your palms are flat on the concrete floor and glances at the other two men. “I wanna know how she sucks cock.” You swallow nervously. “Either of you still hard?” Draken shakes his head but Ran shrugs. 

“Mostly.” 

“Get over here and fuck her face.” Ran grins. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice, boss.” He moves across the room and kneels in front of you, “Not too fast,” he says, rapping your nose to get your attention. “No teeth.” You nod. “Say yes alpha.” He reminds you. 

“Yes, alpha,” you look up at him as Mikey starts to fuck you hard and fast, pulling hushed moans from your lips. You open your mouth and Ran pushes his cock inside, forcing it down your throat and you manage somehow not to gag, even with Mikey pounding into you. The second time you’re not as lucky, your eyes watering. 

“That’s it,” Ran coos, hands tangled in your hair, “Cry for me while you choke on it.” You don’t have a choice they’re both so strong, and after a few minutes, Mikey reaches around your body and rubs at your clit, it’s enough to bring you to the edge and hold you there. Ran pulls out, and cups your tear-streaked face, “You wanna cum, sweetheart.” 

“Yes sir.” You choke out, “Please, can-” 

“Ask Mikey.” He coaches. 

“Call me god.” Mikey snaps coldly, “Ask your god if you can cum.” 

“Please please god-” You beg, voice hitched and desperate, “Please, please please-” 

“Go ahead,” He snaps, “Fuck,” nearly cumming immediately at the sound of you begging for his divine mercy. Ran pulls out and then jacks off onto your tongue, groaning loudly as he watches you swallow. He pets your head, after, helping you to your feet as Mikey gets dressed again. You stumble, and catch yourself on the table, looking for your panties. 

“I’m keeping these.” Ran smirks, dangling your pink cotton panties in the air and then pocketing them. 

“Y-yes alpha.” You manage and he grins. Draken helps you get dressed, rubbing soft circles on your skin. 

“You’re not seeing anyone else.” He says darkly, and it’s half question, half order. 

“N-no.” You look up at him. “I’m not seeing anyone else.” 

“Good girl,” He praises, smoothing your hair. Mikey touches your shoulder, and you turn to look at him. To your surprise, he folds you into his body, crushing you against his chest, pulling you across the table. He sighs, one hand on the back of your head, looking at Ran and Draken as if you’re not even there. 

“We need to talk about shipments, and about how we’ll maintain control when we’re out.” 

“Hanma’s always game to go back inside,” Ran snickers, “It’s like a game to him how much he can break out.” Mikey nods. 

“Possible.” He says. Draken clears his throat and gestures to you. “I don’t care what she hears,” Mikey says flatly. “She knows not to cross us, don’t you?” He shifts you so that you can look at him. 

“I, I wouldn’t.” You say softly. “Do anything to hurt you.” You swallow. “I know you’re helping my brother.” Mikey nods, leaning down and kissing you tenderly, one arm around your waist, practically holding you up. 

“Time to go.” He says quietly and you nod, adjusting your hair and then scooting out of the room, leaving them alone. Mikey massages his temples. “Her brother gets out in two weeks.” He says. Ran smiles. 

“I think we could impress upon her the importance of her return by proxy.” Draken rolls his eyes but Mikey nods. 

“Use Chifuyu though.” He says. “Rindou will scare her so much she’ll be in the wind.” 

“Aw,” Ran grins, “My little bro isn’t scary he’s like, five foot ten.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts towards the door. 

“Worried she’s not gonna get home safe?” Draken says, raising his eyebrows. Ran shrugs.  

“It’s a dangerous world out there.” He pushes the heavy metal door open. “You, of all people know that.” He leaves the two men alone, heading to the yard. There’s a brief silence before Mikey speaks. 

“He’s right,” Mikey says. “She’s a nice girl. Bad things happen to nice girls all the time.” 

—

You’re making dinner alone in your apartment, a cool wind blowing outside your windows when there’s a knock on your door. You turn down the heat on your stove, and then make your way to the door peeking out before opening it. There’s no one in the hallway and your heart races. You close the door, and lock it, forcing yourself to breathe deeply. 

“It’s nothing.” You say out loud, alone. “It’s nothing.” You go back to your soup and put your headphones in. 

—--

A week later Ran is grimacing at breakfast when Draken and Mikey join him at a table, he pushes the oatmeal around the tray. 

“Ugh.” He shakes his head. “Can’t wait to eat normal food again, and,” he raises a finger, “Chifuyu says she cooks,” Draken smirks. 

“Of course she does.” 

“He also says she works a lot, she does live alone, she hasn’t been lying to protect a boyfriend. And she’s already spooked, jumping at every little noise, I got the feeling she gave us a little google.” 

“Has he made contact?” Mikey asks and Ran shakes his head. 

“I bet she’ll come if we tell her without him making any threats,” Draken says. “Remember how much she was shakin’ that first time?” 

__

This time you open the metal door by yourself, letting it close behind you. Your fingers are laced in front of you. They’re waiting, like always, and today your hands nearly don’t shake. 

“Hello.” You say softly. “I um, I’m not sure if um, you’re aware of what happens, when you type your names into a search engine.” Draken chuckles darkly and Ran smirks. “B-but I wanted to say that um, I appreciate you not um, not murdering me.” 

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Ran says, extending a hand, “Come here, sweetheart.” You tentatively take his hand and let him pull you into him. “We got somethin’ to talk to you about.” You nod. “You know your brother’s getting out this week.” 

“Yeah.” You say softly. 

“But you’re gonna keep coming to see us, like a good girl, aren’t you?’” You swallow nervously. 

“I-i-if that’s what you want.” You say quickly. 

“Good girl,” Draken rumbles, pulling you from Ran, smoothing your hair. Mikey rests a hand on your shoulder and you glance at him, he leans in and kisses you, cupping your face in two huge hands, moving you so that you’re pinned against the wall. As he reaches for the waistband of your skirt, an alarm blares, and shouting can be heard as footsteps thunder through the hallway outside. You let out a squeak, and Mikey whirls around, covering your mouth. 

“Shit,” Ran breathes. “We gotta go if there’s a riot.” 

“We can’t leave her here,” Mikey says, “Draken you stay.” He shoves your body at the huge man, who catches you dexterously, nodding. Mikey and Ran take off at a sprint, leaving the two of you alone. Draken moves quickly, turning the light off in the room and pulling you into the corner, sliding to the floor with you in his lap, your back against his chest. 

“What’s happening?” You whisper.

“Could be a few things,” Draken responds, you can feel the vibrations of his low voice against your back, “Could be an escape attempt, could be a fight, but they’re gonna lock shit down.” He presses his lips to the top of his head. “And you’re on the wrong side of the visitor's wall.” You swallow, visibly trembling. 

“Oh.” 

“No one’s gonna touch ya.” He says, tightening his grip on you, his thick arms pinning you to his chest. “Mikey runs shit in here, and I’ve never seen him lose a fight.” You snuggle into his chest. “You’re so sweet,” he murmurs, rubbing your back, “Whatcha doin’ livin’ on your own, huh?” You look up at him. 

“H-how do you know I live on my own?” He cocks his head just a degree, and the obvious hits you. “Oh, ah, you’ve been-” 

“Keepin’ an eye on you.” He says, still tracing a pattern on your back with a huge hand. “Being around us might put a target on your back.” You swallow. “So answer the question.” 

“I-I-I work a lot,” you say quickly, “And dating is, dating is hard. I’m,” you squirm a little, “I’m quite shy. And anxious.” He kisses the top of your head again. 

“You feel safe right now?” You nod. “Good, sweetheart.” You feel his hands on your waist, rubbing soft circles, he smells so good, and his pheromones are so strong that you nearly drift off to sleep. Ten minutes pass, then twenty. “You wanna sleep?” He offers, and you nod, fully facing into his chest, he palms the back of your head, tangling his hands in your hair. You can feel him humming an old song, something you barely recognize, dancing on the edge of your memory as you slip off to sleep. You wake when he stirs, warm and heavy-lidded, and he helps you stand. “All clear.” He says, but you sleepily cling to his t-shirt. “You gonna miss me?” He teases, and you nod. 

“Mhm.” You mumble, and he laughs quietly. 

“Dontcha worry that pretty little head,” he stands and sets you reluctantly on the table. “I’ll see ya real soon.” He walks you to the visitor's exit, and you leave the building, stopping in your car for a few minutes, waiting until you’re coherent enough to drive.

That Wednesday, you pick up your brother, and he gives you a quick hug and a big smile in the waiting room. 

“They’re just finishing the paperwork.” He explains, sitting down, in the clothes he’d been arrested in, a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. 

“You look good.” You take something out of your bag and slide it across the table. He breaks into a wide smile. 

“You made me a little lunch.” He says, opening it, “Oh my god,” you giggle, there are little chicken cutlets on a bed of rice, tucked in underneath a blanket of eggs. “Just like you made me when I was in middle school.” You shrug, returning his warmth. He starts eating right away, wolfing down your cooking desperately. A guard comes and taps you on the shoulder. 

“Is there a problem?” You ask, and the guard just shrugs. “I guess I’ll be right back.” You give your brother a wave, he looks concerned but he doesn’t say anything. The guard takes you down a new hallway, and you fidget nervously, he opens a heavy metal door for you and you enter the room, realizing it’s empty. You wait for a couple of minutes, not even bothering to check if the door is locked behind you, you sit on the table, swinging your legs. It opens a few minutes later, and to your surprise, it’s Mikey alone. 

“I, I brought you something.” You say quickly, and he raises his eyebrows. You take three little bento boxes out of your bag. “I wasn’t sure um if you’d want to see me.” He takes the box from you, slipping an arm around your waist and sliding you off the table, crushing you against his body. 

“Thank you.” He says softly, and he holds you, rubbing your back and burying his face in your neck for a full ten minutes, neither of you speaks, but there’s an odd comfort to being around Mikey. He smells like cigarettes and light cologne. “Just wanted to see you.” He mumbles. “Only have a few minutes.” He explains, leaning back and letting you go. “We’ll see you this weekend.” You nod. 

“Th-thank you.” You manage, and he inhales deeply, you see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands are shaking. You impulsively take them, drawing him into you. 

“You’re a good girl,” he says softly, and he feels you shiver with pleasure at his praise. “Our good girl.” You nuzzle into him, and he squeezes you before letting you go. “Take your brother home.” 

“Who um, who do I say I’m here to visit this weekend?” You ask, and Mikey shrugs. 

“You can say Kisaki Tetta.” He says, glancing at you over his shoulder before leaving with the lunches you brought. You take your brother home and help him get settled at your mom's place, telling him that if you had the room you would take him in, but after all, it’s just you in your one-bedroom apartment. It’s midway through the week when one of your co-workers convinces you to go out to a local bar. You’re nursing your drink, standing at the table while she chatters when someone touches your shoulder. He’s tall, obviously an alpha with broad shoulders and a tattoo you can’t quite make out over his shoulder. 

“H-hi,” You manage, aware of how he’s leering at you, smiling down at you, flashing his long canine teeth. 

“You’re so small,” he rasps, and for some reason, it feels so different from when Mikey, or Draken, or Ran comments on your size, it doesn’t feel protective, it feels predatory. 

“Um,” you squeak, trying to scoot around him. “I’ve got to get back to my friends.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t be like that,” he growls, a huge hand closing on your wrist as you try to get by, to signal to your friends that you need help, but you can’t see them in the crowd of people. You pull against him but it’s futile, he drags you through a side door and into the alley at the side of the bar. It’s cold, and you feel him shove you up against the wall, hands tracing your silhouette. He shoves a knee between your legs, forcing them apart. You gasp and claw at his chest.

“Please, I-” 

“You’re unmarked.” He cuts you off. “Where’s your alpha, huh, shouldn’t you be scented, protected?” You swallow. 

“I-I-” You go to say you don’t have one, and then briefly wonder if that’s true anymore. You don’t spend much time on it, though, because you hear a sickening crunch as someone’s fist collides with the alpha’s face. He slides backward, yelling something as you see three figures in the alley. 

“Save some for me,” you hear a familiar voice complain and you watch Ran Haitani, dressed in some ridiculous pastel suit, step over a muddy, slushy puddle. He flicks something in his hand and it extends, you see it’s a long black baton. 

“Be faster next time.” You see now, blinking in the darkness, a familiar grin. “Hey there,” Draken says softly, lifting you up off your feet. He nestles you against his chest, tucking you under his jacket. “You okay?” You nod, burying your face in his neck and inhaling deeply. 

“Let’s go.” You hear, and look up to see Mikey, looking bored. “Or they’ll rescind your out early on good behavior, Haitani.” Ran grins, shoes covered with the blood of the other alpha. 

“They’ll never get me again.” Draken rolls his eyes and you find yourself carried into a large luxurious car. Draken doesn’t deposit you on the seat though, keeping you pressed against his chest. 

“You’re shakin’.” He says quietly, as the car begins to move. 

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” Mikey says, and you shrink against Draken, “Going out on your own like that?” 

“I,” you somehow find  your voice, “I, just um, I didn’t think it would be dangerous.” You lift your head and look at him, “I’m sorry.” He softens as if he hadn’t expected an apology. “I won’t,” you swallow trying to think of what you could promise him, part of your brain processing that you’re suddenly alone with three extremely dangerous criminals. “Where are we going?” You twist in Drakens lap, and he allows you to move so that your back is against his chest. 

“Prison sucks,” Ran says, shifting uncomfortably. “And you coulda dipped, after the first time, probably wouldn’t have blamed you.” You press your lips together. 

“I didn’t want to leave you there, like that.” You say very quietly, “It was so hard, for my brother and you all seemed,” you look down at your hands, “Like you needed me.” You fidget, “I’m not, it makes me feel good. To be needed.” Draken is rubbing your upper arms. 

“We’re gonna take good care of ya,” He rumbles, tucking your head under his chin. “You’re ours now, no one’s gonna fuck with ya ever again.”  

“What’s a sweet little omega like you doing living on your own anyway?” Ran asks, and you have a moment where you try and remember if you’d mentioned to them that you live on your own, but then remember they’d mentioned keeping an eye on you. 

“I just,” you think about it. “I just haven’t found anyone who wanted me, like that.” It comes out sadder, more lonely than you meant it, but you feel Draken pause the pattern he’d been tracing on your skin. 

“Oh,” Ran says, and it’s one of the first times you’ve heard him speak without a layer of condescension to his voice, “That’s not true, sweetheart, you just didn’t notice.” He smirks, confidence back immediately, “You just needed real alphas, and those are hard to come by these days.” You feel Draken laugh, a deep, warm sound. 

“He’s right,” he says, and when he speaks you can feel his breath in your ear. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.” You hide your face, embarrassed at the praise, and he catches your chin in one hand, tipping it up, forcing you to look at him. “None of that shit.” He rumbles. 

“Th-thank you,” you mumble, nearly overwhelmed at his warm body so close to yours, “For saving me, a-all of you.” 

“You’re ours now,” Mikey says, his words cool and smooth. Draken feels the implicit order and releases you, handing you to the smaller alpha. “We take care of our things, don’t we?” He asks and Ran and Draken nod. Mikey smells like cologne and cigarettes, and he holds you so tightly it hurts a little. 

“What does that mean?” You ask, looking up at his dark eyes. “Where are we going?” 

“To your new apartment,” Ran chirps, “We can’t have you living in that tiny little place, in that terrible neighborhood.” He shakes his head, “You were kind to us so think of this as returning the favor.” Your mouth goes dry. 

“I um, I like my apartment.” You say, struggling just the tiniest bit in Mikey’s arms. “And, and I have plants there, plants that need to be watered.” 

“No you don’t,” Ran says, “You don’t like your apartment, it’s small.” You cock your head at him. “You’ve always wanted to get a place with more natural light, right?” 

“I mean, maybe?” You say softly. Ran grins. 

“I mean if I were you,” he says, leaning back in the seat, stretching his long limbs out over black leather, “I’d be so glad to be chosen by not just one alpha, but three.” 

“I do,” you say quickly, “I do, I feel so lucky-” 

“Good,” Ran says, and his smile widens. “You’re gonna love your new place. Betcha you’ll make a soft little nest there, huh?” You can’t help the warmth that gathers in your cheeks, you squirm in Mikey’s lap. Mikey tucks your face into his neck, exhaling deeply. 

“Prison sucks.” He grumbles. “I’m getting takeout the second we get home.” You sigh into him, dizzied by the pheromones in the car, consciousness floating up and out of your body. You barely feel him hand you to Ran, almost don’t notice that they carry you out of the car, up an elevator to a huge penthouse with an open floor plan and a wall of windows overlooking the city. 

  As soon as Mikey puts you down, Draken picks you up, his mouth on your neck, scenting you while rubbing little circles in your back. 

"Not a chance, young man," you responded firmly, your heels clicking against the marble floor. "You know the rules. No gadgets or superhero shenanigans until your schoolwork is done. So get off the computer."

Tim sighed heavily, his eyes never leaving his computer. "Ten more minutes," he protested, his fingers typing away at lightning speed.

You signed but said nothing more upon stopping at the open door of Tim's room. You knew Bruce didn't appreciate you interference in nightly heroics, but you had your own way of managing the boys. Just as you was about to remind Tim of the consequences, a deep voice resonated from behind you.

"Listen to your mother, Tim."

You spun around to face Bruce, who had emerged from the shadows of the hallway. His gaze was stern but not unkind, the same look he often gave when you discussed the boys' schooling. You felt a small twinge of relief that he wasn't upset with your intervention.

Tim looked up from his computer, his eyes wide with surprise. He had never heard Bruce call you "mother" before. It was always Mrs. Wayne or by your name. The change in tone was subtle but significant, hinting at a shift in their relationship that none of them had anticipated.

Your cheeks flush under Bruce's eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. You noticed the warmth in his smile and the way he held your gaze for a beat too long. You felt a strange mix of comfort and discomfort, the kind that comes with the sudden realization that the ground beneath you is not as solid as it once seemed.

Bruce gave a curt nod before turning to leave. His footsteps grew quieter as he moved away, the sound of his retreating figure leaving an unsettling silence in its wake. Your mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle of his behavior. Was it the stress of their sham marriage finally getting to him? Or perhaps a genuine affection that had been buried beneath layers of duty and obligation?

Over the next few days, Bruce continued to act more affectionate towards you, slipping in gentle touches and kind words where there had once been a stoic distance. You felt torn between acknowledging the change and fearing it was just a temporary shift in mood. After all, their marriage was built on a foundation of convenience, not love. You're there to provide a stable home life for his sons, not to be the object of his affection.

One evening, as Bruce sat in his study, you gathered your courage and approached him, clutching a set of documents in your hands. "I need to talk to you about something," you began, your voice tentative. "It's about a new deal that's been offered to the company."

Bruce looked up from his paperwork, his eyes reflecting the glow of the computer screens. "What is it?" he asked, his tone neutral.

"It's about a new acquisition," you said, looking down at the papers. "The board thinks it's a good opportunity."

Bruce took the papers from you, his hands brushing against yours for a moment longer than necessary. You felt a spark of electricity, and you quickly withdrew your hand, hoping he hadn't noticed. You watched as he skimmed through the pages, his brow furrowing slightly as he digested the information.

"What's your take on it?" he asked, his gaze still on the contract.

"I...I don't know if it's my...my place to say, Mr. Wayne" You stuttered, your heart racing. You had never been one to voice your opinions in matters like this.

Bruce's gaze lifted from the documents, his eyes locking with your. "Your opinion is important to me," he said firmly. "We're partners in this, remember?"

The words hung in the air, thick with an unspoken promise. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Well," you began, your voice stronger now, "I think it's....sketchy. There's something about the terms that doesn't sit right with me."

Bruce's eyes never left yours as he listened intently. His thumb traced the edge of the paper, the only sign of his contemplation. "Then tell them I'm not interested," he said abruptly, handing the contract back to you.

Your eyes widened in shock. You had expected him to disagree, to argue the merits of the deal and the importance of the board's suggestions. Instead, he had deferred to your judgment, something he had never done before. "Are you sure?" you asked.

"Absolutely," Bruce said, his voice firm. "If it doesn't feel right, then it's not worth pursuing."

You took the contract, your hand trembling slightly. "But the board…" your trailed off, unsure how to voice your concerns without overstepping your boundaries.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. "The board's job is to make suggestions," he said. "My job is to make decisions. And if my… wife," he emphasized the word, "thinks something's off, then I trust her judgment."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words. It was the first time he had ever called you his wife without it sounding like a mere formality. You held the contract, your mind racing. "Thank you," you murmured. "I'll handle it."

Bruce nodded, his gaze lingering on yours. "You're welcome."

You retreated from the study, your thoughts in a whirlwind. The weight of the contract in your hands felt heavier than ever before. As you walked, the echoes of their conversation seemed to follow you, whispering of a newfound partnership and trust. You paused outside your study, taking a moment to collect yourself before returning to work. The manor felt different, as if the very air had shifted to accommodate a burgeoning emotion you hadn't anticipated.

Over the next few weeks, Bruce's affection grew more pronounced. He would join you for dinner, engaging in conversations that delved beyond the superficial. They discussed books, art, and the future of Gotham, sharing smiles and laughter that felt genuine and unforced. You found yourself looking forward to these moments, the tension in the air charged with something you dared not name.

One evening, after the boys had retired to their rooms, Bruce found you in the dimly lit Batcave, your eyes reflecting the glow of the monitors as you reviewed the night's intel. He approached you slowly, his footsteps muffled by the rubber soles of his boots. "I thought I was the night owl around here," he said with a teasing smile.

You startled, spinning around in the chair. "Mr. Wayne," you gasped, hand flying to your chest. "I didn't hear you come in."

Bruce chuckled, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. "It's Bruce," he corrected gently. "And I can see you've got everything under control."

Your cheeks colored as you nodded. "Just keeping an eye on things," you said, your voice quieter than usual. You felt self-conscious under his scrutiny, unsure how to react to his sudden interest in your nightly routine.

"Mind if I join you?" Bruce asked, his tone casual, yet it held a hint of something more.

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Of course," you said, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. You watched as he made his way over to you, his movements fluid and silent. He leaned against the console, his eyes on the screens, but you knew he was really watching you.

"You know, this isn't where I expected to find you on our anniversary," he said, his voice low and warm.

Your breath caught in your throat. You had almost forgotten about the date, lost in the whirlwind of their new dynamic. Your swiveled the chair to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "Anniversary?" you echoed, trying to keep your voice even.

Bruce nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, it's been a year since we made this… arrangement." He paused, searching for the right word, and you felt the weight of the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

"I… I had no idea at how quickly the year went by," you murmured, your eyes flicking to the floor before meeting his gaze again. "So much has happened."

"Yes, it has," Bruce agreed, his expression softening. "But I think we've made it work, don't you?"

You nodded slowly, your eyes moving to the side of the floor. "We have," you conceded. "For the boys."

"For the boys," Bruce echoed, but there was a hint of something more in his voice. He reached out and took your hand, his touch sending a jolt through you. "Dance with me."

You looked at him, bewildered. The Batcave was the last place you'd would have ever imagined sharing a dance with your husband, especially considering their relationship had been more of a business transaction than a romantic union.

"What?" you asked, your voice a mix of surprise and doubt. The cold metal and concrete walls of the Batcave didn't exactly scream romance.

But Bruce didn't seem to notice the oddness of his request. He held out his other hand, his eyes earnest. "Just one dance."

Your heart racing, placing your hand in his, allowing him to pull you to your feet. He led you to the center of the Batcave, the place where so much strategy and planning took place. But now, it was just them, standing in the shadow of the Dark Knight's armor, the only music the hum of the computers and the distant echo of the city above.

He pulled you closer, his hand on your back while the other held your other hand. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, a stark contrast to the cool air of the underground lair. He was close enough that you could make out the scent of his cologne, the faint metallic scent of his suit mingling with it.

He leaned down and whispered in your ear, "Let's pretend, just for a moment, that we're not Mr. Wayne and Mrs. Wayne, but a couple who met under different circumstances."

Your pulse quickened. You knew the rules of your arrangement, knew that love had never been a part of the deal. Yet here you were, in the most unlikely of settings, with the potential for something you had never allowed yourself to imagine. Hesitating for only a moment, you stepped into the embrace, your body fitting against his as if it had always belonged there.

He began to sway gently, guiding you in a slow, rhythmic dance that seemed to defy the gravity of their situation. His hand rested on the small of your back, his other hand holding hers firmly, yet gently. You felt the muscles beneath the fabric of his suit, the strength and power of the man you had only ever known as your husband in name.

The sound of his deep, rich hum filled the cavernous space, a tune you didn't recognize but found oddly soothing. It was a moment of vulnerability you had never seen from him before, a side of Bruce Wayne that was as unguarded as the batcave was protected. As they danced, your head leaned into his chest, the steady beat of his heart echoing in your ears, mimicking the tempo of your own.

The tension between them grew palpable, a silent crescendo that seemed to vibrate in every atom of the room. You felt yout resolve wavering, the walls you had meticulously built to maintain the façade of your marriage threatening to crumble. You knew the truth – that you had developed feelings for him, feelings that had grown from a seed of respect and duty into a full-blown bouquet of love and longing.

"Bruce," you murmured, your voice shaky. "What are we doing?"

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "I'm just… trying to be a better husband to you."

The admission sent a tremor through you, and you pulled away slightly to look up at him. His eyes searched yours, a question and a plea melded into one. Your chest tightened as you read the hope and uncertainty in his gaze.

"Why?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What changed?"

Bruce's expression grew serious, his eyes holding yours captive. "I've realized that life is too short to ignore what's right in front of us," he replied, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. "I've watched you care for my sons, for this city, and for me. You've become more than just a part of this arrangement. You've become a part…of me."

The words hung in the air, a confession that resonated through the very foundation of the Batcave. You searched his eyes, looking for any sign of doubt, any hint that he was just playing a part. But what you found was a vulnerability you had never seen before, a crack in the armor of the man who was both Bruce Wayne and Batman. You were speechless, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Leaning closer, his cheek brushed against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. His mouth hovered near your ear, the heat of his breath sending a rush of emotion through yours. "Please," he whispered, "give me a chance."

Your heart was a tumult of emotions – hope, fear, confusion. But you knew that you couldn't ignore the feelings that had been growing within you for so long. You nodded, the barest of movements, but it was enough.

Bruce's hand slid to your cheek, cupping it gently as he leaned in and kissed you. It was a soft kiss, filled with a year's worth of unspoken emotions. You melted into it, your arms slipping around his neck as you gave in to the warmth that had been building between them. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and you could feel the tension in his body, the years of holding back finally released.

You broke apart, breathing in quite pants, your eyes locked. Your heart raced, your mind reeling with the implications of what was happening. "Bruce," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"My wife," Bruce said, the words sounding unfamiliar, yet right. He searched your face, his thumb stroking your cheek gently. "You are my wife. I want to act like the husband I know you truly deserve."

"What about the boys?" You asked, your voice a soft murmur.

"They're our priority," Bruce assured you, his hand sliding from your cheek to your hand again. "We just now have… some extra perks to our partnership." He offered you a tentative smile, and you couldn't help but return it, feeling the weight of your situation lighten just a little.

Over the next few years Bruce brought in many children. Dick was nice, he was cheerful but never had time for you, much like father. Jason was the best brother, you two always spent time together, however, one day he died. Tim... was ok... you were still grieving from Jason's death, and Tim never cared to look your way. Cas and Steph were just... there, Bruce was always training them, and they didn't think you were worth their time. After all, you were simply the spoiled young master Wayne. Lastly, Bruce, he never spent time with you other than at galas. When you went to the galas with your parents and adopted siblings, Bruce would treat you as his precious son. However, your mother could never look at the scene for long, knowing the true neglect that you didn't even know you were experiencing. Aside from that, life was fine. You still had your mother who loved you more than anything, and you had Alfred. Alfred thought of your mother as his own daughter and treated you as his grandson. You did good in school, always wanting to see your mother's smile when she saw your grades.

However, your whole life turned upside down the year you turned 12. Your mother died; her health had been deteriorating ever since you were born.

"Baby..." her voice was shaking, you held the had she reached out, watching as her dazed eyes couldn't find you. The only other person in the room was Alfred, " 'm sorry" Her voice broke into a sob "I'm so sorry for bringing you into this terrible place, please... Please forgive me". Her hand trembled in your grasp; tears streamed down your face.

"I could never blame you mom" you promised, at your words she smiled. With the last of her strength, she spoke again.

"Remember.... don't give... your heart to... these people". Her voice faded and her hand went limp in your hold.

"MOM!", you yelled "MOTHER PLEASE!" Alfred pulled you away from your mother, you cried in his shoulder. Your sobs echoed through the halls of the manor.

Your light was gone.

Her funeral was miserable. Bruce and your adopted siblings came, but only for appearances. As soon as the basic courtesies were over, they all left. You stayed there for the whole day and deep into the night, until Alfred made you get some rest.

After your mother's death, Bruce had you train like all your adopted siblings, it was grueling. He never taught you one-on-one, he had you watch him train the other then practice on your own. He always got so disappointed when you couldn't match pace with the others. However, you wanted to please them. Make them proud. "Foolish child" you could hear your mother say

It was around this time when Jason returned, you were so excited. finally, someone who you could spend time with, you were so lonely. But he was never the same boy you once knew, he was now cold and distant. He looked at you in annoyance... Just like the rest of them.

Days in the Wayne manor passed slowly, you followed your regular routine day by day. Wake up, got to school, go home, do schoolwork, do night watches, sleep and repeat. Things changed when father brought in your half-brother, Damian. Sure, at first you were upset that your father cheated on your mother, but now you had someone you could spend time with and relate to. You thought he would go through the same neglect, instead, he was loved, welcomed. Nothing like you.

"He's had a hard life", they'd say "you wouldn't understand, you've had everything handed to you and all the love you could want". It repeated in your head, all you did was ask why he got more love than you.

It wasn't fair... IT WASNT FAIR!

No... Calm down, take a deep breath. Hold it. Release it. Repeat.

Your mother taught you that when you'd start throwing fits, she was right. There was no use in getting upset over something you couldn't change... You'd just have to prove them wrong, be the best vigilante there ever was.

Damian was the worst. He thought of you as competition, you just wanted to be his friend.

"You know", Damian began, you had asked him to hang out, he was your younger brother after all, and you have to be a good brother like Jason used to be "It's your fault your pathetic mother died".

"...What" It wasn't a question. It was a dare, "Say that again. Do you have a death wish?" Now you were standing right in front of him, your frame towering over him. The empty living room became even more silent.

"I said", He didn't back down, instead, he stood tall "You caused your mother's death. I mean, think about it. If you hadn't been born than your mother wouldn't have fallen ill". you pushed him against the wall, pinning his shoulder with enough strength to break it, if he were a normal person. "Never mind, it wasn't your fault" Oh? was he back down? No... his smirk spread "it was your mother's fault for being so weak"

WHACK

you punched at his face; he moved but you still hit the side of his cheek, then he started punching back. it became a back and forth of fists. The two of you scuffling on the floor before a voice rang out.

"What the hell is going on here!?", you both looked over. It was dick, he was followed by the rest of your adopted siblings. Both of you let go of the other, your breathing ragged. You noticed Damian's breathing was steady, as if he hadn't just been fighting. Monster

'"He-" You tried to explain yourself, but Dick cut you off. He stormed up to you, his expression was furious, and he smacked you...hard. You stood shocked, your head turned to the side and your eyes wide in disbelief, you put your hand to your burning cheek.

"You are older than him! I don't care what excuse you have, you should know better!" Dick yelled, he grabbed you by your wrist and began pulling you. "We're going to see Bruce, you can explain yourself to him". Dick dragged you to Bruces's office, his grip was painfully tight. When you two stood Infront of the doors to his office you felt dread fill you. It wasn't your fault. It was Damian's. you repeated in your head. Dick pushed the doors open quickly, Bruce looked up at his arrival, waiting for an explanation. He always just ignored you; he'd say that he was too busy and to come back later. "He was fighting with Damian. The kid just started punching him." Dick explained. You froze as your father's disapproving eyes turned to you.

NO! that's not how it happened! You had to defend yourself, say something...ANYTHING. "He-he said mother was weak! That I was the reason she died!" You stuttered as you tried to explain. He'd understand, surly. However, your hopes were crushed when Bruce's expression didn't change, when it didn't soften in understanding.

"Dick, Leave us. I'll talk with him". Bruce instructed. Dick sent you a quick disappointed glare then left, the door closed with a slight slam. The office was quite before Bruce let out a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "I understand that you were upset. However, that is no reason to hit your younger brother". His gaze turned to you, then back to the papers on his desk. "Aside from that, I've been meaning to talk to you".

Oh? He wants to talk to you? That has never happened before. You felt yourself getting excited, forgetting all about the scuffle with Damian.

"I have decided to make Damian the heir to the Wayne Enterprises". Bruce didn't even look at you. He never does.

"...What?" You couldn't stop the question from slipping out. No, you had to defend your position, Mother's position. Consequences be damned. "No, you can't! He is an affair child; I am supposed to take over the company!"

That was a mistake. Bruce glared at you, his piercing eyes shutting you up quickly. "Do not fight with me child. The decisions already been made. Now go get ready for your night watch". That was it. The conversation was over. When you walked to your room you passed by the living room full of your adopted siblings, all joking with each other. You watched them for a moment before made eye contact with Damian, then, he smirked.

After it became public that you were no longer going to take over Wayne Enterprises, people outside the manor stopped being kind to you. After all, you were no longer the heir to the company, why should they care about you?

That leads us a couple years in the future, to tonight, the night was hauntingly beautiful. On this night Batman and his crew of sidekicks were all out because the Joker had gotten a new toy. Some beasts with something akin to tendrils. You all had to split up, Cass and Steph, Dick and Jason, Tim and Damian. you were sent off on your own, like always. But it was fine, you were used to it. You had gotten stronger, both emotionally and physically.

but tonight was different, you couldn't handle it. you and Batman were in the same general area; however, you were both distracted with your own fights. Then a quiet voice could be heard, one that was not the joker's, you looked over and saw an elderly lady in the middle of the shopping district you were fighting in. A tendril flew at you before you could run to her, you blocked it and turned to the lady.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?", you yelled at her, she looked at you, a helpless look in her eyes. She was confused. "EVACUATE!" At your yelling, Batman looked over to you two, his eyes widened as he noticed the lady. Batman quickly finished off the beast he was fighting then turned to the lady, a tendril rushed towards her. Batman rushed to grab her first, it was close, but he successfully caught her and dropped her nearby safely.

However, the tendril turned and rushed towards you. Too fast for you to react, all you could do was yell. "DAD!" The first time you had said that in such a long time.

It was too late. The tendril pierced through your stomach.

It went quiet. You couldn't hear or see anything. Couldn't hear Batman's yell of your name, couldn't see him rushing to you. All you could see was the black tendril in your stomach. your vision got hazy, and you dropped.

You were caught, but you couldn't see who. It was terrifying, the cold you felt. Did mother feel the same way?

There was a voice... Who's? Their tone was begging. Was there anyone who cared enough to beg you to stay?

You were so, so tired... Then you saw her....

Mother

"DAD!!" Your voice cut through the air; Batman looked to you. His eyes widened at the sight of you being pierced through.

"M/N!!" Batman didn't even know he could sound so desperate. His son was going to die, just like Jason. He rushed to your side, pulling off his cape to wrap the wound. when the cape was tight enough, he grabbed you, carrying you to a distant building, one untouched by the enemy. He had to fight his way through the area, it was difficult with you in his arms, but he made sure you didn't get hurt any more than you already had. "Don't you die on me, m/n! I promise to treat you better. Don't leave me, not like your mother". He mumbled pleas as he carried you, and even more after he set you down. After he was sure you were still breathing (Although shallow and rough) Batman spoke into the communication device all of his children shared. "M/n is injured. Clear your area and hurry to [-----]. I have him resting safely in an abandoned building, we need to take him back to the manor, I'm not sure how much longer he'll last". It was less than a minute before multiple worried voices came though the mic, promising to be there soon. Batman pushed the hair from your sweaty face, "I won't let you die". With that he rushed back to the thick of the battle.

It was less than 20 minutes later when the rest of the Batfamily arrived, with them all working together they were able to take down the beasts and the joker relatively quickly. As soon as the battle was over Nightwing turned to Batman.

"Where is he!? Where is M/n?!" Nightwing's voice was rushed and out of breath from the fight, the others behind him listened closely for Batman's answer, they were all in a similar state as Nightwing. Batman pointed to an abandoned building, still untouched by conflict. No words needed to be spoken; they all took off in that direction. However, they paused as a laugh cut through the air, they all looked over to the source, it was the Joker. In a weak voice, Joker spoke.

"Boom" At his word many nearby buildings exploded, including the one batman set you in.

"NO!" Red Hood yelled, he felt terrible, he took his anger for Batman out on you, his baby brother. The same brother he swore to protect. They all took off, rushing to the building, holding onto hope that you somehow survived. The building you were set in was completely destroyed, but they all keep searching, they needed proof you were truly gone.

Damian paused his search, before quickly moving stones. His sudden hurry caused the others to all join him. they found something...

bits and pieces of batman's cape, then.... an arm... your arm...

You were gone, and they never had the chance to apologize, to spend movie nights with you, to take you out to eat, to celebrate your birthday.

It only took your death for them realize they failed you.

Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when you’d come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he’d asked.

“For my birthday,” you’d said, turning once. “Is it too much?”

He’d shaken his head slowly. “It’s perfect.”

You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. You’d tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.

Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. There’s a party. You don’t know the details, but you know something’s being planned. You can feel it.

You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.

Bruce doesn’t know either.

The Batcave hums like a living thing.

Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comforting—if not for the tension threaded through it. You’re already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.

Babs’s voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.

“Alright,” she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. “Listen up.”

Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displays—an industrial complex sprawled beneath Gotham’s east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.

“This isn’t a smash-and-grab,” she continues. “This is a pressure cooker.”

She highlights the lower levels.

Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.

“That core?” she says. “

Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, we’re not talking a building-level blast. We’re talking a radius. People live three blocks out.”

Jason swears under his breath.

Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. “They’re running it hot.”

“They’re running it desperate,” Babs replies. “Someone wants it activated tonight. Whether it’s finished or not.”

Dick crosses his arms. “So we shut it down.”

“Yes,” Babs says. “But not cleanly.”

The map shifts again—automated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.

“Security is layered,” she explains.

“Mechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Steph—you’re crowd control topside. Duke, you’re cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dick—goons and internal lockdowns. Tim, you’re with me on system overrides.”

Her cursor pauses.

“Nightingale,” Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. “You’re the linchpin.”

You straighten slightly.

“You’ll breach the lower level,” Barbara continues. “

Manual access only. The failsafe is old tech—analog switches buried behind the core housing. You’ll have to get close.”

“How close?” Damian asks, sharp.

She exhales. “Close enough that if the converter surges before shutdown… you won’t have time to clear the blast zone.”

Silence.

You don’t move.

Don’t flinch.

You just nod once.

“I can do it,” you say.

Not bravado.

Not arrogance.

Just certainty.

Bruce’s gaze snaps to you. “We’ll find another way.”

“There isn’t one,” Babs cuts in gently but firmly. “I checked. Thrice.”

The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.

“The window is narrow,” she continues. “If Nightingale doesn’t flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.”

She pauses.

“This mission succeeds,” she says quietly, “or people die.”

Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.

“Then we succeed,” you say.

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Everyone moves fast. No heroics.”

You glance at him, softening just a fraction. “Always do.”

Babs's voice lowers, more human now. “Comms will be open the entire time. I’m with you every step.”

You look up at the screens.

At the red markers.

At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.

“Let’s go,” you say.

The cave roars to life.

And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightens—quiet, unnameable—as the mission begins to move toward you.

Gotham’s industrial quarter is alive with danger—steel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.

This isn’t a smash-and-grab.

It’s coordinated.

Compartmentalised.

Everyone has a role.

Everyone moves at once.

Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesn’t quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Tim’s fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Duke’s light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.

You’re everywhere at once—covering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where you’re needed most.

The stakes are high.

Hostages on-site.

You get it.

The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.

Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.

That’s when the floor shudders.

Not from the main charges.

This is deeper.

Hidden.

A failsafe.

“Oracle—” Bruce starts.

“I didn’t see that—oh god—delayed detonation, structural—Nightingale, MOVE—”

You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.

The explosion tears through the building like it’s made of paper.

You don’t feel pain at first.

Just impact.

Weightlessness.

Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.

Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.

You don’t scream.

You force yourself up.

The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.

Your vision blurs.

Your leg drags.

Something inside you is wrong—wet, hot, spilling.

“Nightingale, respond!” Oracle’s voice cracks for the first time.

“I’m—” You choke. Swallow blood. “I’m clear. Drive secured. Mission complete.”

You make it around the corner, out of immediate danger, and then your body gives up.

You slump against a concrete wall, sliding down until you’re sitting, knees bent awkwardly. When you look down, you finally see it.

The damage.

Shrapnel embedded deep in your abdomen.

Blood soaking through your suit, pooling beneath you.

You bring an ungloved hand to your stomach, only for it to turn into a wet burgundy colour.

“Oh,” you whisper, almost curious. “That’s… bad.”

Your hands shake as you press down, useless. The pain arrives in full then—white-hot, consuming, every nerve screaming at once.

Your breaths turn shallow, ragged.

Each one feels like it might be the last.

“Batman,” you say into the comms.

Once. Then again, weaker. “Batman.”

The comms erupt.

“Batman—what’s happening?” Dick. “Is anyone injured—” Steph.

He’s there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.

“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”

He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about it—but it’s slipping through his fingers.

There’s too much blood.

Your skin is already going cold.

“You finished the mission,” he says desperately. “You did it. Help is coming.”

You look at him, really look at him.

Your dad. The man who’s always saved everyone.

Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.

You’re so tired.

The world feels distant, almost like you’re underwater.

You think, fleetingly, about Jason—about how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.

You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.

Childlike. Instinctive.

He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your breathing stutters.

Your heart flutters, then slows.

Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.

“I’m here,” he sobs. “I’ve got you.

You manage the ghost of a smile

Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, breaking. “Stay with me.”

“Daddy,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.

“Am I gonna die?”

The comms are silent.

Everyone hears it.

“No,” he says, lying badly.

“Promise?”

He doesn't answer

You smile faintly. “I did it though, right?”

“You saved them,” he chokes. “You saved everyone.”

“That’s good,” you whisper. Your breath rattles. “That’s… really good.”

Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.

“Do not leave,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.

“I forbid it.”

You look at him.

Your little brother.

So angry.

So scared.

You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.

“You’re… so strong,” you murmur. “You’re gonna be better than all of us.”

“Say it later,” he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.

“Say it when we’re home.”

You try to breathe again.

You can’t.

Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.

“I love you,” you say—to all of them. “Hey, uh tell, tell Alfred I—”

Your heart stutters.

Once.

Twice.

Then stops.

A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.

Bruce feels it happen in his arms.

“No,” he whispers. “No—no—baby please—”

Your body goes limp.

The first thing they see is the blood.

Your blood.

It’s dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruce’s gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesn’t look real at first—too much, too still.

Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.

For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.

Dick is the first to arrive—and the first to understand.

He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesn’t quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruce’s face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.

“Oh,” he whispers. “No. No, no—Y/” He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.

Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain can’t process what his eyes are telling him.

Bruce looks up.

His face is wrecked—blood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.

He doesn’t say anything.

Because he doesn’t have to.

Jason’s breath punches out of him. “Bruce…?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. “Why isn't—why—what happened?”

Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground first—always the details—a crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruce’s arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.

“The fuck.” Tim says immediately.

Sharp. Panicked.

“No, that’s not—she’s just—she’s unconscious, right? She’s—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.

Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.

She sees Dick on his knees.

Jason frozen.

Tim retching.

Then she sees you.

Her hands fly to her mouth.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. “Oh my god, no—no—”

Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Steph’s wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cass’s own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, lifeless.

Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.

He takes one look and goes very, very still.

“She was just—” he starts, then stops.

Swallows.

“She was just talking.”

Damian makes a noise from beside you.

“Father,” he says, voice cracking. “Why is she not responding?”

Asking even though he knows the answer.

After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.

Just not when it's someone he loves.

Bruce finally moves then—just enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.

“She saved the mission,” Bruce says, hollow. “She saved everyone.”

The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.

Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. “That is not an answer.”

No one has one.

The sirens in the distance fade.

The fire dies down.

Gotham keeps breathing.

You however, don’t.

The Batcave has never felt so big.

Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.

He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.

“Oh,” Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.

His voice breaks completely. “My dear child…”

Bruce doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t look at anyone.

He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.

Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrong—like a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.

Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.

Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Jason doesn’t move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.

His eyes never leave your face.

Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like he’s going to touch your shoulder—then stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.

“I was supposed to get there faster,” he says softly. “I should’ve—”

Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.

Alfred places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, devastating.

“Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “You may let her rest now.”

Bruce doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t move.

He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruins—like if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.

And none of them are ready for that.

Damian does not collapse when it happens.

Not in the tunnel.

Not in the Cave.

Not when Alfred’s voice breaks.

Not when Bruce doesn’t move.

He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like he’s waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.

When no one does—when no one can—Damian simply turns and leaves.

No one stops him.

He opens the door to your room.

It still smells like you.

It’s subtle—fabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he can’t place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.

Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.

Damian holds her to his heart reverently.

Your bed is made.

Too neatly.

Alfred must have done it.

The dress is gone.

He notices that immediately.

For a split second, irrational hope flares—you’re wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.

Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.

That’s when he sees it.

The Polaroid.

It’s crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.

He pulls it free with shaking fingers.

It’s the two of you, squeezed into the frame. You’re perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like you’ve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers this—remember you laughing because he “looked like a pissed-off cat.”

His breath stutters.

He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.

“You promised,” he whispers.

His voice cracks on the second word.

The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.

Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sister’s bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.

Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.

But not to grief.

The world doesn’t find out right away.

For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the cave—sealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.

Bruce doesn’t release a statement.

Wayne Enterprises goes dark.

The Watchtower runs on autopilot.

Dick is unreachable.

Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.

In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.

People go to work.

Kids go to school.

News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.

Your name doesn’t exist on the ticker.

Yet.

And then, suddenly, it does.

The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.

The television is already on when it happens.

Dinah isn’t really watching it—just background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollie’s voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.

The anchor changes.

Dinah glances up without thinking.

It’s Iris.

She’s dressed in black.

Something cold drops straight through Dinah’s chest before a single word is spoken.

Iris’s hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expression—usually warm, composed, unshakeable—is fractured.

There’s a pause.

Too long.

Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.

“It is with a heavy heart,” Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, “that I inform you all that one of America’s most beloved young women—”

Dinah’s hand stills on the counter.

“—daughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayne—”

The room tilts.

The cloth slips from Dinah’s fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.

“—has tragically passed away.”

Dinah stares at the screen.

The words don’t make sense.

They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesn’t speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.

Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.

“According to officials,” she continues, slower now, careful, “Her death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.”

Suicide.

The word lands like a gunshot.

Dinah’s breath leaves her all at once. “No,” she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. “No, that’s not—”

Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.

“Y/N Wayne was more than a public figure,” she says. “She was… she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

Dinah’s knees buckle.

She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.

Iris looks down at her notes, then back up—and she’s crying now.

She doesn’t hide it.

Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.

“Those of us who knew her personally,” Iris says, choking, “knew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of people—especially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.”

“I loved her,” Iris admits, voice barely holding together. “She loved my family. And today—today the world is quieter without her.”

Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingers—not cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.

The broadcast fades to footage of you.

Photos.

Videos.

You laughing at a gala.

You and Cassandra in your father's arms .

You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged there—because you did.

Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.

“That’s—” His voice cracks. “Dinah, that’s not real. That’s not—”

She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. “She was here,” Dinah whispers. “Ollie, she was here two nights ago.”

Ollie freezes.

The memory hits them both at once.

You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollie’s lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.

I’ll grab them after a mission, you’d said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.

Dinah’s gaze snaps to the side table.

The AirPods case sits there.

Exactly where you left it.

“Oh my god,” Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. “She was coming back.”

Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.

Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.

“She was supposed to come back.”

The television keeps playing in the background—other anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.

The world keeps turning.

But in the penthouse, time stops.

The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.

Not delayed—stalled.

Bruce’s chair is empty, again.

At first it’s irritation.

Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guy’s already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.

“We can’t keep waiting,” Guy mutters. “The agenda’s stacked, and Bats doesn’t own the clock.”

“He owns this room,” Hal replies automatically—then stops. Because even he doesn’t fully believe that right now.

Something feels wrong.

Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasn’t said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands haven’t stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.

A heartbeat.

A familiar one.

It stopped a day and a bit ago.

Abruptly.

Completely.

While he was in his sleep.

He told himself it was interference.

Space does weird things to sound.

Magic does worse.

He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.

J’onn feels it before the screen turns on.

The emotional temperature of the room drops—sharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.

Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.

The broadcast flickers to life.

Iris West.

Black dress.

Hands folded too tightly.

The shock is deafening.

Every single one of them locks in.

Barry is already on his feet. “Why is Iris—”

The name hits.

The ruling hits harder.

Suicide.

No one moves.

No one breathes.

It’s like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.

Hal’s boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. “That’s—no. That’s not—” He drags a hand down his face. “Oh God, that’s Bruce’s kid.”

Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Diana’s eyes widen—not in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.

Clark staggers back half a step.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Then, quietly—devastatingly— “I felt it.”

Every head snaps toward him.

Superman's voice shakes. “I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… silence. Like something vanished from the world.”

His hands curl into fists. “Her heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldn’t get there in time.”

Barry swallows hard. “Clark…”

Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.

“This world does not spare the gentle.” She says solemnly.

No one argues.

They all look, again, at Bruce’s empty seat.

“That’s why,” Hal says hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t answered. That’s why Dick vanished.”

Diana closes her eyes. “He has lost a child.”

The Watchtower remains silent.

No Bats. No Batman. Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.

At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.

Before that though, the Titans’ tower felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Too still.

Like the air’s gone bad.

Dick hasn’t answered in days.

That alone has everyone on edge.

Wally’s pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like she’s waiting for it to explain itself. Roy’s sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

Donna’s phone buzzes.

Once.

She glances down without thinking.

And then she gasps—sharp, loud, visceral.

“What?” Roy asks immediately.

Donna doesn’t answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.

“Oh no…no, no, no, no” she whispers.

They’re on their feet before she even says it.

She turns the phone so they can see.

Y/N WAYNE DEAD. GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER

Someone turns on the TV. It doesn’t matter who.

Every channel. Every headline.

Every word is unbearable.

The understand now why Dick went off the grid.

His sister was dead.

Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.

The volume is low, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.

“No,” Jon says immediately. “No, that’s not—”

Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.

His big sister. Gone.

“She wouldn’t,” he sobs. “She wouldn’t leave. Mom that's not fair.”

Lois’s voice breaks. “I know, sweetheart.”

“They said she did it to herself,” Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell us?”

Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. “Sometimes people hurt in ways they don’t know how to explain.” She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.

You died in combat.

Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. “She was my big sister,” he whispers. “She was supposed to be there.”

Lois can’t answer that.

No one can.

The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.

Not quiet—muted.

Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gotham’s skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.

Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.

Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.

Every step echoes too loudly.

Every whisper feels like an intrusion.

The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.

Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests there—closed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.

A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.

You as a child, perched on Bruce’s shoulders, laughing. You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees. You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists. You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected. You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.

You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her. You at galas.

You with your family.

You alive.

Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesn’t understand. Steph’s jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.

Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Duke’s hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles threaten to pop. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like he’s only halfway present in his own body.

Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasn’t stopped shaking since he walked in.

The Justice League fills row after row—Clark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jon’s face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barry’s leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthur’s massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. J’onn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.

The Titans occupy an entire section—Donna’s expression is carved from stone, Wally’s leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Kori’s eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Roy’s jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if he’s afraid to blink.

Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.

When Bruce enters, the room changes.

He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.

He holds Damian’s hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.

Bruce does not look at anyone.

He looks at you.

At the casket.

At the photos.

At the life he is being asked to survive.

He and Damian take their places in the front row.

Bruce does not let go of his son’s hand.

The service begins.

Words are spoken—formal, respectful, distant.

Achievements are listed.

Foundations named.

Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.

But it’s the slideshow that breaks people.

Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.

Dick is the first to stand.

He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.

“Y/N was my sister,” he says, voice already splintering. “My baby sister.”

A photo flashes behind him—Dick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruce’s arm, two years old and giggling.

“I was supposed to protect her,” Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. “That was my job. I thought— I really thought I’d always be there in time.”

His shoulders collapse inward.

“She was everything good,” he sobs. “Everything bright. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her.”

He can’t finish.

Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like he’s drowning.

Tim stands next.

He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.

“In the beginning,” Tim says quietly, “me and Y/N didn’t actually get along that well.”

“I thought she was too stuck up,” he continues, voice shaking. “She thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.”

A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.

He swallows.

“I’m happy to say we don’t think like that anymore.”

His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.

“Y/N wa—” He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'

Breath hitching.

“Is— is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.”

A photo flashes—Tim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.

“She isn’t just my sister,” Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, “she’s my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever had. I think I’m so privileged to have known her personally.”

His voice breaks completely.

“I think— I think losing someone you love this much,” Tim continues, “it’s like losing a tooth. At first there’s blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, there’s just… this empty space.”

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.

“And you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.”

The slideshow changes—your handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Tim’s bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.

“I see her everywhere,” Tim whispers. “In the pictures on the walls. In the book she didn’t finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it… but all I could think about was the world we built together.”

He steps away, shoulders shaking.

Damian follows.

He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.

“This morning,” Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, “I walked into my ukhti’s room expecting her to be there.”

A photo appears—Damian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.

“I went there instinctually,” he continues. “I thought I would hear her say, ‘Damian, what do you want?’”

His throat tightens.

“But there was nothing.”

His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.

“Her room is next to mine,” Damian says. “Normally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for… defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.”

Silence stretches.

“I heard nothing.”

Bruce stands last.

The room feels like it caves inward.

“My daughter,” he begins.

The word lands like a blow.

“I buried my parents,” Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “And now I am burying my child.”

The room breaks.

Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barry’s shoulder.

“She made this world better,” Bruce says. “And I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.”

The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.

Smaller.

More devastating.

The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.

Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.

“I am so very sorry, Master Bruce,” he says softly.

Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.

“I wasn’t supposed to outlive her,” he whispers.

Alfred bows his head.

Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.

The world moves on.

But something essential has ended.

And nothing will ever recover from it.

A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.

The walk towards Y/N’s room wasn’t that complicated for Jason. As both of them shared the same wing, even though he died. Alfred remained his room vacant up until he came back because the butler knew how important that fact. When one father refused a daughter, one child stepped up. Because for alfred, there were only 2 kids stayed there. Y/N and Jason, whom didn’t want to be separated together years ago. And Jason is thankful with that fact,as he now decides to talk to her.

When he came face to face to her door, he noticed the lack of scattered stickers and glittering gel-pens in its surface. Rather, there is only one thing that mark it as Y/N’s room—the nameplate, which is elegant engraved her name. Y/N Wayne. Compared to what he remembers, this door looks plain as if it was Bruce who owns it.

KNOCK!KNOCK!KNOCK!

Silence……

The door clicked softly as Jason stepped inside Y/N’s room. The quiet hit him immediately. Not the comfortable kind of quiet that sometimes settled in the manor when everyone was busy elsewhere. This one felt… hollow. Like the room had been emptied of something important and never quite filled again.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely.

“…You know,” he said casually, “most people say ‘come in’ before someone actually comes in.”

Y/N sat near the window. She hadn’t turned when he entered. Her posture was straight, rigid in a way that reminded Jason of Bruce when he was deep in thought. A book rested open in her hands, but the page hadn’t moved. Jason noticed that immediately.He studied her for a moment. Then pushed himself off the door frame and stepped farther inside.

“Alright,” he said lightly. “We’re skipping the greeting phase today.”

No response.

The rain outside tapped gently against the tall windows, filling the silence between them.

Jason glanced around the room briefly.

Too empty.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Most rooms in Wayne Manor were cluttered with things—Bruce’s ridiculous antiques, Alfred’s decorations, random artifacts Dick had dragged in over the years. But Y/N’s room looked stripped down to the bones.

Bed.

Desk.

Books.

And the easel in the corner.

Jason’s gaze lingered on the covered canvas before drifting back to her.

“So,” he said, shifting his weight, “you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Y/N slowly turned a page in the book.

“…You’re not even reading that.” Jason raised an eyebrow.

“I am.” Her eyes lifted slightly toward him.

“Sure you are.” Jason let out a quiet scoff.

He walked a little closer now, stopping beside the desk.

“You’ve been back two days,” he continued. “And you’ve barely said ten words to anyone.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Jason ran a hand through his hair.

“Look, I know the whole Wayne family dynamic isn’t exactly warm and emotionally healthy,” he added dryly, “but this silent ghost routine you’re doing is getting weird.”

“There’s nothing wrong.” Her fingers tightened faintly around the book.

“You dyed your hair white overnight.” Jason tilted his head.

Silence.

“You barely ate dinner.”

Nothing.

“You haven’t looked Bruce in the eye once since you got back.”

Y/N closed the book. The quiet click echoed softly in the room. She lifted her gaze to him.

Jason froze slightly. There was something in her expression that hadn’t been there before. Not anger. Not sadness. Something colder. Something different.

“I’m fine,” she said again.

Jason studied her face carefully.

“No,” he said after a moment. “You’re not.”

“Please leave.” Her eyes lowered again. The words were quiet. But final.

Jason stood there for a moment longer.

Something about the way she said it stirred an old memory in the back of his mind.

Because once—

A long time ago—

She had never told him to leave. Back then, she had followed him everywhere.

Wayne Manor, Years Ago

Jason had been fourteen.

And absolutely convinced he was the best babysitter in the world.

“C’mon,” he whispered dramatically, crouched behind the couch. “Stay low.”

A small giggle answered him.

Tiny hands clutched the back of his jacket.

Baby Y/N crouched beside him, her wide blue eyes shining with excitement.

She couldn’t have been older than three.

Jason peeked over the couch like he was planning a military ambush.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Operation Hide from Alfred is officially underway.”

Behind them, Y/N tried very hard not to laugh. It didn’t work. Her tiny giggle betrayed them instantly. From across the room, Alfred’s voice came with calm inevitability.

“Master Jason.”

Jason groaned quietly.

“Traitor,” he whispered to Y/N.

She burst into laughter.

A moment later Alfred appeared in the doorway, arms folded behind his back in perfect butler posture.

“May I ask,” he said calmly, “why the young miss is hiding behind the furniture?”

Jason straightened up immediately.

“Training exercise.”

Alfred raised one eyebrow.

“For what purpose?”

Jason placed a dramatic hand on Y/N’s shoulder.

“She’s learning stealth.”

Y/N clapped her hands happily.

“Steff!”

Jason blinked.

“…Close enough.”

Alfred sighed softly.

“I see.”

He stepped forward and gently lifted Y/N into his arms.

The toddler grabbed his tie immediately.

Jason followed them across the room.

“Hey, give her back.”

Alfred glanced down at the girl, who had already begun pulling at his sleeve.

“I believe the young miss requires a nap.”

“No way. She’s wide awake.” Jason shook his head

“Wake!” Y/N nodded vigorously.

“See?” Jason grinned proudly.

“She has not slept since early morning.” Alfred looked unconvinced.

“She’s building stamina.” Jason shrugged.

Alfred gave him a long look.

“Master Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“You are fourteen.”

Jason crossed his arms defensively.

“So?”

“You are not raising the child.”

Jason hesitated.

“…Okay but I’m doing a really good job.”

Y/N reached toward him.

Jason immediately took her from Alfred’s arms.

“See? She likes me better.”

The toddler wrapped her arms around his neck and giggled.

“Very well.” Alfred sighed.

Jason grinned triumphantly. Then Y/N suddenly grabbed a handful of his hair.

Jason yelped.

“Hey—!”

Her tiny voice rang with laughter.

Jason rubbed his head.

“…Alright. She’s violent.”

Alfred looked entirely unsurprised.

Jason adjusted her on his hip.

“Okay, new plan,” he said, walking toward the hallway.

“Where are you taking her?” Alfred asked.

Jason shrugged.

“Field trip.”

“To where?”

Jason thought for a second.

“…The Batcave.”

Alfred closed his eyes briefly.

“That is absolutely not happening.”

Jason grinned.

“Too late.”

He ran down the hallway with Y/N giggling loudly in his arms.

Later that evening…

Jason sat cross-legged on the floor of the manor library. Y/N sat beside him surrounded by books twice her size. She was carefully turning pages upside down. Jason watched her with a smile.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re gonna be smarter than Bruce someday.”

“Bru?” Y/N looked up at him.

“Yeah. Him.” Jason nodded.

“Jay.” She reached over and grabbed his sleeve.

“You just say my name?” Jason blinked.

“Jay.” She nodded proudly.

Jason grinned so wide his face hurt.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly.

“That’s me.”

PRESENT, WAYNE MANOR

Then, Jason blinked once. The memory faded. He was standing in the same room now. Except the girl who once followed him everywhere sat across from him like a stranger.

He looked at her quietly for a moment.

“…You used to call me Jay,” he said suddenly.

Y/N froze.

Her fingers tightened slightly against the book.

Jason watched her carefully.

“You were like… three,” he continued. “Could barely talk.”

Her eyes lowered.

“You followed me everywhere.”

Silence.

Jason smiled faintly.

“You used to think Alfred was the villain because he made you take naps.”

Still nothing.

But something in her expression shifted—just slightly.

Jason noticed.

He stepped toward the door.

“…You know where the cave is,” he said quietly.

He opened the door.

Then paused.

“You don’t have to pretend around me.”

For a moment, it looked like she might say something. Her lips parted slightly. But the words never came.

Jason waited. Hoping that she will say what she want to say.But there is none, then he nodded once to himself. And stepped out into the hallway. The door closed softly behind him.

Inside the room, Y/N remained standing near the window. Her eyes drifted slowly toward the covered canvas in the corner. And somewhere deep in her chest—

The memory she hadn’t allowed herself to touch in years stirred quietly. Because she cant be vulnerable again.

Tim Drake had always believed that if you stared at a problem long enough, it would eventually discover. Most problems did.

People lied, but patterns did not. Lies broke under pressure. Numbers didn’t. Tim had built his entire method around that truth—repeat the facts, sort the details, follow the trail until the shape of the thing beneath it began to emerge.

But this case had not been discovered. It had only gone quiet.

The Batcave was almost completely dark except for the glow of the monitors, which washed the cavern in cold blue light and made everything look harsher than it was. Every reflective surface held a ghost of the screen. Every shadow seemed deeper than it should have been. The cave had the kind of silence that made even the smallest sound feel intrusive: the low hum of servers, the click of keys, the occasional whir of a scanner finishing another impossible search.

Tim sat hunched over the main console, shoulders tight, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug that had long since gone cold. There were three empty cups beside him, a stack of printed reports to his left, and half a dozen digital windows open across the Batcomputer in front of him.

Eighty-nine bodies found in Gotham. While the others are in Metropolis. That was where the investigation had started. Now it had become something far worse.

He had thought the first few days would reveal a clean connection. One organization. One technique. One motive. But the deeper he dug, the more the case seemed to split into smaller and smaller contradictions. The victims were too different to be chosen for status. Too similar to be random. The locations were too spread out to be accidental, yet too carefully placed to be ordinary dumping grounds. The chemical residue was consistent, but not enough to trace to a single supplier. The burn marks at the temples were identical, but the method behind them looked controlled rather than chaotic.

It was like someone had committed a dozen crimes using one hand and then erased the hand itself. Tim brought up the latest autopsy again and zoomed in on the image.

The victim had been about sixteen years old at the time of death. Male. Unknown name. The face had been blurred for the report, but the skull scan was clear enough. Two circular burns sat at the temples, symmetrical and measured. The tissue around them was damaged in a pattern that was too precise to be accidental. The current had not been applied like punishment. It had been applied like an instrument.

Tim stared at the image for a few seconds longer than he meant to. Then he whispered, mostly to himself, “This was done on purpose. But what they want to gain from this?”

Jason’s voice came from somewhere behind him.

“Did you just now figure that out?”

Tim did not turn around. “I’m working.”

“Yeah. Violently.”

Tim ignored him and opened the next file.

Victim number twenty-three.

Female.

Seventeen years old.

Burn marks. Neural damage. Chemical traces.

Next file.

Victim number forty-one.

Same thing.

Next.

Same.

And again.

And again.

The repetition was starting to wear on him in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. It was the sameness of it. The way every body carried the same signature but none of the ordinary tells that would let him build a clean profile. There was no obvious organ removal. No ransom demand. No sexual violence. No public message. Nothing that fit the standard categories of serial crime.

No, this was different.

This was dangerous.

Not even the bodies themselves looked right.

Some had remained unnaturally preserved, as if the chemicals had partially interrupted decomposition. Others had turned brittle and dry in a way that made them resemble specimens rather than victims. The medical examiner’s notes kept circling around the same phrase: exposure to unidentified compound. But unidentified was a cowardly word, Tim thought. It meant the lab had run out of things to compare it to. It meant science had hit a wall. He hated walls.

He opened the chemical report again and ran the compound through the system one more time. Nothing.

He expanded the search radius.Nothing.

He tried historical city records, private pharmaceutical imports, academic research inventories, hospital supply chains, military surplus auctions, black-market seizures, prison contraband logs, shipping manifests. Nothing.

Then he tried the less obvious routes. Abandoned labs. Closed clinics. Failed biomedical startups. University research grants that had vanished under shell companies.

A handful of documents surfaced. He followed them. They all ended in dead air. Bankruptcy. Sealed records. Destroyed archives. Companies dissolved in paper only, long after the people behind them had already disappeared.

Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair for a moment.

Three nights.

That was how long he had been on the case without real sleep.

At some point, Bruce had brought him a sandwich that he never ate. Dick had checked in twice. Alfred had left tea on the edge of the workstation without commenting. Jason had been hovering in and out of the cave all evening, pretending not to be worried while obviously watching Tim wear himself down by inches.

Jason pushed off the railing above the console and walked closer.

“You’re going to collapse,” he said.

“Not now.”

“That’s what people say right before they collapse.”

Tim finally glanced up at him. “And yet, somehow, I remain standing.”

Jason gave him a flat look. “Because caffeine is holding your skeleton together.”

Tim turned back to the screen before the argument could go anywhere useful.

He pulled up the body locations again.

The factory.

The swamp.

The old maintenance corridor under Burnside.

The flooded service tunnel near the border.

The abandoned warehouse.

The old train access shaft.

Each one had looked random at first. Separate crimes in separate places. But when he overlaid them on Gotham’s underground map, the picture changed.

He zoomed in.

Then again.

And again.

Jason stopped talking when he saw the screen.

The markers were not scattered.

They were aligned.

Not perfectly, but enough to make Tim’s stomach tighten with the sense that he had finally brushed against something that knew how to hide.

Each body site sat above an old access point. Sewer routes. Buried service corridors. Forgotten tunnel systems sealed off decades ago when Gotham had renovated over itself without ever really cleaning anything out.

Tim sat up straighter.

“That’s not a coincidence,” he murmured.

Bruce, who had been standing quietly in the deeper shadow of the cave, moved closer.

“What are you seeing?”

Tim enlarged the map and layered a historical city blueprint over the modern layout. The older map was badly scanned, edges frayed and text half-lost, but the tunnel lines still showed up beneath the newer streets like veins under skin.

“Someone is using old underground routes,” Tim said.

Dick, who had just entered the cave from the far stairwell, stopped to look.

“How old?”

Tim adjusted the file and checked the source date.

“Old enough that the city forgot most of them existed.”

Damian came to stand beside Bruce, eyes narrowing at the screen.

“Can you trace where they begin?”

“Not yet,” Tim said. “But the tunnel system is larger than it should be. A lot larger.”

Jason folded his arms. “Great. Gotham’s got a secret basement.”

Tim didn’t smile. He brought up another layer and pointed to the pattern of recovery sites.

“The bodies are being left where access is easy from underneath. That means whoever’s moving them knows the tunnels.”

“Or built them,” Dick said.

“Or inherited them,” Bruce muttered.

Tim was already moving on. He opened the victim files again and filtered them by age.

Twelve to twenty.

Every single one.

He then filtered by social class, neighborhood, school enrollment, known family status, homelessness, juvenile records, and prior disappearance reports. The results remained maddeningly broad. Upper-middle-class children. Runaways. Street kids. Students from private schools. Kids from shelters. Children whose names had made police reports and children whose names had only made a parent’s voice crack on the phone once before the case went cold.

Not one of them fit neatly into a single category.

“Whatever the selection process was,” Tim said slowly, “it wasn’t based on money. Or family. Or criminal history.”

Jason frowned. “Then what?”

Tim stared at the list for a long time before answering.

“They were chosen because they were available.”

The cave went quiet. That was the worst kind of answer. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was practical. It implied patience.

Planning.

A system.

Tim opened the neural scan files again and overlaid the temple burns from each victim. The symmetry held. Every single one. The marks had been placed with a level of precision that made him think of lab instruments rather than improvised torture.

“Electrical stimulation,” he said. “Repetitive. Deliberate. Probably aimed at the brain stem or frontal regions.”

Jason let out a low whistle. “You say that like it’s better.”

“It’s not,” Tim said.

He zoomed in on one scan, then another, comparing the tissue damage. The lesions clustered in the same general zones across all the bodies, which meant the method had been controlled and consistent. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Knew enough not to kill too quickly. Knew enough to keep the body alive through repeated sessions, if the autopsy was correct. This was not street-level violence.

This was experimentation.

Tim felt his jaw tighten. He opened the toxicology report again. The chemical traces in the blood were still the strangest part because they were not lethal in isolation. They were adjunct compounds. Support chemicals. The sort of thing used to stabilize subjects, alter neural thresholds, or keep a body from going into shock during repeated procedures.

He stared at that detail for a long time.

Then he began searching for methods.

Not suspects.

Methods.

Research into neural induction. Experimental brain stimulation. Old case studies. Medical journals. Military papers. Private research submissions. Anything involving electrical conditioning or behavioral alteration.

Most of it went nowhere.

A few papers mentioned techniques too abstract to be useful. Others were redacted. A couple were old enough that the terminology had changed, making cross-reference nearly useless. Tim chased one line into an academic archive and found a dead lab that had closed eight years before the first body surfaced.

He leaned back hard in his chair and exhaled through his nose.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Be obscure.”

He started searching more broadly. Not just science. But also History. Urban reports. Old Gotham folklore.

The city loved its myths, and if one thing Tim had learned from Gotham history it was that myth and crime often occupied the same room, just wearing different masks.

At first the search was useless. Ghost stories. Sewer monsters. Church rumors. Local headlines about missing children and abandoned houses. He almost discarded the whole line of inquiry until one name kept surfacing in old clippings and historical notes from different eras.

Not a person.

A thing.

A bat.

Not Batman. Not the hero. Something older. More distorted. More symbolic.

Barbatos.

Tim read the name once and frowned. Then he read it again. The reference did not say the creature was real. It did not claim proof. It sat in the files like a small portion of early Gotham superstition, the kind of thing wealthy founders and forgotten occultists might have whispered about when they wanted a story to explain the dark shape their city cast over itself. A bat-like figure lurking beneath the city. A myth tied to ancient fear. A symbol that appeared in old gothic references and obscure cult-like writings.

Tim’s eyes moved down the page. The name was mentioned alongside a handful of other obscure notes about hidden societies, ritual language, and a cult fascination with monstrous transformation. He frowned harder.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Jason looked over. “What?”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He opened another archived file and then another, just to make sure he wasn’t forcing the pattern where it did not belong. It was still there.

Not proof of anything supernatural. Not proof of demons, not proof of a bat god, not proof that the city had literally been worshipping monsters beneath its foundations. Or that someone is worshipping it. But enough to make the investigation feel newly wrong.

Enough to suggest that someone, somewhere, had built a belief system around something symbolic and ugly and ancient. Something scientific in its language and religious in its certainty. The language in the file wavered between obsession and doctrine. Humans had always liked to dress cruelty up as purpose.

Tim stared at the screen. If someone had built a group around that kind of mythology, then the bodies might not be random at all. They might be part of a ritualized experiment. A program. A cult with lab equipment. Or a scientific organization with the mind of a cult. Either way, it would explain why the trail kept folding inward instead of outward.

Jason read over his shoulder and made a face.

“So your big answer is… spooky underground science club?”

Tim gave him a tired look. “It’s one possibility.”

Dick crossed his arms. “You think they’re experimenting on kids for some kind of belief system?”

“I think,” Tim said slowly, “that whoever’s behind this is organized enough to hide eighty-nine bodies, control chemical supply lines, use underground routes, and keep all of it invisible for ten years.”

Damian’s expression had gone colder than usual.

“So not random criminals.”

“No.”

Tim brought the files together on the screen again. The facts lined up too neatly now. The ages. The burns. The chemicals. The tunnels. The missing records. The repeated preservation patterns. The long delay before the bodies resurfaced. It all suggested an operation with infrastructure, not impulse. He sat very still for a moment.

Then he said, almost to himself, “This is either a scientific group that went completely off the rails…”

He let the sentence hang there.

Jason frowned.

“…or just a cult.”

Tim nodded once.

“Or both.”

Bruce did not speak, but the shift in his posture was immediate. The room had changed around the conclusion, as if the air itself had grown sharper. A simple serial-murder case was one thing. A hidden organization with a theological obsession and experimental methods was another. Gotham had always tolerated monsters. It was the systems that were hardest to fight.

Tim stared at the last open window on the screen, where the old Gothic myth of Barbatos still sat among the references like a splinter beneath the skin.

No proof. No certainty. Just a shape. A pattern. A bad feeling with enough evidence behind it to become dangerous. He closed the file slowly.

Then he looked at Bruce.

“I don’t think this is over,” he said quietly.

Bruce’s voice was low.

“No.”

Tim swallowed and glanced back at the monitors, at the map, at the bodies that had turned into clues and clues that had turned into something darker.

“Whatever this is,” he said, “it’s bigger than a murder case.”

Jason let out a humorless breath.

“Great. Because Gotham really needed another nightmare.”

Tim didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop looking at the screen. At the tunnels. At the bodies. At the old name buried in the archives like a buried tooth.

Not proof of a demon. Not yet. Just the first hint that whoever was doing this believed in something monstrous enough to make science itself feel like worship, but tim have a bigger question in his mind.

“Do you think they are successful on what they want to achieve?” Tim asked to everyone.

“Why do you asked that?” Bruce looked at him.

“Because, why would they dispose the body if not?”

notes: hellooo its mee again!!! the story is slowly progressing now! let me hear your thoughts on this one too. And thank you for reading :)))

And the worst part?

Bruce hadn’t even said it like it was a punishment. No, he said it like he was doing him a favour. 

Measured in that careful, controlled way that never left room for argument. Not because it was loud, but because it sounded so certain.

So final.

Like this wasn’t a discussion. Like it had never been one to begin with.

He’d spoken like he was stating a fact. Like he was doing the responsible thing. Like this was something obvious. Something anyone with sense would agree with.

Like Jason was the only one too stubborn to see it.

He’d gone on about how it wasn’t a decision made capriciously. That only people who had their heads screwed on right were fit for this line of work.

Like Jason didn’t.

Like Jason couldn’t.

That part stuck longer than it should have. Because it wasn’t just about the streets anymore, was it?

It wasn’t just about patrols or criminals or missions. It was about him.

About who Bruce thought he was becoming.

Or maybe—worse—who Bruce thought he’d always been.

Like Jason wasn’t stable enough. Like he couldn’t be trusted to draw the line in the right place. Like he was already halfway past it.

So Jason didn’t argue. Didn’t even trust himself to talk about it without emotions flaring up even more.

He just… left. Walked out without slamming the door, without looking back, without saying anything that might crack something open that couldn’t be fixed.

And then he kept walking.

At first, it was just to get distance. To put space between himself and that suffocating, controlled quiet Bruce always carried with him.

But then the walking didn’t stop.

Three hours of it—aimless, restless, burning off the anger that refused to settle no matter how hard he tried to outrun it. He didn’t even realize where his feet were taking him until the buildings changed.

Until the streets got narrower. Dirtier. Familiar.

Crime Alley. Of course.

HIs old neighbourhood. His home.

Memories didn’t just resurface—they hit. Hard and fast and uninvited. His parents. Their smiles. The way everything had ended too abruptly.

Just as he was about to leave, it turns out, his mother’s friend, Mrs Walker, spotted him, and called him up to her apartment. She had kept a box of his family’s possessions, just in case he ever came back. 

Thank god she did.

Jason hadn’t said it out loud, but yeah. He was grateful.

Because inside that box were pieces of something he thought he’d lost for good. Something he never thought he’d be able to get.

The last pieces of them. His life before meeting Bruce. Before Robin. Before everything.

Now he sat on his bed, the box open in front of him.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that pressed in on you if you let it.

Carefully, Jason reached inside, fingers hesitant, like the past might shatter if he handled it too roughly.

He pulled out a photo frame. And there they were.

Him. His mum. His dad.

Frozen in a moment of something warm and whole and alive—a moment that felt so distant now it might as well have belonged to strangers. It left something bitter in his chest. Something that didn’t go away when he exhaled. Because that morning’s conversation—if it could even be called that—kept replaying in his head.

Over.

And over.

And over.

How the hell could Bruce decide something like that on his own? Pull him off Robin duties like Jason was just—what? A liability? A ticking bomb that was waiting to go off?

They were supposed to be partners. Partners. Not… this. Whatever this was.

So what if he’d been a little rough the past few nights? So what if he’d pushed further—crossed that invisible line Bruce was so obsessed with drawing, like it meant something, like it protected anything? So what if he’d gone a little harder on a few lowlifes, finished things with more force than Bruce would’ve liked?

We don’t cross that line.

They’ll go to prison.

There are procedures even we have to follow.

No.

They deserved it.

Every single one of them. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t senseless.

They made their choices. They knew what they were doing. The deals, the threats, the violence, the moments where they looked at another person and decided that their life, their safety, their fear didn’t matter.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

Knew people would get hurt. Knew people did get hurt. And they did it anyway. Over and over again, like it was nothing. Like the consequences didn’t apply to them.

And Jason was supposed to what—hold back?

Pull his punches? Make sure they walked away with nothing worse than a few bruises and a court date they wouldn’t even take seriously?

And prison?

Prison wasn’t going to change them.

It never did. When has it ever?

It wasn’t some kind of turning point. It wasn’t redemption. It was just… time. Time they waited out. Time they endured. Time that passed until they could walk right back out those doors and pick up exactly where they left off.

When had it ever been different? When had it ever worked? They walked in, did their time, walked out—and went right back to it.

Back to the same streets. The same crimes. The same victims.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A cycle so predictable it might as well have been scripted.

And everyone just accepted it. Called it justice. Called it enough. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Not for the people who had to live with what was done to them. Not for the ones who didn’t get to walk away at all. Because the system let them come back. Gave them chance after chance after chance—

While the people they hurt didn’t even get one.

Unless someone finally made it stick. Made it so they couldn’t come back. Couldn’t hurt anyone else. Couldn’t keep walking through life like the damage they caused was something temporary, something that could just… fade. Something permanent. Something that actually meant something.

“For every action in this universe, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Consequences, Robin. There’s no escaping them.”

Bruce’s voice echoed in his head, steady and unwavering. Certain. And it only made something in Jason twist tighter.

He let out a quiet, humorless breath, something bitter curling sharp in his chest.

No escaping them?

Then what about the ones who did? What about the ones who always did?

What about the bastards like Felipe—men with power, money, influence. With the kind of power that twisted everything around them until consequences became optional.

Until justice became something you could avoid.

They didn’t get dragged through the system. They owned it. Walked through it untouched, unbothered, like it was built to protect them instead.

And what about the people they left behind?

What about people like Gloria? People who didn’t have power. Didn’t have a voice. Didn’t have anyone coming to save them. People who got cornered—backed into spaces so small, so suffocating, that there was nowhere left to go.

No way out. No way to fight back. No way to win.

Until the only control they had left… was how it ended. Because living stopped being living to them. It became survival. Then it became pain. Then it became something worse than either of those—something that dragged on and on until even breathing felt like a punishment.

Because the people who did that to them—

The ones responsible—were still out there. Still walking free. Still laughing, still breathing, still living their lives like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t happened. And Jason was supposed to believe in a system that allowed that?

He was supposed to stand there, hold back, trust that things would “work out” the right way? That consequences would come eventually?

When?

After how many more victims? After how many more lives ruined? After how many more people like Gloria decided that the only way to escape the pain was to stop existing in it?

His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his palms. Bruce talked about consequences like they were inevitable.

Like they were fair. Like the world actually worked that way. Like everything balanced out in the end. Like if you just waited long enough, trusted hard enough, believed in it enough—things would right themselves.

But Jason had seen it. Lived it. He knew better. Consequences didn’t come for everyone. Not equally. Not fairly. Not even consistently.

Sometimes they came too hard, too fast. Crushing the people who didn’t deserve it. And sometimes… Sometimes they didn’t come at all. Not for the ones who should’ve been buried under them.

So if the world wasn’t going to make things right… Then maybe someone had to. And maybe that someone… couldn’t afford to hesitate.

Because who was Bruce to stand there and talk about right and wrong like it was that simple? Who was Bruce to believe in something that kept letting people fall through the cracks? Who was he to tell Jason to hold back—

When holding back never saved anyone?

Who was he to draw that line and expect Jason to stay behind it when the people on the other side were the ones still getting hurt? Who was he to decide what justice was supposed to look like when it clearly wasn’t working? Who was he to ask for patience when patience had already cost too much?

Who was he to—

Knock. Knock.

The sound cut through his thoughts, causing Jason to still, jaw tightening, fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the photo frame. There were only two people who would bother coming to his door now.

“Alfred, I’m not hungry.”

A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.

“It’s me, Jay.”

Ah.

That—That made something in him catch.

Your voice, softer than the noise in his head—but louder than the anger, louder than the echo of Bruce’s words still clawing at the inside of his skull. Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, something in his shoulders loosening before he could stop it.

“…Door’s open.”

He didn’t turn right away. But he heard it. The faint creak of the door. The careful, almost hesitant way it moved—like you weren’t sure you were allowed to push it all the way.

That alone told him enough. He glanced over his shoulder. And there you were.

Standing in the doorway like you didn’t quite belong there. Oversized sweater hanging off your frame, sleeves pulled down past your hands like you were trying to make yourself smaller, quieter. Less noticeable. Like if you took up less space, you’d be easier to let in.

Or easier to turn away from.

Jason clicked his tongue softly, looking away again as he shifted on the bed, one knee pulling up, the box still open in front of him.

“What are you doing up here, (Name)?”

You tilted your head, studying him in that quiet way of yours.

“I heard you yelling downstairs earlier.”

Of course you did. This place… It was too big for voices to carry the way they did. Too many empty halls. Too much space.

And yet somehow, it still managed to feel too small when things like that happened. It was suffocating, really.

Jason let out a short breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “It’s nothing. Go back to your room, will ya?”

Dismissive. Easy. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t need to be here for it.

Yet, you didn’t move. Didn’t even hesitate. You just… stepped inside. Closed the door quietly behind you. And something about that—about the way you ignored him, about the way you chose to stay anyway—made him look at you properly this time.

There was no flinching. No backing off. Just that same look you always had when things got too loud in this house.

Concern.

Soft. Steady. Unshaken. Like you’d already decided that whatever was going on mattered more than whether you were supposed to be there.

Jason’s brows pulled together slightly, something unreadable flickering across his expression. You stopped a few feet from the bed, your gaze drifting, curious, careful—until it landed on the box.

On the things inside it. Jason followed your line of sight, and—

Shit.

He hadn’t closed it. Hadn’t even thought to. The past sat there, open and exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. In a way he didn’t like.

“What’s this?” you asked softly, stepping just a little closer. Your hand lifted, tentative, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed—but curious enough to try anyway. You reached for one of the pictures. And before you could touch it—

Jason pulled it back. Quick. Instinctive. Like a reflex he didn’t even register until it was already done.

The movement hung there for a second. Too sharp. Too fast. Too telling.

Jason blinked, staring at his own hand like it had moved on its own.

Why did he do that?

It wasn’t like you’d break it. It wasn’t like you’d ruin anything. But something in his chest had tightened the second your fingers got too close.

Jason cleared his throat, looking away, jaw tightening slightly.

“…It’s nothing,” he muttered, quieter this time. Less convincing.

You don’t say a word about that. Just… sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. Not too close. Not too far. Just there. Present in a way that didn’t demand anything from him—but didn’t leave either.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shot you a look, sharper than he meant it to be. “You gonna argue with me about my own mood now?”

You shrug, casual in that way that always somehow made things worse before it made them better. “Maybe.”

That almost makes him laugh.

Almost.

It dies somewhere in his throat before it can fully form.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less like a wall. More like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“Can’t I see what those are?” you ask again, softer this time, eyes drifting back to the box like it’s calling to you.

Jason doesn’t answer immediately. That’s the thing. It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s that he does. Those weren’t just pictures. They weren’t just “things.”

They were from before.

Before you. Before Bruce. Before Robin. Before everything that got layered on top of what he used to be until it was almost impossible to see it clearly anymore. They were proof that he hadn’t always been this.

And that was the problem.

Because if you looked too long, if you saw too much, you might start seeing him differently. Or worse—He might start seeing himself differently too.

Jason exhales slowly through his nose, leaning back slightly on his palms, gaze fixed somewhere on the far wall instead of the box.

“…It’s just junk,” he mutters.

But even he hears the lie in it. You don’t move. Just wait. Of course you do.

You always do that. Like patience is just something you naturally have more of than everyone else in this house.

Jason clicks his tongue, jaw tightening.

He could say no. He should say no. Close it. Move it away. End it there. Keep it simple. Keep it locked up the way it always is.

But then he glances at you again. You’re looking at him like the answer matters, but not more than he does. That does something annoying in his chest. Something that makes it harder to keep pretending this is nothing.

“…Ugh,” he exhales finally, dragging a hand through his hair as if that alone can reset his thoughts. “Fine.”

The word lands a little rougher than he intends. He reaches forward and nudges the box toward you.

“You can look,” he adds, quieter, almost begrudging. Then, after a beat—eyes still not quite meeting yours.

“Just stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t specify what “that” is. He doesn’t have to. And he absolutely hates how quickly you light up at his answer. Not loud or dramatic. Just this small shift—this soft, immediate focus like the world narrowed down into something you were allowed to care about.

You carefully pull the box closer, fingers brushing over its edges like you’re afraid it might disappear if you move wrong. Jason watches before he can stop himself.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you don’t drop anything.

That’s all. Nothing more.

Each picture you pull out, you look at like it holds weight. Like it carries something worth preserving. Your expression softens in a way that’s almost too open for this house—too unguarded, too honest.

And for some reason, that steadies something in him. Lowers the noise in his head by a fraction. Jason looks away before he gets caught staring. Clears his throat. Runs a hand through his hair again, slower this time, like he’s trying to settle himself back into something familiar.

“…It’s just Bruce being Bruce,” he says finally, dismissing whatever concern he knows you probably walked in here carrying.

An answer that said the truth, but not the whole of it. It was the safest answer he had. The only one he was allowed to give.

You frowned, pausing as you slowly put down one of the frames, your brows pulling together. “Did he scold you again?”

Jason let out a short, humorless breath that almost passed for a laugh, shaking his head faintly.

Again.

Like it was something routine. Like it was just another entry on a list of things that happened in his life now.

(It was starting to feel like that.)

“Something like that.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just… not the whole truth either.

You shifted on the bed, to a more comfortable position, close enough now that he could see the way your fingers curled into the sleeves of your sweater, like you were holding onto something invisible. 

“What happened?”

It was a simple question, but with a dangerous answer. It hung there between you both longer than it should have. For a second, Jason actually considered it.

To just tell you.

To say it out loud. To rip the whole thing open and let you see it the way it actually was. The suits. The masks. The double life. The literal cave that’s been underground for years.

The fact that Bruce wasn’t just your father—he was Batman. That Dick was Nightwing. That he had been Robin during the years he was still in Gotham. That Jason was—

He swallowed. Hard. Because if there was one line in this house that was never meant to be crossed, it was this one.

Bruce had made that clear. Dick had too.

She doesn’t get to know.

So Jason forced the thought down, along with everything else that came with it. He let his shoulders drop like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t been sitting in his chest all day.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

That should’ve been enough. For anyone else, it would’ve been. But you weren’t anyone else.

“You always say that.” 

“Because it’s always true,” he replied, a little too quickly.

You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. Of course the one thing you inherited from your father was his absolute stubbornness when it came to things like this.

And that was the problem. That was always the problem. You were looking at him like you could see straight through every deflection he threw your way. Jason exhaled through his nose, a little sharper this time as he looked away.

 “Seriously, (Name). Drop it.”

There it was.

The wall. Not anger. Not really. Just… distance. Necessary distance. He didn’t like this. Not one bit at all.

Didn’t like pushing you away when all you were doing was trying to care. You were the only one in this house who did it so openly, without conditions, without expectations.

And he was shutting you out anyway. Because he had to. Because if he didn’t—

“You’re acting like no one in this house is on your side.”

That stopped him. Completely. Not because it was loud or sharp. But because it was true enough to land somewhere he hadn’t built defenses for.

Jason went still, the words landing somewhere deeper than they should’ve. His jaw tightened as his gaze dropped, his hands clenching slightly against the fabric of his jeans.

“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly, before he could stop himself. “Feels like that sometimes.”

The honesty slipped out, raw and unfiltered.

He hated that it did. Because lately, it had been getting harder to ignore. Harder to pretend he still fully understood where he stood in all of this. Harder to reconcile what he was being told… with what he was seeing.

Bruce’s certainty. The way he drew lines so cleanly, so absolutely—between right and wrong, control and chaos, redemption and irredeemable.

The ones who got chances. The ones who didn’t deserve them. The ones who slipped through the system anyway, wrapped in power and influence and names that made consequences hesitate. Jason’s jaw flexed slightly as the thought tightened in his chest. The ones who—

“But I am.”

Your voice cut through it. Not loud. Not urgent. Just certain.

It pulled him out of the spiral like a hand catching him mid-fall. Jason blinked, looking up at you again—properly this time.

You didn’t hesitate. You just sat there like the answer was obvious, meeting his gaze like it was the simplest thing in the world—like it wasn’t something that was complicated or or had layers of hidden meanings. Like it was just… true.

“I’m on your side, Jay,” you say again, softer this time, but no less steady. “Always.”

Something shifted in his chest. It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t erase the argument, or the words that stuck to him, or the anger that lingered tight under his skin. But it… eased it.

Just a little. Just enough that it didn’t feel like it was going to consume everything.

Jason let out a quiet huff through his nose, glancing away like he was unimpressed, like it didn’t matter as much as it did.

But his voice betrayed him anyway—lower, less sharp than before.

“Yeah? You sure about that?”

You nodded immediately, without a second of hesitation. “Uh-huh.”

He studied you for a moment, then reached out and nudged your shoulder lightly with two fingers.

“Even if someone bribed you with, I don’t know… those stupid Sanrio stuff you like to collect for some reason?”

Your eyes widened instantly, and you gasped like he’d just presented you with the greatest moral dilemma of your life. You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think it over very seriously.

“Hmm,” you hummed. “That’s… really tempting, actually.”

Jason stared at you, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s a serious offer,” you insist, barely holding back a smile. “You don’t understand the value of what I’m being asked to give up—”

Before you could finish, his hand came down on your head, ruffling your hair roughly.

“Hey—!” you squawked immediately, trying to swat him away, laughter breaking through your protest. “Stop that!”

He didn’t. At least not right away. And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in his chest loosened enough that something like a laugh slipped out of him too. That alone made your expression brighten.

“I’m kidding!” you said quickly, still laughing as he finally let go. “I’m kidding.”

Jason dropped his hand, shaking his head slightly as if you were the most ridiculous thing he’d dealt with all day. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off. You looked up at him again, expression softening.

“Even if they offered me, like… a super rare Pompompuri plush from a Japan-only blind box drop,” you added, more seriously now, “or a limited-run Kuromi Sanrio collab set that sold out instantly—”

“Okay—Now you’re just pushing it.”

“I’m making a point.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but there was no real edge to it anymore.

You nudged his shoulder this time, gentler than he had been.

“I’d still pick you.”

No hesitation. No embellishment.

Jason didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust himself to. For a second, he just looked at you—really looked. At the way you stood there so certain, so unwavering, like the world couldn’t convince you otherwise even if it tried. Then he looked away.

“…Even if I were against Bruce?”

The silence that followed shouldn’t have felt this deafening. But it did. It pressed into the space between them, heavy and unspoken, stretching just long enough to make Jason painfully aware of everything he didn’t want to see on your face.

Because that was the thing. He didn’t look. He couldn’t. If he did, he might actually see it—disappointment. Confusion. Maybe even something worse. And that would be worse than anything Bruce ever said to him.

Damnit.

Would you be disappointed in him? For keeping something this big buried? For standing here in front of you, answering questions like this while carrying a whole other life he wasn’t supposed to speak about? For not telling you the truth, even now, even when you were sitting right here looking at him like he was someone you trusted without question?

He didn’t understand it. Still didn’t.

How Bruce and Dick could carry this—this double life, this split truth—and act like the weight of it didn’t matter to you at all. Like it didn’t leave anything behind.

“Well, if it comes down to you and Dad… I’m gonna pick you, of course!”

What?

Jason blinked. Like he hadn’t processed the words properly.

“You don’t have to lie to my face about that, y’know.” He adds, recovering slightly, though his voice still held that disbelieving edge. 

“I’m not petty like a certain someone here.”

“Hey—” 

You shot back immediately, deadpan at first, before sighing and shaking your head. But you were smiling. Still smiling. Like it was obvious. Like there wasn’t even a version of the world where that answer would be anything else.

“Come on,” you said gently, tilting your head at him. “You know you’re basically the only one in this house who actually spends time with me, right? Why wouldn’t I be on your side?”

Wow. 

That hit something. Jason felt it before he could stop it—that small, involuntary lift in his chest. Something warm. Something almost stupidly pleased. For half a second, it was easy. Too easy. But then the guilt followed right behind it.

Sharp. Uninvited. Because that warmth didn’t exist alone. It came attached to everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he was hiding. Everything he was pretending you didn’t deserve to know yet.

The lies. The mask. The nights. The double life. What would happen when you found out?

Not if. When.

Would you still look at him like this? Would you still mean it? Or would it turn into something else entirely?

Disgust. Betrayal. That quiet, devastating realisation that someone you trusted had been standing in front of you as something else the whole time.

He could already imagine it. And worse—He wouldn’t even blame you.

That was the part that made his stomach tighten. Because he knew what it looked like from the outside. He knew what it was. And still—

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Couldn’t open his mouth and turn everything upside down in one breath.

Pathetic. He should be able to. He was supposed to be your brother. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do this one thing.

Maybe it’s because a part of him understood why no one had told you the truth. But it still didn’t change the fact that it felt completely, undeniably wrong to keep something this huge hidden from you.

“…Yeah,” he muttered finally, forcing the thought down, shoving it somewhere it couldn’t breathe. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, pipsqueak.”

He reached out and ruffled your hair again, rougher than necessary, like he could physically shake the heaviness out of the moment. You let out another indignant sound, swatting at his hand.

It worked. Barely.

Just enough to keep things moving forward. Just enough to pretend. But even as he spoke, even as he acted normal, one thought stayed lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

When you ever found out…. Would you still look at him like that? Or would that be the moment everything finally broke?

So, Jason truly wished that if the day ever came when you learned the truth, he wouldn’t have to be there to face you or the consequences. He didn’t think he’d have the guts to face you after that. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the betrayal you’d feel.

Jason exhaled quietly, pushing it down again.

“Go downstairs,” he said after a moment, withdrawing his hand. “Before Alfred comes looking for you and blames me for distracting you.”

You groaned, but pushed yourself to your feet anyway, heading for the door—only to pause, just for a second.

“Jason?”

He looked over his shoulder. You were smiling again—but softer now. Smaller. Steadier in a way that didn’t need volume to mean anything.

“I’ll always be on your side.”

Why did you have to say it like that?

So certain. So effortless. Like it wasn’t something that could ever change. Like there was nothing else to it?

Jason didn’t respond right away. Couldn’t. So he just nodded, then waved you off like it didn’t matter as much as it did, before turning back to sort through his parents’ belongings.

Jason’s eyes snap open—and immediately, he regrets it.

Everything hits him at once.

The pounding in his skull. The sharp, high-pitched ringing in his ears that refuses to fade. The way his vision swims, blurs, then slowly—too slowly—begins to piece itself back together every time he forces himself to blink.

What the hell.

His body feels like it’s been dragged through hell and back. Limbs heavy. Unresponsive. Like they don’t quite belong to him anymore.

And that memory.

Out of everything.

Out of all the things his brain could’ve pulled up in a moment like this—

That.

His last proper conversation with you.

Before Ethiopia.

Jason’s brow furrows faintly, a quiet, pained exhale leaving him as the fragments settle into place. Why that? Why now?

A low grunt slips past his lips as the rest of it comes rushing back—the unmarked warehouse he went to check, the crates filled with gimmicky weapons and devices, the gas that burst out and dispersed into the air, the way everything had gone sideways faster than he could recover from.

“Hey—Stop moving around so much—”

The voice cuts through the haze. Familiar. Too familiar.

Jason freezes for half a second, his thoughts stuttering.

…No way.

He knows that voice. He’d recognise it anywhere. It’s only then—only now—that he becomes aware of the movement beneath him. Or rather, the fact that he’s the one being moved.

His arm is slung over someone’s shoulders. His weight half-dragged, half-supported as his boots scrape unevenly against the ground.

Jason blinks again, forcing his head to tilt just enough to look. And sure enough.

You.

Of course it’s you.

His stomach twists. What the hell are you doing here? Of all places. Of all situations. This is where he ends up seeing you again? He tries to push himself off you, instinct kicking in before logic can catch up—but the moment he shifts, his body gives out on him.

Nothing. No strength. No balance. No control. It’s like his limbs just… refused to listen. Whatever that gas was, it’s still in his system—still dragging him under, still messing with his head in ways that don’t make sense.

Badly. And he barely even breathed it in.

A frustrated sound escapes him, something between a grunt and a growl.

“…Weak,” he manages, voice rough, slurred at the edges.

Directed at himself. Obviously.

“I’m not weak. You’re just heavy.”

Jason blinks. Once. Twice. His brain lags a second behind the conversation.

What?

What the hell are you—

He turns his head slightly, staring at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Which, given everything, is saying something. His expression is… frankly ridiculous. Completely unfiltered confusion, bordering on offended disbelief.

You catch it. Of course you do.

And just like that, your own expression shifts—eyes widening slightly as realisation hits.

“Oh wait—you mean you’re weak.” Your breath hitches a little as you adjust his weight. 

There’s a beat. A hint of something smug. Something very you—

Jason narrows his eyes slightly, even through the haze.

Yeah. That tone did not go unnoticed.

“Still got a smartass mouth, huh,” he mutters, voice rough, edged just enough to sound like an insult—even if it falls a little short of full bite. “Kinda impressive, considering the situation.”

You huff, clearly ticked off despite the strain in your breathing.

“Oh yeah?” you shoot back, tightening your grip on him. “Well you look like absolute shit right now, so maybe just shut up and deal with it.”

Jason lets out a weak scoff, rolling his eyes even as the motion makes his head throb.

“Look who’s talking.” 

There’s a pause. Just long enough for something else to settle in. His gaze drifts back to you, and then his brows pull together.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

He says it like it personally offended him. And you nearly choke at that tone.

“Wha—? I just cut it, that’s all.”

Jason squints at it like he’s assessing the damage dealt to it.

“…Yeah?” he mutters. “Well it looks like shit.”

“Fuck you.”

That earns a weak, breathy scoff from him.

“Real original,” he shoots back. “Took you a whole two seconds to come up with that one?”

“Oh, I’ve got more,” you snap, shooting him a glare even as you adjust your footing. “Just waiting for you to get your head out of your ass so you might actually listen for once.”

“Yeah? Might be waiting a while then.”

“God, you’re insufferable.” You scoff, breath hitching slightly as you shift his weight again, your grip tightening instinctively when he starts to slip. The strain is starting to settle in now. Arms aching, shoulders burning. But you don’t drop him.  “I don’t even know why I’m helping you right now.”

“And yet, you’re still dragging me through the streets like I’m some drunk you picked up from the streets,” he mutters, his voice rough but laced with that same dry bite. “Think we’ve both made questionable life choices.”

You let out an exasperated noise, shifting his arm higher over your shoulder.

“Maybe if someone here wasn’t built like a damn brick wall—”

“Excuse you,” Jason cuts in, faint offense slipping through despite everything. “That’s all muscle.”

“That’s dead weight right now.”

He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, though it comes out strained.

“Keep talking,” he mutters. “See how far you get.”

“Further than you, apparently,” you shoot back. “At least I can walk.”

That actually makes him pause. Not because of the jab itself. He’s heard worse. Said worse. But because you don’t falter after it.

You don’t hesitate. Don’t loosen your grip. Don’t even consider letting him drop, even when it would’ve been easier—more justified—to do exactly that.

You’re still holding him up. Still steady, despite the strain he can feel in the way your arm shifts under his weight. Still here. That’s the part that doesn’t sit right.

His gaze drifts slightly, like he’s trying to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re making this annoyingly difficult for him to brush off.

“…Where’s your helmet, anyway?”

Jason lets out a rough, humorless scoff.

“Got busted up,” he mutters. “Had to use something to get away from the big man himself.”

Right. Of course.

How can you forget the fact that Jason had rigged his helmet with explosives like it was all fun and games? The way he’d wired it like it was just another tool, another exit strategy. Another line he had no problem crossing if it came down to it. You remember looking at him like he’d lost his mind when you found out. Calling him a suicidal maniac hadn’t even felt like an exaggeration at the time.

Your eyes flick back to him now.

“Of course you’d resort to that to escape. Well, look where that got you now? Your head’s busted up now because of your stupid stunt.”

Jason huffs, shifting slightly like the memory itself is annoying him more than the pain.

“That’s nothing.” he says, voice rough. “Just hit my head too hard when my body decided to give up on me and plummet to the ground.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you lost the fight with gravity and then decided that the floor was your next opponent. Truly inspiring.”

That earns you a glare—weak, but still there.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Mm,” you hum, adjusting your grip again as you keep walking. “Noted with thanks.”

Jason’s jaw tightens faintly, something quieter slipping in beneath the irritation, beneath the instinct to snap back and push you away like he always does. Like he should.

Because this—this doesn’t match what he expects. Not from you. Not after everything. 

There’s a brief moment of silence before he exhales slowly, forcing himself to focus past the haze.

“Left,” he says suddenly, voice low.

You blink, thrown off by the abruptness. “What?”

“Don’t know where the hell you’re trying to take me in this situation, but there’s a safehouse,” he drawls, forcing the words out a little clearer this time, though it still sounds like it takes effort. “Around the corner. Take a left, then the second alley.”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then nod.

“Got it.”

And just like that, you adjust your grip on him and keep moving. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust. Blind, almost immediate, unthinking trust.

Something Jason can’t believe you still had in him. That sits heavier than anything else right now.

Jason lets his head tilt slightly, his weight sagging a little more into you than he intends, his body giving in where his pride won’t.

He can feel it too—the way you compensate without saying anything. The subtle shift of your stance, the tightening of your grip, the way you steady him without making a point of it.

Like this is natural. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Something about that doesn’t sit right. Because he knows better. He knows what he’s said to you. What he’s done. What he’s made clear.

And yet, you’re still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing him.

Jason’s gaze drifts, half-lidded now, the edges of his vision softening as the lingering effects of the gas creep back in, dulling the sharpness of everything around him. But even through that haze, he notices it.

You.

There was something off about you. Different.

Compared to the last time he’d seen you—almost a month ago now—you don’t look the same. Not even close.

Back then, you’d looked like you were barely holding yourself together, like everything was pressing down on you all at once and you were just… enduring it. Forcing yourself forward anyway, stubborn in that quiet, self-destructive way that Jason doesn’t even know when you’d started falling into without even realising it yourself.

But now?

You look… lighter. Like something that used to cling to you, something heavy and suffocating, has finally let go. Like you can breathe again. Like.. the you he remembers from before.

Before you picked up the Batgirl mantle.

And for some reason…. Jason can’t accept that.

He knows he should. Knows he should feel relieved—should be glad you’re not out there anymore, not throwing yourself headfirst into danger for something that was never meant to be yours to carry.

You’re safer like this. Better off. Anyone with half a brain would see that. But the thought that you can just… go back—That you can step away from it all and still be you again.

His chest tightens.

Because he can’t. There’s no going back for him. Not to that.

Not to being your brother the way he was before. Not the version of him that existed before everything that happened to him.

Before the Joker, before the grave, before whatever the hell he became after clawing his way back out of it.

That version of him is gone. Buried somewhere he can’t reach, no matter how hard he tries not to think about it. Because the truth is—

Even if you can stand here and look like yourself again… He can’t stand beside you and be the person you remember.

Not the one who used to ruffle your hair without thinking. Not the one who’d sit with you in the library or your room for hours, letting you ramble about things that didn’t matter just because it made you smile.

Not the one who could look at you without this constant edge under his skin, without the instinct to push, to snap, to keep you at arm’s length before you get too close to something he doesn’t know how to give anymore.

That version of him wouldn’t have said the things he did. Wouldn’t have looked at you like that. Wouldn’t have made you feel like—

Like you had to earn your place beside him.

His jaw tightens faintly, something heavy settling in his chest. Because you can go back. You can still be you. But him? He’s stuck with what’s left.

And no matter how much you look like the sister he remembers—

He knows, deep down, that he’ll never be your brother like that again.

His eyes drift half-shut again, vision blurring at the edges. A quiet, ugly frustration settling in his chest.

Great. Just great.

Even unconscious, even when he’s poisoned half out of his mind—

He’s still a shitty brother.

Still the same problem he’s always been.

Still not being the brother you thought he was.

By the time you finally reach the safehouse, your arms are burning and your legs feel like they might give out at any second, but you push through it anyway, adjusting your grip on Jason one last time before forcing the door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him inside.

The place is exactly what you imagined it to be—small, dimly lit, and barely furnished, more functional than livable, the kind of place meant for disappearing into rather than staying.

You don’t waste time taking it all in yet.

You guide him toward the nearest thing that resembles a couch—if it can even be called that—and carefully lower him onto it, easing his weight down despite the way your arms protest the second you let go.

For a moment, you just stand there, catching your breath, your chest rising and falling as your eyes flick around the room, scanning instinctively, taking in anything useful.

There isn’t much Of course there isn’t.

This was probably a safehouse in name only. Forgotten, half-used, stripped down to the bare minimum of survival rather than comfort. The kind of place that says more about necessity than safety.

Your lips press together faintly before you turn back to him. “So..?”

Jason’s head tilts slightly, his gaze dragging up to meet yours, heavy-lidded but still sharp enough to cut.

“So what.”

Ah. There it was.

Just like that, whatever had existed before—the brief, almost familiar ease from earlier—was gone.

Snuffed out like it had never been there in the first place. And what’s left behind is something you recognise all too well. That same tension. That same suffocating, in-between space that never quite had a name but always made itself known anyway. That strange, fragile middle ground the two of you had been stuck in for longer than you cared to admit.

And the worst part?

You’ve already done this once. Even before you had died and regressed—even before you were dragged back into this point in time—it had been like this.

Not always sharp, not always distant, but never quite settled either. Always something slightly off-centre, like the conversation was missing steps neither of you knew how to find.

But at least then… there had been that brief stretch where it eased. Where it almost felt like it could go back to something normal if neither of you looked too closely at it. The silence hadn’t felt this heavy.

But now?

Now you’re right back at the start. And it feels worse. Like the weight of everything you already know is pressing down on you, forcing you to relive it all over again with no way around it.

Seriously?

You have to go through all of this again?

The same tension. The same distance. The same unresolved, unspoken mess neither of you ever had the guts—or the chance—to properly fix.

Fuck.

Is this why just looking at him now makes your chest feel this tight?

Why your thoughts keep circling back to things you’d rather not remember? That you thought you’d already buried?

Why it still hurts?

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as the memories surface anyway.

15.

That’s how old you were when Jason did the impossible.

When he came back from the dead—not as Jason, not as the person you knew, the version you’d grown up with—but as Red Hood.

All anger. All violence. All edges sharpened into something you couldn’t recognise, no matter how hard you tried to look past it.

But you did try. Of course you did. 

Because that was Jason.

Because you thought if you looked long enough, if you said the right things, if you just reached far enough, maybe there would still be something left of him—the him that you remembered—underneath all of it.

You tried to go after him, tried to understand what happened the last few years that made him this. Tried to understand what happened in those missing years to turn him into something that didn’t feel like a continuation of the boy you once knew.

You thought you could still understand him. Like reaching out would be enough. That you could still reach him the way you used to.

It wasn’t.

That intervention didn’t just end badly. It ended in a way that stuck. In a way that never really left. In a way that forever changed things between you two.

It happened again when Bruce “died”. When Jason had taken up the cowl in the worst possible way when Gotham was thrown into chaos.

Twisted it cowl into something harsher. Something final. Something that didn’t leave space for hesitation or mercy or second chances.

And you tried again. Because apparently you never learned. Because apparently distance meant nothing when it came to him.

You didn’t think you could ever bring yourself to fight Jason. Not really. Not in the way it counted. But you did.

Or at least—you tried to stop him.

Tried to pull him back from whatever direction he was spiralling into this time, even when every instinct screamed at you that this wasn’t going to end the way you wanted it to.

And that only ended just as badly. Maybe even worse.

There had been no resolution. No apology. No understanding.

No clear moment where either of you admitted fault or found understanding or even managed to put words to what had happened without it turning into something worse.

Just silence. Heavy, deliberate silence that neither of you ever broke properly again.

An unspoken agreement to leave it alone. Not talk about it. Not bring it up. Not dig into the things that would only make it worse.

To leave each other alone, to stop pushing. To act like distance was better than whatever came after honesty. To become, in practice, strangers who happened to know too much about each other to ever truly be that.

And somehow, that became… enough. Or at least, something close to it. Something you both settled into without ever really acknowledging it. You didn’t apologise or forgive.

Neither did he.

And because of that, you were now left to deal with this. Again.

Standing in front of him like none of that tension ever got the chance to fade. Like you’ve been dropped back into the part of the story where everything is still raw. Still unresolved. Still hanging there, waiting to be dealt with. And you’re the only one who knows how it ends.

Your jaw tightens faintly as you look at him.

“You done staring?”

Jason’s voice cuts through the silence, rough and edged, dragging you out of your thoughts whether you wanted it to or not.

There’s something deliberate in it. Sharp. Defensive. Like he’s already decided what this is going to be before you even say anything. You don’t answer immediately.

But he doesn’t wait.

“Go.” he’s shifting slightly where he sits, like he’s trying to push himself up despite the way his body clearly refuses to cooperate. “I’ve got it from here.”

The words would almost be convincing if not for the way his hand tightens against the edge of the couch. Or the way his shoulders tense just a little too much for someone who supposedly has everything under control.

You don’t move. Jason notices. His gaze sharpens, irritation flickering across his expression as he looks at you properly now.

“I said you can go,” he repeats, more pointed this time. “Didn’t think I had to say it twice.”

There it is.

That edge. That push. The one meant to keep you at a distance. The one he always falls back on when things get even remotely close to something real. And it still—

It still hurts.

More than it should. More than you want it to.

Because no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re used to it, that it doesn’t matter, that this is just how he is now—

It still lands. Still presses into something raw in your chest, something that never quite healed the first time. For a second, you almost let it get to you.

Almost.

Then you exhale quietly. And step forward anyway. Jason’s expression darkens immediately.

“Are you deaf or just—”

His words cut off the moment your hand comes up and grips his jaw, firm enough to stop him mid-sentence as you tilt his face toward the light.

“Hold still.” 

He freezes for half a second, clearly caught off guard. Then immediately tries to pull back.

“Hey—get off—”

His hand comes up to grab your wrist, to push you away, but there’s no strength behind it. No follow-through. It falters halfway, fingers tightening briefly before loosening again like even that takes too much effort.

You don’t let go. Don’t even acknowledge it.

Your focus is already elsewhere, your gaze sharpening as you study him properly now, thumb pressing lightly against his cheek to keep his head steady.

“Pupils are still dilated,” you murmur, tilting his face slightly to catch the light better. “Reaction’s slow.”

Jason huffs, something annoyed and frustrated slipping through as he glares at you, even if the effect is dulled by the way his eyelids threaten to droop.

“Didn’t realise you got promoted to doctor. Where’s the PhD?”

“Skin’s clammy,” you continue over him, ignoring the comment entirely, your fingers brushing briefly against his temple before moving away. “Sweating more than normal. Coordination’s shot.”

“Yeah, no shit. Kinda figured that out when I couldn’t stand—”

“Heart rate’s elevated too,” you add, quieter this time, more to yourself than to him.

You pause. Your brows knit together as you run through possibilities, your mind moving faster than your body probably should be allowed to after everything.

Your grip doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t waver.

And for a second—just a second—there’s something else there, something that slips through the cracks of everything you’re trying to keep contained.

Something he almost notices.

Almost.

But then your expression shifts again, shutters sliding back into place as quickly as they slipped.

“…Not Ivy’s pollen,” you mutter, almost absently, your grip loosening just slightly as you lean back a fraction to take him in again. “You’d be a lot worse right now if it was. Disoriented in a different way. More… suggestible.”

Jason makes a face at that. “Don’t—”

“And it’s not Scarecrow’s toxin,” you continue, cutting him off again, your gaze sharpening as you study his expression, watching for signs that aren’t there. “You’d be hallucinating by now. Or at least showing stronger psychological symptoms.”

You pause. Look at him again. Really look this time. Then exhale, just slightly.

“…Whatever it is, you didn’t inhale enough for it to fully hit,” you conclude, quieter now, more certain. “It’s still in your system, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”

Jason huffs, slumping back further into the couch like he’s been inconvenienced more than anything else.

“Great,” he mutters. “Glad to hear I’m only partially screwed.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just kept your focus where it needs to be. And ignore the way his glare digs under your skin, sharper than anything he’s said so far.

Ignore the way it still hurts. Ignore the part of you that remembers when he didn’t look at you like that at all.

You turn away instead, already scanning the room again, your movements quicker now, more purposeful.

It doesn’t take long. Of course it doesn’t. A place like this was always going to have something.

You spot the first aid kit tucked away in a cabinet and move toward it immediately, pulling it out and setting it down nearby as you start sorting through what’s inside.

Behind you, you can feel his gaze. Or maybe you just imagine it. Either way, when you come back over, Jason’s already trying to push himself up slightly, like he’s about to brush you off before you can even start.

Your jaw tightens slightly as you step back toward him. “Don’t—”

“Didn’t I already tell you to fuck off?” he cuts in before you can say anything, voice rough, sharper now, like he’s forcing it to land harder than his body can back up. “I can handle my own shit.”

His hand comes up and swats your arm away when you reach for him.

It’s not strong. Not really. But the intent is there. Clear as anything. Something in you stills for half a second, before snapping.

“Yeah? You call this handling it?”

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” you fire back. “And last I checked, that wasn’t exactly a high standard.”

His eyes narrow. “Funny. Didn’t realise I asked for commentary.”

“Well, someone has to say it,” you snap, crossing your arms briefly before dropping them again, too keyed up to stay still. “Because clearly you’re doing a shit job of it yourself.”

His expression hardens at that, something colder slipping into his gaze.

“Right. Because you’ve always known what’s best, haven’t you?” he shoots back. “Worked out real well for you so far.”

That hits.

You feel it. But you don’t let it show.

“Better than whatever the hell this is,” you retort, gesturing toward him. “You can barely sit upright, Jason.”

“And yet,” he bites out, “I’m still managing without your help.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving breath.

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“Are you?” he shoots back immediately. “Because last I checked, I didn’t ask you to be here.”

That one—That one lands deeper than the rest. But you push through it anyway.

“Yeah?” you say, your voice dropping, tightening. “And last I checked, you weren’t exactly in a position to make that call.”

His jaw clenches.

“Then leave,” he snaps. “Since you’ve done your little check-up and satisfied whatever this is—”

“I’m not leaving,” you cut in, just as sharp.

Silence. It hangs there for a second. Tense. Heavy. Unmoving.

Jason stares at you, something unreadable flickering behind the irritation.

“You always were stubborn,” he mutters, quieter now, but no less biting. “Just like Bruce himself. You really are his daughter, huh?”

Something in you stills. Not outwardly. Not enough for him to see. But internally—something tightens, sharp and immediate, like a nerve struck too precisely.

You let out a short, humorless breath.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jason scoffs, like you’re being deliberately obtuse, like the answer is so obvious it’s almost irritating that you’d ask.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he says, shifting slightly despite the way his body still refuses to fully cooperate. “Well, at least unlike him, you actually know when to quit when you’re not needed.”

The words land heavier than they should. For a second, your mind almost rejects them outright. Like it misheard. Like it has to have misheard.

Surely—

Surely that’s not what he meant.

No way he would say something like that and mean it.

Right?

Your thoughts trip over themselves, scrambling for something—anything—that makes it less… final. Less deliberate. Less him.

Because if that’s really what he thinks—

If that’s really how he sees you—

Then what does that say about everything that came before?

About every time you went out as Batgirl, every time you tried to keep up with everything else. Every mistake you learned from and every time you got back up anyway, even when it would’ve been easier not to.

Every moment you pushed yourself harder, faster, further—trying to keep up, trying to be enough in a space that was never built for you to grow gently in.

Because all this while, you thought he’d be proud of you, for stepping up and doing this. That if you were able to become half the hero like everyone else was, you’d—

No.

You shut that down before it can spiral any further. You don’t let yourself go there. Not yet.

Instead, you force your breathing to even out, slow and controlled, even as something tight coils in your chest, pressing harder with every passing second.

“…What are you trying to say, Jason?” you ask, slower this time, more careful, like if you keep your tone even, you can keep whatever this is from spiraling further than it already has.

But the look on his face—that steady, unflinching, almost coldly certain look—tells you everything you need to know.

He meant it. Every word of it.

“I’m saying,” he starts, voice flattening into something colder, more deliberate, “that the best decision you ever made was quitting being Batgirl.”

The air in the room shifts. Or maybe it’s just you. Because suddenly, everything feels—Closer. Tighter.

Like the walls have inched inward without you noticing, pressing in just enough to make it harder to breathe.

Your lungs don’t quite catch up in time.

Your breath stutters before you can stop it.

“…Excuse me?”

The words barely sounds like your own.

But Jason doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften. Doesn’t reconsider what he just said.

“Everyone damn near knew you couldn’t hold your weight, especially in a city like this.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

Because there’s no way—

No way he actually believes that. No way he’s been thinking this all along.

“…Couldn’t hold my weight?” you repeat slowly, the disbelief slipping through despite everything you’re doing to keep it contained. “I’ve been out here for years, Jason. I’ve been protecting Gotham—with everyone else—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, a humorless edge creeping into his tone. “And how’d that go for you?”

Your chest tightens. Not all at once, but steadily. Like something pressing in from the inside, leaving less and less room to breathe the longer it lingers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jason leans back slightly, though the movement is stiff, controlled, like even now he refuses to show just how much it costs him.

“It means,” he says, “you were busy being a liability for everyone else who can actually get shit done.”

The words are simple. But they hit like something heavier.

“Always reacting instead of thinking. Always chasing leads that didn’t pan out. Always needing someone else to step in before things got out of hand.”

“That’s not—” you start, but your voice falters, just slightly. “I was not a liability. I could hold down my own shit.”

Jason notices. Of course he does.

“You think they didn’t notice?” he presses, voice sharpening. “You think they didn’t have to adjust for you? Gordon cleaning up the aftermath when things went sideways. Dickhead stepping in mid-mission when you pushed too far. Tim rerouting your intel because you couldn’t tell when to pull back.”

Each example lands harder than the last. Not because they’re entirely true. But because they’re not entirely false either.

And that’s what makes it worse.

“Those were just mistakes,” you snap, the words coming out faster now, more defensive than you intend. “I wasn’t fully trained like you were. I didn’t—”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” he cuts in sharply.

“You weren’t built for this.” Jason says, quieter now, but somehow even more brutal for it. 

“You never were. So stop pretending that you ever were, even for a moment.”

Something in your chest fractures at that. Like something internal giving way under pressure it’s been holding for too long.

“…You don’t get to say that,” you manage, your voice tightening despite your best effort to keep it steady.

“I don’t?” he challenges instantly, eyes locking onto yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked like everyone else had to compensate for you just to keep things from falling apart.”

“That’s not true,” you say again, but it comes out thinner this time, strained. What the hell did he know about keeping things from falling apart?

What does he even know about trying to keep everything together despite everything never quite holding, no matter how hard you tried?

Jason doesn’t give you time to settle into that thought.

“You were the weak link,” he continues, blunt and unrelenting. “The one they had to keep an eye on. The one no one couldn’t fully rely on when things got bad.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides before you even realise you’re doing it.

“That’s not what it was,” you say, louder now, the control you’ve been clinging to starting to slip. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You weren’t even there. You don’t know what it was like after you were gone—”

“And yet you stepped right into the mess, didn’t you?” he shoots back. “Put on the suit like it was yours to take.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it?” he demands, his voice cutting straight through yours. “Because for what it’s worth, you picked up whatever you could and ran with it. Called whatever shit you did good enough.”

That hits somewhere deeper. 

You didn’t just pick up the mantle just to fill the gap. It wasn’t supposed to be just that.

“Good enough?” you echo, your voice cracking around the edges now despite your effort to hold it steady. “You think that’s what it was? That I was trying to look for validation in places I should’ve never touched in the first place?”

“You’re saying you weren’t?” Jason shoots back, a scoff slipping through like he’s already decided the answer for you. Like nothing you say is going to change it.

No.

That wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.

Because it was more than that—it had to be more than that. It wasn’t just about proving something or chasing approval. It was about staying, about doing something, about not letting everything fall apart when no one else seemed to—

…Right?

Jason exhales sharply, shaking his head slightly, like he’s already tired of the argument, like your silence just proves his point.

“You probably kept showing up anyway and told yourself, ‘this is fine, this is enough.’”

His gaze locks onto yours.

“No matter how many times it clearly wasn’t.”

Your breath catches. Your vision blurs for a second. Not from anything physical. From the sheer weight of it.

“I tried,” you say, quieter now, but no less raw. “I did everything I could to—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts again. “That’s the problem. You tried.”

The implication sits there.

Ugly. Unspoken. Clear.

“You tried,” he repeats, like the word itself bothers him. “No one asked you to, but you did.”

“Then what the hell was I supposed to do?” you cut in, the question breaking out of you before you can stop it.

Jason frowns, something sharper surfacing beneath the exhaustion, his voice rough as he snaps back, “Do nothing. Just—live your life like a normal kid your age should.”

“Normal?” you echo, the word cracking as something in you finally gives way. “And be the naive, clueless girl who had no idea what the hell was going on right under her nose? Just—what? Smile and pretend everything was fine while all of you were out there living double lives behind my back?”

Your fists tighten at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to ground you.

“Be blissfully ignorant while my own family kept lying to me?”

“At least you wouldn’t have been wrecking your life,” he shoots back immediately, jaw tightening. “Throwing yourself into shit you were never ready for just because you thought it meant something.”

“Goddamnit, Jason—!” Your voice breaks louder now, sharper, edged with something you can’t hold back anymore. “I didn’t become Batgirl because of some righteous cause or whatever the hell you think it was!”

“Oh yeah?” he fires back, eyes narrowing despite the haze of the toxin still dragging at him. “Then enlighten me. Why did you? Not for the glory? Not for the validation? Then what for?”

The words hang there. For half a second, you almost don’t say it. Almost swallow it down like everything else. But you don’t.

“Because I thought you’d be proud of me.”

Everything stills. Not gradually. All at once. Like the air itself has been pulled tight between you.

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And somehow, that’s worse.

Because the look on his face—

It’s unreadable.

Flat in a way that feels wrong. Like whatever’s behind it isn’t something you’re meant to see.

“…What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Jason’s voice comes out rough—low, strained, threaded with something sharp that doesn’t quite settle into anger, but isn’t anything close to calm either.

For a second, your resolve wavers under it. Under him. The weight of his stare alone feels enough to make you second-guess everything you were so sure about just moments ago. But if you back down now—

If you take it back, soften it, pretend you didn’t mean it, then he wins.

Then everything he’s been saying about you—about this—stands uncontested.

So you force yourself to stay where you are. Force the words out, even if they don’t come out as steady as you want them to.

“I thought…” Your voice dips, quieter now, your gaze dropping to the floor because you can’t quite hold his anymore. “I thought if I became a hero like you, I’d be… honouring what you did.”

The admission sits there. Bare. Unprotected. And for a moment, there’s nothing.

Just silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like the room itself is holding its breath.

It stretches. Too long. Too heavy. Until you can’t take it anymore. But when you finally look up, you immediately wished you hadn’t.

Because the look on Jason’s face—

It’s not confusion. Not disbelief.

It’s fury.

Raw. Immediate. Unfiltered in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen directed at you before.

“You think I’d be fucking honoured?” he snaps, voice rising despite the strain in it, something volatile cracking through. “That you’re throwing yourself into Gotham’s gutter and tearing yourself apart in the process?”

Each word hits harder than the last.

“You think that’s what I wanted for you?” he continues, harsher now, like he can’t stop once he’s started. “That I’d be proud of you for that?”

He lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Bullshit,” he bites out. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” 

The words slip out before you can catch them.

Jason’s glare sharpens instantly, something dangerous settling behind it—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Because if you do, if you hesitate now, then everything he’s said just… stands. Like it’s the only version of the truth that matters.

“I mean, I thought I knew you,” you continue, forcing the words out even as your chest tightens. “I tried to believe I still did. But seriously—do you expect me to stand here and pretend you’re the same Jason I grew up with?”

Your voice wavers, just slightly.

“After everything?”

His jaw tightens.

For a moment, he says nothing. And somehow, that silence feels worse than anything he’s thrown at you so far. But then, a short, hollow breath leaves him.

“So that’s it, huh?” he mutters, something jagged threading through his voice. “You look at me and all you see is what?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath, shaking his head faintly.

“A monster?” he says flatly, like the word doesn’t even belong to him anymore—like it’s already been decided. “Some fucked-up thing wearing the face of the boy you used to know?”

Your expression twists instantly. Alarm, disbelief, something close to panic flashing across your face as you step forward without thinking.

“What?! No—Jason, that’s not what I—”

“Don’t try to dress it up like it’s anything else. It’s exactly that, isn’t it?” Jason cuts you off, not letting you finish.

You falter. Because he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you the space to correct it. To fix it. To explain what you actually meant.

“Don’t lie about it. Not now.”

His gaze locks onto yours, unyielding.

“Because I get it,” he continues, voice rough, but steady in a way that feels wrong. “I know exactly what I look like from your side.”

There’s no anger in it. No heat. Just something colder. Something resigned.

“You had this version of me in your head,” he goes on. “The one that died. The one worth missing. Grieving.”

Your chest tightens.

“Jason—”

“And then I come back,” he keeps going, like you didn’t speak at all. “And I don’t resemble him. Not even close.”

His lip curls faintly.

“Just this—” he gestures vaguely to himself, like even he doesn’t have the right word for it. “Violent, fucked-up replacement that crawled its way back and decided it still had a place here, right?”

Your breath catches.

“That’s not—”

“And I’m guessing that the person you thought me out to be didn’t last very long, did it?” he cuts in, voice rougher than ever. “The second you found out about the masks. The suits. What we actually do. What everyone kept from you.”

His gaze sharpens, boring into you.

“Bet that shattered real quick.”

You shake your head, already trying to push back. But he doesn’t let you.

“Because it wasn’t some tragic accident anymore, right?” he continues, harsher now. “Not some kid in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

His jaw tightens so sharply you can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin, a faint, restless pulse that betrays everything he’s trying to keep buried.

“Just me. Being reckless. Stupid. Getting myself killed because I thought I could handle shit all on my own.”

Each word lands heavier than the last.

“And that probably made it easier for you,” he adds, quieter—but worse for it. “Easier to let go. Easier to stop caring. Easier to stop missing the kid who wasn’t even worth half of what you made him out to be.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he cuts in again, more forceful now. “Didn’t realise you were grieving someone who didn’t even exist the way you thought he did?”

“That’s not true—” you try again, voice breaking through, desperate to cut him off—but he barrels right over you.

“So what did you do?” he presses, relentless. “You moved on. Put on the suit.”

Your stomach drops.

“Tried to prove you’re not like that kid,” he continues, something almost bitter slipping through now. “That you can do it better.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Become something he couldn’t be.”

A beat.

“Mock him for doing something reckless.”

Your hands tremble at your sides.

“And in the process,” he finishes, voice low, cutting, “you turn into someone better than him.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Wrong.

And for a second, you can’t even process it.

Because what the hell is he even saying?

Your mind stumbles over it, trying to make sense of something that feels so completely, fundamentally off.

Mock him?

Become better than him?

Is that seriously what he thinks?

Is that what he’s been thinking this whole time?

Your chest tightens, something sharp and disbelieving clawing its way up. Because that’s not what it was. Not even close.

And the fact that he thinks that—

That he could twist everything you did, everything you went through, into that—

It makes something in you recoil.

Like you’re hearing a version of your own story that doesn’t belong to you. Like he’s taken it, stripped it down, and rebuilt it into something unrecognisable.

Your voice doesn’t come out at first. Because for a moment, you’re just staring at him. Trying to figure out when it got this bad. When he started seeing you like this. When he decided this was all you were.

“…You really believe that?” you manage finally, quieter now—but unsteady in a way that gives you away anyway.

Jason lets out a scoff that almost turns into a laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

“What else is there to believe?” he shoots back, voice roughening again. “Realising I wasn’t the boy you thought I was must’ve made it easier to stop grieving, right?”

“Stop grieving? Jason—”

“Because I lied to you for years,” he cuts you off, each word sharper than the last. “Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Acting like I was—what? A brother you could actually trust? Someone you could stand beside no matter what?”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Hard.

Stop.

That thought hits you like a reflex.

Stop. This is wrong. All of it is wrong.

That’s not what happened.

Not in your head. Not in your memories. Not once did it ever feel like that.

But Jason doesn’t stop long enough for you to say it.

“Well,” he adds, voice dripping with something bitter and deliberate, “sorry to disappoint you, pipsqueak.”

The nickname lands wrong this time. Not soft. Not familiar. Weaponised.

Like he’s trying to remind you exactly where you stand. Like he’s drawing a line—and deciding, all on his own, that you don’t get to cross it.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“But don’t bother clinging to your little version of me,” he continues, colder now, more controlled in a way that somehow feels worse. “Those pathetic images you built up in your head—don’t try to fix me into them.”

Your face goes still—too still—expression smoothing out into something unreadable, something that gives him nothing to latch onto.

For a second, it almost looks like you’ve shut down. And Jason notices. Of course he does. He always does.

“…What, you suddenly go mute or something?” he presses, pushing again, voice edged with irritation, with something almost restless beneath it. “Say somethi—”

Thwack.

The sound cuts him off clean. Sharp. Immediate.

You don’t even register moving until it’s already done.

Jason’s head snaps to the side, the force of it enough to send him tipping off the makeshift couch entirely, his already weakened body unable to catch himself as he hits the ground with a rough thud.

For a second, everything goes quiet.

“What the fuck, (Name)—??”

His hand comes up to his cheek, pressing against the point of impact, eyes snapping back to you in disbelief.

Your knuckles throb.

A deep, burning ache settling in almost instantly, skin already bruising beneath the surface.

But you don’t care. Not about that. Not right now.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly, something sharp and furious threading through every breath as you look down at him.

“Don’t you dare,” you say, voice tight, shaking just enough to betray what’s underneath, “assume shit about what I’ve been through and why I’ve been trying to do what I did all this time.”

Your hands curl tighter at your sides, ignoring the sting.

“You don’t want me clinging onto pathetic images I made up about you?” you say, the words coming out sharper now, steadier the longer you speak. “Fine. Then don’t fucking do the same thing to me. Don’t stand there and act like you know what I’ve been through.”

For once, Jason doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t cut in. Doesn’t twist your words before you can finish them. He just… stays quiet. And it throws you off more than anything else he’s said so far. Even so, you take it for what it is.

An opening.

Because if you stop now, if you let that silence swallow this up the way it always has before, then nothing changes, and everything he said about you just lingers there, unchallenged, like it’s the only version of the truth that matters.

“I’m not going to stand here and pretend we’re the same people we were a few years ago,” you continue, your voice quieter now, but far more grounded. “We’re not. Not even close.”

Your arms fold tightly across yourself, not defensive—just… holding something in place, but even that doesn’t last. They fall back to your sides, as if even that small comfort isn’t something you’re allowed to have.

“I know you’re never going to be the Jason I grew up with again,” you admit, the words heavier than you expected them to be. “I’ve known that for a long time now, from the moment you came back and looked at me like I was just another person in your way.”

There’s a pause, brief but enough for the memory to surface, uninvited and unwelcome.

“But don’t you dare think I’m still that same 12 year old girl either,” you add, lifting your gaze to meet his properly this time, something firm settling behind your eyes. “The one who didn’t know anything. The one who just… stood there and believed whatever she was told because she didn’t know any better.”

The room feels too small. Too quiet.

Every shift of movement feels louder than it should—the uneven rhythm of both your breathing, the way your fingers curl and uncurl like you’re grounding yourself in something real.

“We can’t go back to what we were,” you say, more evenly now. “And honestly?”

Your jaw tightens faintly.

“I don’t want to.”

Because wanting that would mean pretending none of it happened. Pretending it didn’t hurt the way it did. Pretending you didn’t have to rebuild your entire understanding of the people you loved from the ground up.

“It messed me up,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. “Realising that everything I thought I knew about my own family was barely even the surface.”

You let out a small, humorless breath, your gaze dropping briefly before you force it back up again.

“And the worst part?” you add, something bitter threading through it. “I didn’t even find out from any of you. I had to find out from Tim—who was practically a stranger back then. Someone who wasn’t even apart of all this.”

You see the shift in Jason then, the way his shoulders tense slightly like he’s about to say something, like he’s ready to cut in and redirect the conversation before it gets any further.

But this time, you don’t let him.

“You were the only one on my side in that house. So what the hell did you think happened when you died?”

Your hands clench.

“You think I just went back to living my life like normal?” you demand. “Like nothing changed? Like I just… moved on?”

A harsh breath leaves you.

“Fuck no.”

Your voice cracks—and you don’t bother fixing it.

“I grieved you. Every single day.”

Your gaze drops for a second, like the memory alone is enough to pull you under.

“I went to your grave,” you say, slower. “I sat there for hours sometimes. Talking. Waiting. Like you’d somehow come back if I stayed long enough. Stupid, right?”

Your throat tightens.

“I mourned you,” you add, more firmly. “So don’t—don’t you dare sit there and tell me I didn’t. That I stopped caring. That I didn’t miss you.”

Silence. This time, it lands differently. You look back up just in time to catch it.

The shift in his expression. Subtle, but there. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something—then closes again. And something about that earns a hollow scoff from you.

“I’ve thought about it so many times,” you go on, quieter now, but no less intense. “What I’d say if I ever got the chance to confront you.”

You let out a quiet sigh, your fingers slowly curling back into fists.

“I wanted to ask you why,” you admit. “Why you—of all people—kept something like that from me.”

Your gaze locks onto his.

“You were the one I trusted the most,” you say. “The one I thought would always be on my side, no matter what.”

Your voice dips.

“And you still chose to keep me in the dark.”

That gets a reaction. A real one.

Jason shifts, something sharp flashing across his face—something defensive, something immediate—like he needs to push back before anything you said has the chance to settle.

“And if I did tell you, what then?” he shoots back, voice rough, strained at the edges. “You think that would’ve changed anything? You’d still have tried to throw yourself into this mess. Into the exact thing that—”

“I never wanted to be Batgirl in the first place, damnit!”

Your voice cuts clean through his, louder than anything you’ve said so far, the force of it catching even you off guard. For a second, the room feels like it stills around it. You don’t stop.

“I didn’t grow up dreaming about putting on a suit or running around Gotham trying to play hero,” you continue, your chest rising and falling unevenly now, the words coming faster, more raw. “I didn’t want any of this.”

Your hands clench at your sides.

“I only took up the mantle because that stupid, naive girl who had no one left to lean on thought it was the only way to hold herself together,” you say, your voice tightening despite your effort to keep it steady. “The only way to make sense of everything that fell apart.”

A breath—shaky, uneven.

“The only way to feel like I still had some control,” you add, quieter now. “Some purpose. Some… connection to something that hadn’t completely disappeared.”

Your gaze lifts back to his, something unguarded flickering through it now.

“It wasn’t about proving anything,” you say. “And it sure as hell wasn’t about replacing you.”

Because that thought—that very idea—still feels wrong even now.

“It was the only thing I had left that felt even remotely close to… you,” you admit, softer this time, like the words cost you something to say out loud.

A beat passes.

“And yeah,” you add, your voice steadier now, even if your chest still feels too tight, “maybe it was stupid.”

Your jaw tightens faintly.

“But don’t stand there and twist it into something it was never meant to be.”

The air between you goes still. Not empty—just heavy, like everything you’ve said has settled into it, pressing down in a way that makes it harder to stay where you are.

And suddenly, you can’t look at him anymore.

You turn on your heel, the movement sharper than intended, more instinct than decision, like distance—any distance at all—might be enough to keep everything from spilling further out of your control.

Because that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.

You hadn’t meant for it to come out so raw, so unguarded, stripped of all the careful restraint you’ve spent years building. It didn’t feel like it was just your 16 year-old self standing there, reacting, struggling to keep up with everything being thrown at her.

No.

It felt like you. The you right now.

And that’s what makes it feel so wrong. Because you weren’t supposed to say that. Not here. Not now.

Your breathing feels uneven as you stare ahead, unfocused, your thoughts still trying to catch up to the weight of everything you just admitted out loud whilst trying to get as far away from the safehouse as you could.

Slowly, your gaze drops.

Your hand comes into view, and only then do you properly register the dull, persistent ache pulsing through your knuckles.

The skin is already bruising, discolored beneath the surface, the impact from the punch earlier settling in now that the rush of adrenaline has started to wear off.

You flex your fingers experimentally, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the soreness.

“…Seriously,” you mutter under your breath, your voice quieter now, edged with something dry and almost disbelieving despite everything. “What the hell is he even made of?”

A tear slips free before you can stop it.

so…. thoughts? lowkenuinely think i yapped too much with this ngl but… 🤕 if i made mistakes in this then ggs 💀

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