your favorite angel princess

ׂ╰┈➤𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝒻 𝒾'𝓂 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝒻 𝒾'𝓂 𝓌𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉. 𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒾𝓉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Hi my sweet angels! I just finished Shadows and Curses, and while I was writing the last few chapters, I had another idea for a crossover and our sweet little bat family. Let me know what you think!

Summary: She was just another poor girl in Gotham, scraping by on cold dinners and colder nights, doing everything she could to keep her head down and survive a city that didn’t notice people like her. That changed the night something hungry and sentient crawled into her life, alien calling itself Venom, with a voice in her skull and an appetite that made “eccentric” feel too polite. Now, no matter how small she tries to make herself in this frantic, unforgiving town, the strange power curling beneath her skin has caught the attention of Batman and his little bats, attention she never asked for, and definitely doesn’t want.

The darkness has always been your friend. Ever since you were a little girl, you were used to being in the dark. Growing up in the poorer parts of Gotham, you knew that any light that didn’t come from the sun was a privilege to keep. On the days that mom and dad couldn’t afford to pay the bills, you would find comfort in the dark.

You learned to navigate your room by memory. The peeling wallpaper. The crooked dresser with one drawer that never closed. The window that rattled when the wind pushed too hard. You knew every creak in the floorboards because you had walked them in pitch black more times than anyone should have to. The dark didn’t scare you. It taught you how to listen, how to wait, how to survive.

On nights when gunshots cracked through the alleyway and sirens painted the windows red and blue, you sat with your knees pulled to your chest and told yourself that if you stayed quiet and still, nothing bad could touch you. You were comfortable hiding. Comfortable being unseen. It was safer that way.

What you didn’t know back then was that the darkness you grew up with wasn’t just a place. It was training. Gotham raised you in its shadows long before you ever chose to step into them.

Having been raised in these not-so-nice parts, you learned to keep your head down and not stand out too much. Gotham didn’t reward loud kids. It rewarded quiet ones. The ones who slipped between the cracks and didn’t make trouble. You figured that out early.

Most of your family had been involved in some not-too-legal activities. Some bragged about running errands for the Penguin himself, acting like proximity to him somehow made them important. Others had gotten caught up in the Joker’s chaos, pulled into one of his whims like debris in a tornado. The rest took the predictable route, dealing whatever drugs were popular that week. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t clever. It was survival with a price tag.

Your parents weren’t saints either. You knew they were involved, even if you never saw the details. They always came home with tired eyes, jumpy nerves, and money that didn’t match the stories they told. Who they worked for stayed a mystery. Maybe that was on purpose. Maybe knowing too much would have put you in danger. They tried to keep you away from that world in their own flawed way. They pushed you toward school, toward normalcy, toward anything that would make you different from the rest of your bloodline.

They made mistakes, plenty of them, but the one thing they never did was drag you directly into it. They made sure you were just close enough to see the shadows but not close enough to be swallowed by them.

Unfortunately, by keeping you away and trying to keep the lights on, they lost themselves. One night they both went out, and only one came back. Your mother walked through the door alone, shoulders tight, eyes hollow, smelling like the city’s worst corners. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just locked the door behind her and went straight to bed.

She never told you what happened to your father. She didn’t have to. Gotham had a way of teaching kids how to read between the lines before they even learned how to read books. The empty chair at the table said enough. The silence said the rest.

Weeks turned into months, and you watched your mother slip deeper into the same life she once tried to protect you from. Some days she came home with new bruises. Some days she didn’t come home at all. That was when you realized that you couldn’t depend on anyone but yourself.

By the time you were ten, you were the one waking yourself up, packing whatever food you could find, and walking yourself to school. You did your homework under the flickering kitchen light, cooked whatever was left in the pantry, and put yourself to bed. You survived off routine and quiet. Complaining would have been pointless, and you knew it. You were just grateful the lights were still on. Grateful there were still small pockets of warmth in a life that felt colder every year.

You only knew how bad it had gotten when your mother stopped pretending there was a line she wouldn’t cross. The late nights turned into mornings where she stumbled through the door with glassy eyes and shaking hands. Some days she couldn’t look at you. Other days she looked right through you, like her mind had already slipped somewhere you couldn’t reach.

There were moments when you caught her whispering to herself in the dark, apologizing to no one you could see. Maybe she thought she was keeping you safe. Maybe she truly believed she could dig herself out. You never blamed her for trying. You just wished she had tried before she was too far gone.

Eventually she started disappearing for days at a time. No explanations. No notes. No promises to come back. Just the sound of the door closing and the smell of the city following her like a second shadow. You learned not to wait up. You learned not to hope too loud. Hope felt like a curse in Gotham.

And then one night, everything went still. The apartment was too quiet. Too cold. You sat at the table with your textbook open but unread, listening for footsteps that never came. You kept telling yourself she was late. That she always came home eventually.

She didn’t.

You only knew she no longer walked among you when the lights turned off.

Not because you forgot to pay the bill. Not because the power company made a mistake. The lights went out because whatever thin thread your mother had been holding onto finally snapped. Whatever deal she made, whatever debt she owed, whatever danger she stepped into… it caught up with her. And Gotham didn’t leave survivors.

The darkness settled over your home that night, familiar and heavy, wrapping around you like it had when you were small. Except this time, it didn’t feel safe. It felt final.

It felt like goodbye.

-

Time blurred after your mother was gone. There wasn’t a clean break or a dramatic turning point. Just days you survived and days you survived worse. With no one left to look after you, you learned quickly that Gotham didn’t give handouts, and it sure didn’t care about kids who slipped through the cracks.

You raised yourself because no one else bothered to try.

You stole when you had to. Food, shampoo, a jacket from a thrift store with the tag half-ripped off. You ate from trashcans behind restaurants that threw out perfectly good bread at the end of the night. You took “side quests” from people who didn’t have real names, only street aliases and dangerous smiles. Deliver this. Pick up that. Don’t ask questions. Don’t look scared. The weirder the job, the quicker you learned to just complete it and leave.

School stopped being an option. Not because you didn’t want it, but because hunger made staying awake impossible and exhaustion made sitting still feel like torture. The day you dropped out, no one noticed. No one called home. No one cared.

You kept trying though. You walked into libraries like they were shelters, sitting in the back corner with stolen time and borrowed heat, teaching yourself whatever books you could reach. Geography, old mythology, physics you barely understood. Anything to remind yourself your mind was still yours.

By thirteen, you knew which streets were safe, which weren’t, and which ones pretended to be. By fifteen, you could tell a lie faster than you could say your own name. By eighteen, you felt like you had lived hundreds of lives.

Instead of enjoying the youth your parents once dreamed of, they left you nothing but the clothes on your back to fend for yourself.

Now you work a shitty diner on the South End of Gotham. Greasy floors. Flickering neon sign. A bell above the door that rings like it’s begging to be put out of its misery. You pour coffee for men who tip in crumpled singles and talk too much. You wipe down counters that never stay clean. You take the late shifts because they pay an extra dollar and you’re too used to the night to pretend otherwise.

It isn’t glamorous. It isn’t hopeful. It’s survival, dressed up as routine.

-

Closing the diner always felt the same. The last customer stumbling out. The hiss of the coffee machine shutting off. The crackle of the old sign buzzing over your head. You wiped the tables, locked the register, and turned the key with a click that echoed louder than it should have. Gotham never slept, but your part of it at least pretended to.

You stepped outside and the cold night wrapped around you. You kept your hands in your pockets, hood pulled up, eyes straight ahead. The walk home was muscle memory. Past the pawn shop with the boarded windows. Through the empty bus stop where people used to line up before the route got cut. Toward the same apartment building where you had lived your entire life, long after everyone assumed it was abandoned.

The building still stood, rotting quietly. No lights. No heat. No neighbors. No landlord. Just you and the ghosts of a life you did not get to choose. The city forgot this place existed, which was exactly why you stayed.

You cut through an alley to avoid a group of men lingering near the sidewalk. Their voices carried, sharp and mean, and you knew better than to test your luck. The alley was narrow, damp, and smelled like rain that never fully dried. You walked fast.

Halfway through, you stopped.

A man stumbled out from behind a dumpster. His skin looked gray, like every drop of life had been drained from him. Sweat soaked through his shirt. His eyes were wide and unfocused, like he was staring at something you could not see.

He whispered something that didn’t sound like words.

You stepped back, instinct hitting you before fear did. He took one shaky step, then another, reaching toward you as if he recognized you. He didn’t. No one looked at you like that.

Then he collapsed at your feet.

The sound was thick and final. You froze, breath caught in your throat. You crouched for only a second to check if he was breathing, but before you touched him, something moved.

A ripple beneath his skin.

A pulse that did not belong to a human body.

Then the black sludge forced its way out of his mouth like a shadow peeling itself free. It rose and twisted, alive even though it had no shape. You stumbled back, heart hammering in your ears.

The thing lunged.

Cold hit you first. Cold like winter water sinking into your bones. It wrapped around your arms, your ribs, your throat. You tried to tear it off, but it clung to your skin like it had been waiting for you. Your vision blurred. You tasted metal. You heard a voice that was not a voice, something crawling inside your thoughts.

Then the world snapped black.

The alley was silent again.

The man was gone.

You were standing, unsteady, breathing hard, feeling something new pulsing under your skin like a second heartbeat. You did not know what happened, but you knew one thing for certain.

Whatever that thing was, it was inside you now.

“Hello, little one”.

a/n: hello my beautiful little angels... so sorry for the disappearance. school and work have been killing ,e, and honestly I have been having trouble trying to complete this chapter. I may or may not make a spin off or even some one shots of this series in the future, but as off now I think it is time to bring our MC some peace and have her move on with her life. Like always, leave some love and let me know what you think. Also, if you do have any ideas or maybe some writing requests, don't be afraid of sending a request!

“Jason.”

Your voice cracked as the name left your lips, torn between disbelief and the kind of hope that hurt worse than despair. It was soft, small, like if you said it too loud, he might vanish again.

Jason froze. The helmet slipped from his grip and hit the wet pavement with a dull thunk. His chest heaved like he’d just run miles, but he didn’t move, didn’t dare. He just stared at you, rain dripping off his hair, eyes wide with something fragile, fear, guilt, longing, all tangled into one.

“It’s me,” he rasped, voice rougher, deeper, but still his. “Little Bird… it’s me.”

The nickname broke you. A sob ripped out of you, so sharp and ugly, and you staggered forward, your weapon clattering to the ground as your hands reached out like you didn’t know what to do with them. Jason stepped toward you at the same time, hesitant for only a second before closing the distance.

You collided, the force of years crashing down in one desperate embrace.

You hit him in the chest, your fists pounding once, twice, weak with grief. “You let me think—you let me think you were dead!” Your voice fractured, each word an open wound. “You let me mourn you. Jason, I buried you in the ground!"

Jason caught your wrists, but instead of stopping you, he just held them, trembling, lowering them gently against his chest. His own voice was jagged, thick with something that sounded almost like a plea. “I know. I know. I should’ve told you—I wanted to—I swear I did. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t face you. Not after everything. Not after him.”

The last word was venom. Bruce. Joker. You didn’t know.

Tears blurred your vision as your knees buckled. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? You were all I had left. And when you—when I thought you were gone—” The words broke into another sob, your whole body shaking against him.

Jason’s arms finally closed around you, strong and desperate, hauling you against him. He buried his face into your soaked hair, his voice muffled but fierce. “I’m here now. I’m here, Little Bird. I never stopped thinking about you—not one damn day. Every fight, every night in this hellhole—I carried you with me.”

You clung back, fingers clawing into his jacket, terrified that if you loosened your grip he’d dissolve back into smoke and memory. “I can’t—Jason, I can’t lose you again. I can’t.”

His breath hitched against your temple, his chest heaving with a sob he tried to swallow but couldn’t. “You won’t. Not this time. I don’t care what it takes—I’ll never let you go again. They can all burn for what they did, but you—” He pulled back just enough to frame your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours through the tears. “You’re my family. You always were.”

The two of you stayed there in the building, soaked to the bone, clutching each other like lifelines. The world outside kept moving but none of it mattered.

After years of silence, of lies, of grief that had hollowed you out, Jason was here. Real. Alive.

And you had him back.

-

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, clinging to Jason. Minutes. Hours. Time had no shape in that moment, just the warmth of his body against yours, the way his chest rose and fell under your cheek, the sound of his voice murmuring your name like he was afraid to stop.

It was Yuji who broke the silence, awkward and wide-eyed, his voice carrying down the hall. “Uh… so, are we… just gonna pretend this isn’t happening, or…?”

Nobara smacked his arm, hissing, “Shut up, idiot.” But even she couldn’t disguise the softness in her eyes as she watched you cling to Jason.

Megumi didn’t say a word. He just lingered in the shadows, protective but quiet, his gaze shifting between you and Jason like he was trying to map out the truth of who this man was to you.

Gojo was leaning against the mouth of the alley, arms folded, grin sharp as ever. “Well, well. Looks like Gotham’s dirtiest little secret finally crawled out to play.” His voice was flippant, but you caught the glimmer of approval beneath it.

Jason stiffened slightly at the sight of them all, but he didn’t let go of you. His arm stayed locked around your shoulders, his jaw set, his glare flicking toward Gojo. “Who the hell are you people?”

“Friends,” Gojo said easily. “Family, even. Don’t worry, Hood” he tipped his head toward the discarded helmet on the ground, “—we’re not here to take her away from you. Not tonight.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press. Instead, he tilted his head down toward you, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Come with me. Don’t go back to them tonight. Don’t go back to that hotel with—” his gaze flicked briefly to Gojo, sharp with distrust, “—whoever these people are. Come with me instead. Please.”

Your breath hitched, torn between the steady pull of Jason’s presence and the warmth of the new family you’d built by Gojo’s side.

“Jason…” You swallowed hard, gripping the front of his jacket. “I—”

Gojo stepped in before you could finish, his grin lazy but his tone cool. “Easy there, bird boy. She’s not a toy you can snatch back from the shelf after leaving her to gather dust.” He shifted his blindfold just enough that Jason could feel the weight of his stare. “She gets to choose. Not you. Not him. Not me.”

The alley went quiet again, heavy with tension. Jason’s hand tightened protectively on your shoulder, his eyes still locked on you, silently pleading.

“Little Bird,” he murmured, the nickname breaking in his throat. “Just one night. Let me show you I’m still here. That I didn’t leave you.”

The ache in your chest deepened. For years, you’d dreamed of hearing that voice, of feeling that warmth. Now you had it, and the choice cut sharper than any blade.

You looked up at Jason, rain dripping down his jaw, his hand tight on your shoulder like you were going to vanish if he blinked. Then you turned to Gojo, who lounged with his usual grin, though you could feel the sharpness behind it.

Your voice cracked, but it was steady enough. “He’s coming with us.”

Jason’s eyes widened slightly, hope flaring in them. Gojo tilted his head, the grin never leaving his face. “Well, well. Guess the stray bird still knows how to pick her flock.”

Yuji lit up immediately. “Wait so, like… he’s your brother? That’s so cool!”

“Cool?” Nobara arched a brow, crossing her arms. “He looks like trouble wrapped in leather.”

Jason snorted, tugging you closer to his side. “Takes one to know one.”

Megumi just sighed, muttering, “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Gojo stepped forward, brushing past Jason as he clapped you lightly on the back. “Fine. But he plays by our rules tonight. If he makes trouble, I throw him out myself.” His grin sharpened as he glanced at Jason. “Sound fair?”

Jason’s jaw flexed, but he nodded once. “Fine. Just don’t get in my way.”

Gojo’s chuckle was low, amused. “That’s my line.”

-

The elevator opened to the penthouse floor, where Gojo had rented out a suite bigger than some Gotham apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one wall, the skyline glittering beyond. Plush sofas framed a glass coffee table, and a chandelier hung low, scattering light across polished marble floors.

Jason froze just inside the doorway, clearly out of place. His leather jacket dripped onto the pristine carpet, his boots leaving faint marks against the marble.

Yuji whistled, throwing himself onto the velvet couch. “Man, this hotel is still insane to me. Way better than the dorms.”

Jason stood rigid, helmet under his arm, gaze flicking between the others before landing back on you. “So this is your… crew now?”

“They’re my family,” you said quietly.

Something flickered across his face, pain, guilt, maybe even relief. He gave a short nod, swallowing hard. “Good. You deserve that.”

Gojo stretched lazily, arms behind his head. “Aww, see? He’s not all scowls and leather. Maybe we can keep him around after all.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t bite back. His focus stayed on you, like the rest of the suite was just noise.

You sank onto the edge of the bed nearest the window, your exhaustion finally pulling at your bones. Having him here, alive, in this impossible place,it was overwhelming.

Jason hesitated, then crossed the room and crouched in front of you, careful not to touch until you gave him permission. His voice was low, hoarse. “Little Bird… can we talk? Just us?”

Your chest ached, tears threatening again. For years, you’d dreamed of hearing that voice say your name. Now it was real, raw, and right in front of you.

You nodded.

And in that luxurious suite, with Gotham’s skyline watching, you finally had the chance to hear the truth from Jason’s lips.

-

Jason listened to you in a way he rarely listened to anyone. His posture had gone still, almost disciplined, like every word you gave him mattered.

You had already heard the worst of his story. The night in the warehouse. The betrayal. Joker’s laugh echoing in the dark. The crack of bone, the taste of dust, the seconds stretching as he realized no one was coming. The way the rubble pressed the last breath out of him. Waking up buried, dragging himself into a world that had already moved on. His voice had not broken, but the memories lived behind his eyes. There was no mistaking the hurt they carried.

So you told him yours.

You told him what it was like to live in Gotham without him. How you tried to believe he would walk through the door one day. How the silence became unbearable. You told him about the mourning, how your life folded inward. You told him about his replacement, how it twisted everything inside you. You admitted the curses you threw at fate, at Batman, at the world for letting Jason vanish.

Then you told him about leaving. How Japan became the only escape you could manage. How the strangeness of that life became oddly comforting. You told him about Gojo with his blindfold and impossible swagger. Yuta with his soft voice and sharp determination. The talking panda that had Jason looking at you like you had absolutely lost your mind.

His brow pinched. “A panda. That talks.”

“Yes.”

“You sure you didn’t hit your head in Japan?”

You shot him a look. “I am serious.”

He stared at you a few beats longer, then let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth trying not to lift. “A talking panda. Gotham really is the normal place.”

The small spark of humor softened the space between you, but it did not erase the weight of everything you had shared. It settled around you instead, warm and heavy, like the two of you had finally stopped pretending you were strangers.

Jason shifted closer. His voice dropped. “I missed a lot.”

“You did.”

His eyes stayed on you, searching, steady. “I’m here now.”

The words were simple. They hit harder than anything dramatic ever could.

It broke your heart to utter these words to him. “I can’t stay, Jay.”

His whole body went still. The shift was small, but you felt it like a drop in temperature. Jason had taken bullets without flinching, but this hit him differently. His jaw tightened, and for the first time since he started talking, he looked away.

“Why?” His voice was low, almost careful, like he was bracing for impact.

You swallowed hard. “Because Gotham isn’t my life anymore. Not the way it used to be. I built something in Japan. I’m needed there. I have responsibilities. People who depend on me.”

He nodded once, slow, like each word carved something out of him. “So you’re saying you’re going back.”

“I have to.”

Jason’s breath left him in a rough exhale. He pushed a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needed to move before the emotions caged him. When he stopped again, his eyes were bright with something raw, but he kept himself steady.

“I get it,” he said. “Really. I do.” He hesitated. “But it feels like I just got you back. After everything. After years of thinking I’d never get the chance to say your name again.”

Your throat tightened. “This isn’t goodbye. It’s just… not staying.”

Jason stepped closer, close enough for the city lights to catch the scars across his cheek. “I’m not asking you to lock yourself in Gotham. I’m not even asking you to choose me.” He paused. “I’m just asking if there’s a place for me in your life now. Even if it’s not here.”

The question hung between you, fragile and dangerous.

He wasn’t begging.

He wasn’t demanding.

He was offering you the truth of him, open and unguarded, in a way Jason Todd almost never did.

And you had to decide what to do with it.

-

Morning light spilled across the suite when you walked in with Jason beside you. The moment the door opened, Gojo was sprawled across the couch like he owned the place, one leg dangling and a bag of chips in his hand. Megumi stood near the window with his arms crossed, already annoyed. Nobara and Yuji were arguing about what to eat for breakfast.

You all ended up sitting in the suite’s living area. Not relaxed. Not comfortable. Just… sitting.

Gojo had taken the armchair, perched sideways like a cat with too much confidence. The trio sat on the couch, squished together but pretending it was normal. Jason sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched, but not close enough to calm the storm in your chest.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched long enough that even Gojo didn’t crack a joke. Jason kept glancing at you, waiting for you to say something. Every time you opened your mouth, fear pushed the words back down.

You had everything you came for. Answers. Closure. Jason.

Which meant it was time to go.

Your stomach twisted.

Finally, Jason leaned in just slightly. “Something’s up,” he murmured. “I can tell. You’re too quiet.”

You stared at your hands. “I’m trying to figure out how to say it.”

The trio pretended not to react, but Yuji sat forward a little. Nobara nudged Megumi’s knee. Even Gojo tilted his head.

Jason’s voice softened. “Say what?”

You took a breath that shook more than you wanted it to. “We found what we were looking for. Sukuna’s finger. Which means my mission here is over.”

Jason froze.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe. His whole body went tense beside you.

You kept going, because if you didn’t say it now, you never would. “We have to leave. Today. Maybe in the next few hours.”

The room felt smaller, tighter, like the walls had moved in.

Jason looked down, jaw clenching once. “So that’s it,” he said quietly. “You’re leaving.”

You nodded.

He ran a hand over his face, a rough, frustrated swipe. “I knew it, but… hearing it out loud sucks a lot more.”

You couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me on purpose.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “You’re just doing what you have to do.”

Gojo cleared his throat, surprisingly gentle. “We can give you two space if you want.”

Jason shook his head. “No. Stay.” His voice cracked a little, but he steadied it. “She’s leaving because of all of you. Might as well hear it.”

“Jay…”

He turned back to you, and the fear in his eyes nearly undid you. “You found what you needed here. You saw me. You got answers. You’re walking out of Gotham again. Nothing’s keeping you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Feels like it.”

You reached for his hand, grounding both of you. “I didn’t plan on finding you. I didn’t plan on any of this. But I’m glad it happened.”

Jason swallowed hard. “Then why does this feel like the part where you disappear for another few years?”

You shook your head. “Because I’m scared too.”

That made him look at you.

“I don’t want to leave you,” you admitted. “But if I don’t go now, people could die. My team needs me.” You nodded toward Gojo and the trio. “This is my world now.”

Jason’s lip twitched, hurt flashing across his expression. “And I’m not part of it.”

“You could be,” you said softly.

He looked stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to say that. “How?”

“By trusting I’ll come back.”

Jason’s eyes burned with something desperate and hopeful and terrified. “I want to believe that.”

“So let yourself.”

He squeezed your hand, hard enough to tell you he didn’t want to let go.

Behind you, Gojo whispered to the trio, “This is better than half the dramas on TV.”

Megumi elbowed him.

Jason didn’t look away from you. “If I let you walk out that door… promise me you won’t vanish again.”

You took a breath that steadied something inside you. “I promise.”

He held your hand like he needed that promise to breathe.

-

​​Before leaving Gotham, you agreed to say goodbye to Alfred. Somehow “goodbye to Alfred” turned into a full gathering in the manor. The entire family waited in the sitting room when you arrived.

Damian stood stiffly by the window. Tim lingered near the back, eyes cautious. Dick gave a soft, nervous smile. Bruce looked like he had aged a decade just seeing you again. And Alfred waited in the center, hands folded behind his back, steady as ever.

Jason stayed beside you, close but not in the way. A silent anchor.

You took a breath and stepped forward.

“I’m here because I made a promise,” you began. Your voice didn’t shake. You kept it even, calm, the way you had learned to speak when facing curses larger than buildings. “And because I needed to say things I never got to say.”

No one moved.

You continued.

“I was angry. For a long time. Angry that I lost someone I cared about. Angry that Gotham kept moving like nothing happened. Angry that all of you acted like I was supposed to… heal. Or accept it. Or become part of the family again without ever talking about what hurt.”

Tim looked down. Dick’s smile faded. Damian crossed his arms tighter.

You didn’t raise your voice.

“I’m not saying this because I want an apology. I’m saying it because those feelings were real, and I carried them for years. Losing Jason broke something in me. Watching him be replaced broke what was left.”

Jason squeezed your hand, slow and grounding.

You breathed out.

“But holding onto anger didn’t help me. Hating all of you didn’t fix anything. When I left for Japan, I wasn’t trying to run from Gotham. I was trying to survive myself.”

Bruce opened his mouth like he wanted to speak, but you shook your head gently, and he fell silent.

“In Japan I found a purpose. I found people who needed me, who saw what I could do, who gave me a place to belong. I built a life. A real one. Not a shadow life in the cracks of Gotham.”

The room felt heavy, but for once, not suffocating.

“I’m not the same person who lived here. I can’t pretend I didn’t change. I can’t pretend the anger didn’t shape me. And I can’t stay in a place that represents so much hurt, even if I finally understand it wasn’t all your fault.”

Alfred’s eyes softened, the only steady kindness in the room.

You nodded toward him. “Alfred… thank you. For everything you did for me. You were the only one who made this place feel like a home.”

His voice was gentle. “You will always be welcome here, my dear.”

You smiled. A small, tired one. “I know. But I also know I’m not part of this family anymore. And that’s okay.”

Jason’s breath hitched beside you. Dick blinked rapidly. Tim looked like he had been punched. Even Damian’s posture cracked at the edges.

You straightened your shoulders.

“I’m not leaving out of hate. Not anymore. I’m leaving because my life is somewhere else. I have people who count on me. A mission that isn’t tied to Gotham. And a future that doesn’t fit inside these walls.”

You let the words settle.

Then you added, quieter but even more honest:

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care. It just means I’m moving forward.”

You finished your speech, letting the last words fade into the quiet of the manor. For a long moment, no one moved. Even the air felt still, as if the house itself was listening.

Then Bruce stepped forward.

He looked older than you remembered. Tired. Heavy with guilt that had settled in his shoulders long before you walked in. He clasped his hands in front of him, searching for words that refused to come easily.

“I know I failed you,” he said finally. His voice was low, rough. “I failed all of you. Jason. You. This family. I can’t reverse it, but I would like the chance to make amends. To rebuild something. If you’re willing.”

You held his gaze, steady and unreadable. Part of you wished those words had come years ago, when you were drowning in loss with no one reaching out a hand.

“Bruce,” you said quietly, “I’m not angry anymore. Not like I used to be. But forgiveness isn’t the same as forgetting.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.” You took a step closer, not aggressive, just honest. “When Jason came back—when he was alive again—you didn’t call me. None of you did. I found out by accident. After mourning him. After breaking over him. After rebuilding myself without him. And you still said nothing.”

Bruce opened his mouth, but you raised your hand just slightly. Not to silence him. To finish the truth you deserved to say.

“You didn’t think about what that would do to me. How it would feel. How it would tear open everything I had tried to heal. You treated me like a footnote in his story. In your story.” You exhaled, controlled and even. “And that isn’t something I can forgive.”

Tim flinched. Dick lowered his head. Damian looked away.

“I don’t say this to hurt you,” you continued. “I say it because you asked if there’s a chance to make things right. And the answer is no. Not for me.”

Bruce swallowed, the sound almost painful. “There must be something—”

“There isn’t,” you said softly. “We don’t have a foundation to rebuild from. Not anymore. There’s no trust left. No bond. Nothing to patch together. Even if you regret it now, the truth is that none of you reached out when it mattered.”

Bruce’s eyes glistened. Not tears, but something close.

“That doesn’t mean I hate you,” you said. “I don’t. I’ve learned I can’t live with that kind of anger. It eats people alive. Especially people like us.”

Jason tightened his grip on your hand, proud in a quiet way.

You looked at the room—at faces once familiar, now distant.

“I accept what happened,” you said. “I understand why things broke the way they did. And I’ve made peace with it. But peace doesn’t mean going backward. My life is somewhere else now. With people who showed up when I needed them. With a mission that isn’t tied to this family.”

The silence was heavier this time. No one argued. No one tried to guilt or persuade you. They listened, really listened, in a way that might have changed everything years ago.

But not now.

Bruce tried one last time, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you ever… if you ever need anything—”

“I won’t,” you said. Not cruel. Just true. “But thank you.”

With that, you turned toward the doors.

You didn’t storm out. You didn’t run.

You simply walked forward, steady and sure, leaving a room full of people who finally understood that you weren’t theirs anymore.

And Jason walked beside you, silent and loyal, until the moment your world and his had to separate again.

-

Outside the manor, the air felt colder. Quieter. The weight that had pressed against your ribs for years finally loosened, slipping off your shoulders like an old ghost finally satisfied.

Jason walked with you down the steps, matching your pace without a word. The Bat-family stayed inside, the heavy doors closing softly behind you. No more chasing, no more fighting, no more trying to force something broken back into shape.

Just you. Just Jason. And the path waiting ahead.

Gojo and the trio were waiting near the car. Nobara leaned against the door, arms crossed. Yuji smiled in that warm, hopeful way he had. Megumi pretended he wasn’t watching you. Gojo stood a little apart, for once serious.

“You ready?” Gojo asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jason looked between them and you, and for a moment the fear returned—quick, sharp, human. “So this is it.”

You turned to him. “For now.”

He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You aren’t,” you said. “You never did.”

Jason cupped the side of your face, rough thumb brushing once across your cheek. He didn’t kiss your forehead like he used to. It didn’t need that. The touch said everything.

“Come back alive,” he said.

“I will,” you answered.

“Because if you don’t,” he added, trying for humor and almost managing it, “I’m breaking into Japan to drag you out myself.”

You smiled. A real one. “I’d like to see you try.”

You stepped back then, slow and steady, letting his hand fall away. It hurt. It always would. But this time the pain didn’t come with bitterness. Just truth.

You had chosen your life.

You had chosen your path.

Jason watched you climb into the car, watched the team close in around you, watched the world he couldn’t follow pull you back where you belonged. He didn’t chase you. He didn’t break. He just stood there, breathing hard, fighting the instinct to reach for you again.

As the car pulled away from Wayne Manor, you looked out the window at Gotham’s skyline one last time. A city that had shaped you, hurt you, loved you in its own violent way. A city you no longer owed anything to.

You whispered, not to Jason, not to the family, but to the version of yourself you were finally leaving behind:

“Thank you. And goodbye.”

Japan waited. Your mission waited. Your new life waited.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt ready to live it without apology, without anger, without anything holding you to a past that could not give you anything more.

Jason stayed in Gotham. You returned to your world. And both of you kept moving forward.

Not together. Not apart.

Just exactly where you were meant to be.

TAGLIST: CLOSED

a/n: hi guys! sorry for the wait, ive been swamped with school and work and I honestly have been rewriting this chapter. Trying to do us some justice. Enjoy!

Despite your protests, Alfred had insisted the group stay for dinner. “It would be unforgivable,” he said firmly, “to let you leave Gotham without at least one proper meal in this house.”

So here you were, sitting at the long oak dining table that looked like it had been carved to host kings. The firelight flickered off crystal glasses and silver cutlery. Yuji gawked openly, Nobara looked like she was already planning which set of candlesticks she could smuggle home, and Megumi sat stiffly, unimpressed but very aware of the tension hanging over the room.

The dining hall was the same as you remembered: too big, too polished, too quiet. A table that could seat thirty but rarely saw more than five. The chandeliers glowed warmly overhead, the polished silverware gleamed in neat alignment, and Alfred had gone to absurd lengths to prepare a spread worthy of royalty.

You sat near the middle with Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi clustered close like a shield. Gojo lounged two chairs down, spinning his wine glass as though he were at some chic gala rather than sitting in the middle of a family battlefield.

At the far end of the table sat Bruce, silent and unmoving, Damian at his right, Tim on his left. The empty space between you felt like a chasm.

Alfred tried, bless him. He moved quietly, serving dishes with steady hands and gentle smiles. “Roast beef, just as you liked it, Miss Y/N. Mashed potatoes for the young master Itadori. And tea for everyone after, of course.”

Yuji perked up instantly. “Thanks, Alfred! You’re the best!”

Alfred smiled faintly. “A title I do not deserve, Master Itadori, but one I will humbly accept.”

For a moment, there was lightness, until Yuji, ever the talker, leaned over and asked, “So… what was Y/N like as a kid? Bet she was, like, super cute and annoying, huh?”

Nobara smirked. “Still is.”

You shot her a glare, but Alfred’s eyes softened. “She was bright. Curious about everything. Brave, too, though I don’t think she ever realized it. Always asking questions far too big for her age. And when Master Jason came along, she trailed after him endlessly.”

The mention of Jason made your chest tighten. You stabbed at your plate to keep your hands from shaking. “Don’t sugarcoat it, Alfred. I wasn’t brave. I was just being strung along”.

The words landed heavy, dragging the room into silence.

And that was when footsteps echoed in the hall.

Dick entered, his presence filling the room effortlessly, followed by what you could only assume were more orphans Bruce had decided to adopt. Whose names would you learn were, Cassandra silent at his side, Duke following with steady confidence, and Stephanie bringing a half smile that seemed to dare you to comment.

“Oh, fantastic,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “Look at that. More of Gotham’s lost children brought home to roost. What is this now, Bruce? A dozen? Two dozen? When’s the cutoff?”

Stephanie raised her brows. “Wow. She’s feisty.”

“She’s always been like that,” Dick said gently, though his eyes lingered on you with something more complicated.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “Feisty? No. Honest. Maybe start raising the kids you already had before adopting new ones.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Alfred moved quickly to redirect. “More carrots, Master Damian? Stephanie? Cassandra? Duke?”

But it was too late, the tension had already sunk in like a blade.

Tim, perhaps trying to break the tension, spoke softly. “Jason used to complain about these dinners too. Said Alfred always forced him to eat his vegetables.”

The name snapped your temper like dry wood.

“Don’t.” Your voice cut through the dining room before anyone could breathe. “Don’t you dare say his name like you knew him. Like you have the right.”

Tim’s mouth shut with an audible click, guilt flashing across his face.

“Hey,” Dick said quickly, leaning forward, palms open in a half peace gesture. “Ease up. He was just talking.”

“He shouldn’t be talking at all,” you fired back, heat sharp in your chest. “He wasn’t there.”

“Neither were you every second,” Dick shot back before he could stop himself, voice sharpening. “You didn’t corner the market on Jason.”

You snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Oh, so now you’re defending Tim just ‘cause you love playing the big brother hero?”

“I’m defending him because he didn’t do anything wrong!” Dick’s tone cracked with frustration now. “You’re swinging at everyone just because you’re angry.”

“And what? You’re suddenly the expert on how I’m supposed to feel?” Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “You think you get to tell me how to grieve?”

“I’m saying you don’t get to burn down everyone at the table!” Dick snapped, leaning in now. “We all lost him.”

Something in you twisted, hot and bitter. “Shut it, Dink.” The disgust on his name stung him. “You don’t get to lecture me when you’ve spent years pretending everything’s fine.”

Dick flinched , not just from the name but the hit behind it. His jaw locked. “Pretending? You think that’s what I’ve been doing?” His voice dropped, low and angry now. “I held this family together when everything blew apart. Someone had to.”

“That wasn’t for me,” you said, voice trembling but cutting. “Don’t act like it was.”

The table went quiet. Until Cassandra broke it like a blade through glass.

“You think you’re the only one who lost him?” Her voice was low, but every word landed heavy. She looked straight at you, then flicked her gaze toward Bruce and Dick. “Jason tore them apart too. Bruce. Dick. You just… don’t see it.”

Your head snapped toward her, fury sparking fast.“Back off,” you spat. “Who the hell even are you? Just because Bruce Wayne decided one child soldier wasn’t enough and dragged another stray into this mess doesn’t mean you get to weigh in on this. Stay out of it.”

Cass didn’t flinch. She just held your glare, calm but unyielding. “Because someone has to say it.”

Dick looked caught between stepping in and staying silent. Bruce stayed motionless at the end of the table, hands curling slow and tight.

Damian, finally looking up from his plate, frowned at the charged silence. “Why are you people still fighting about this? Why are you all acting like Todd’s still dead? He’s alive. Just too stubborn to come home.”

The air froze. You didn’t look up; Dick stared down at his plate; Bruce stayed stone still but radiated something heavy and unspoken.

Damian glanced between everyone, confusion flickering into unease as the weight in the room sank in deeper.

The world tilted.

Your fork clattered against porcelain. The breath caught hard in your throat. “…What the hell did you just say?”

Damian’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Your eyes widened, heart hammering so hard it hurt. “What… what do you mean he’s alive?” The words scraped out of you, raw and disbelieving. “Jason’s alive? And no one—no one thought to tell me?”

The room went still.

Bruce finally lifted his gaze from the table. His face was carved from stone, but something flickered there, guilt, maybe, or exhaustion too deep to name. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.

“He came back,” Bruce said, the simple words heavy as lead. “Years ago. It wasn’t… simple. He didn’t come home. He didn’t want to.” His eyes stayed fixed on you, unreadable but pained. “He’s been alive, but he made it clear he didn’t want to be found. Or… didn’t want us.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “And you just… kept that from me?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I thought it was better this way. Safer for you. Jason’s path hasn’t been… one you’d want to walk.”

For a moment, the table was silent except for the hum of the house around you. 

You sat there, trembling, the air too thin to breathe.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Tim lowered his head. Dick’s expression crumpled with guilt. Stephanie and Duke exchanged uneasy glances. Cassandra’s eyes softened, but she didn’t speak.

Bruce… Bruce just sat there, jaw locked, gaze dark.

Rage clawed through your chest, hot and merciless. “You let me mourn him. You let me believe he was gone. You let me bury the only person who ever made me feel like I mattered.”

Your voice cracked, breaking open, but the fury kept spilling. “I thought I was crazy—seeing his ghost in every alley, every nightmare. I thought my grief was the curse. And all this time, he was alive?”

No one moved. No one spoke.

You shoved your chair back, the screech of wood on marble cutting through the silence. “Screw you guys. You’re monsters,” you spat, voice shaking. “All of you.”

Damian’s frown deepened, his mouth opening as though to argue, but you didn’t give him the chance. You stormed out of the dining hall, the doors slamming behind you so hard the chandelier rattled.

The trio scrambled after you. Yuji looking stricken, Nobara seething on your behalf, Megumi silent but grim. Gojo rose last, strolling casually toward the door, but not before glancing back at Bruce.

His grin was sharp, merciless. “You really are good at breaking your kids, huh?”

Bruce said nothing. He couldn’t.

And the silence that followed was louder than your rage

-

The cold Gotham air hit you like a slap when you burst through the manor doors. You barely made it to the garden before your legs buckled, rage and grief twisting too tightly inside your chest. You sank onto the damp stone bench, your breath shuddering, hands clawing at your arms as if you could hold yourself together by force.

Yuji was the first to catch up, skidding to a halt, panic in his eyes. “Hey—hey, it’s okay—no, it’s not okay, but you’re not alone, okay?” He crouched in front of you, his hands hovering helplessly, not sure if he should touch you.

Nobara didn’t hesitate. She sat beside you and draped her arm firmly around your shoulders, pulling you into her. “Breathe, idiot,” she muttered, but her voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “We’re here. Don’t let those bastards see you like this.”

Megumi stood a step back, silent as always, but his fists were clenched at his sides. His gaze never left you, sharp and protective, like he was daring anyone else to come out and try to hurt you again.

Gojo arrived last, strolling as if the world hadn’t just shattered. But when he saw you trembling between Yuji and Nobara, his easy grin faltered. He stepped closer, crouched low, and rested a hand lightly atop your head.

“Let it out, kid,” he said, quiet in a way only you ever heard from him. “Don’t swallow it down. That’s how curses fester.”

And for the first time in years, you broke.

A ragged sob tore out of you, one after another, until your whole body shook with it. Yuji murmured soft encouragement, Nobara rubbed circles into your arm, Megumi turned his head to give you space, and Gojo simply stayed, steady, unshakable.

-

Back in the dining hall, the silence was heavy, suffocating. The sound of the doors slamming still echoed in the air.

Damian sat rigid, confused at the storm he’d unleashed. Tim had his head bowed, shame written across his features. Stephanie and Duke fidgeted uncomfortably, and Cassandra’s dark eyes lingered on Bruce like she was weighing every fracture in him.

Dick was the first to speak. His voice was low, sharp. “You didn’t tell her. You let her believe Jason was dead. For years.”

Bruce didn’t look up from his clenched fists on the table. His voice was gravel. “I thought it was easier. Cleaner. She was already gone. What good would it have done to drag her back into this life with him?”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “No. What you mean is it was easier for you.”

Bruce flinched. The truth of it hung in the air.

For years, he had told himself he had made the right choice, that pushing you away, keeping secrets, burying grief was all to protect you. But the image of your face when Damian revealed Jason’s survival… that betrayal, that broken fury, he couldn’t run from it.

And for once, the mask cracked. His voice, rough and low, slipped out before he could stop it. “I failed her. I failed them all.”

No one argued. No one disagreed.

Because at that moment, even Batman knew it was true.

-

You slammed the door behind you when you entered the hotel room, the sound rattling the frame. Your chest was still heaving, your eyes raw from crying, your hands shaking as you stripped off your coat and threw it over the chair.

Yuji lingered awkwardly by the minibar, clearly wanting to help but unsure how. “Do you want water? Or food? I can, uh, order-”

“Shut up, Itadori,” Nobara snapped, not at him, but on your behalf. She tugged you toward the bed and pushed you down gently. “You don’t need to say anything. Just sit.”

Megumi dropped into the chair opposite, elbows on his knees, watching you quietly. “You’re not wrong for being angry. Don’t let them make you think you are.”

Your throat burned. You buried your face in your hands. “I thought he was dead. I carried that for years. And they all knew. They all knew.”

Gojo leaned against the wall by the window, hands in his pockets. For once, he wasn’t teasing, wasn’t smirking. His blindfold caught the glow of Gotham’s neon. “You don’t owe them forgiveness. Not Bruce. Not the others. Alfred, maybe, but the rest? They made their choice.”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I’m never going back there. Not the manor. Not to them.”

The silence was heavy, until a cruel chuckle rippled through the air, not in your head this time, but out loud.

“Pathetic.”

Everyone froze.

Yuji stiffened instantly, dread flashing across his face. Sukuna’s little annoying mouth once again had popped onto his cheek. Nobara’s hand shot to the hammer hidden in her bag, and Megumi’s shadows twitched, half-summoned.

Sukuna’s voice filled the room, dripping with mockery. “All those tears, all that fury, for some second rate vigilante? What a waste. You carry grief like a child clutching a broken toy.”

Your stomach dropped. “Sukuna stop.”

He ignored you, his tone sharp and amused. “Do you think they’ll all come back to you if you cry hard enough? Maybe that Jason brat will crawl out of his grave and pat your head again. Or maybe these three fools will die next, and you can add more names to your list of ghosts.”

“Shut up!” you snapped, standing, your hands shaking.

Yuji’s breathing quickened. “Sukuna, don’t—”

“Or maybe,” Sukuna cut across him, his voice dropping into a hiss that scraped at the edges of the room, “you should admit the truth. You like the pain. You’d rather keep clutching it rather than letting it go.”

Nobara shot to her feet, fury blazing in her eyes. “You bastard-”

Gojo’s hand lifted lazily, stopping her. His voice was cool, cutting. “That’s enough, Sukuna.”

The curse laughed, low and taunting, before fading into silence. The room was still again, but the words he left behind lingered, raw and jagged.

Your fists trembled at your sides, your throat tight. You didn’t want to cry in front of them—not again—but Sukuna’s cruelty had ripped open wounds you weren’t ready to share.

Then Nobara’s hand was on your shoulder, firm. “Ignore him. He wants you broken. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Megumi’s voice was low, steady. “He’s wrong. You don’t carry this alone anymore. You have us.”

Yuji swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face, but his voice was earnest. “We’re not going anywhere. I promise.”

Gojo finally pushed away from the window, crossing the room to ruffle your hair gently. “Don’t let a parasite tell you who you are, kid. You’re stronger than that and stronger than him.”

Your breathing slowed, shaky but steadying as their words anchored you. Sukuna’s laughter still echoed faintly in the back of your mind, but for the first time, it didn’t drown everything else out.

-

Rain hammered against the cracked windows, the room dim except for the flicker of a desk lamp. Jason sat hunched over a gun laid open on the table, a bottle of whiskey half empty beside him. The Red Hood helmet sat like a silent sentinel, its crimson surface catching the weak glow of the lamp.

His burner phone buzzed.

He ignored it at first. Another deal. Another contact. Another distraction.

But then he saw the name.

Alfred.

Jason’s hand froze. Slowly, he reached for the phone and opened the message.

She’s here. At the manor. Please, Master Jason come. She believes you dead, and it has broken her more than I can say.

The words blurred for a second as Jason’s pulse spiked, his throat tightening. He pushed back from the desk, the chair screeching against the floor.

“Home,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair. “She’s home. She’s-”

He stopped himself, heart hammering, chest aching in a way he hadn’t let it for years.

You thought he was dead.

All this time, all those nights you’d shadowed him around the garage, the dumb nickname you’d given him, the way you’d clung to him like the world would fall apart if he let go. Bruce had let you believe he was still gone.

Jason’s stomach twisted, rage flaring hot. “He didn’t tell her.” His fist slammed into the wall, plaster cracking under the blow. “That bastard didn’t tell her!”

He grabbed his helmet, his jacket, and stalked toward the door, his movements sharp, breath uneven.

-

The storm hadn’t let up by the time Jason roared up the long, winding drive to Wayne Manor. The motorcycle’s engine cut through the night until he skidded to a stop, gravel spitting under his tires. Helmet under his arm, he stalked up the steps, rage boiling with every step.

The door opened before he could pound on it. Alfred stood there, composed as ever, though his eyes betrayed the flicker of worry.

“Master Jason,” Alfred said, voice steady. “You came.”

“Where is she?” Jason demanded, rain dripping down his face.

Alfred’s mouth tightened. “She’s gone. Left with her companions not long after dinner.”

Jason froze, then shoved past him into the hall, his boots echoing on the polished floor. “Gone? She’s been here for five minutes and you let her leave?”

“It was not my choice,” Alfred said calmly, closing the door behind him.

Jason turned, eyes blazing. “She thought I was still dead, Alfred! Dead! And Bruce—” His voice cracked into a growl. “He let her believe it. For years.”

There was movement at the top of the stairs. Bruce. His figure cast in shadow, Damian peering out behind him, curiosity sharp in his young eyes.

“Jason,” Bruce started, voice low.

“Don’t.” Jason’s voice was raw, shaking with fury. “You don’t get to say my name like we’re good. Like you didn’t wreck her life on top of mine.”

Tim had appeared at the landing too, arms crossed, but silent. Dick moved in from the side hall, tension clear in his frame. The family was gathering, like vultures to carrion.

Jason jabbed a finger toward Bruce, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. “She mourned me. Cried herself sick for years because you couldn’t be bothered to tell her the truth. You made her carry that grief alone, and now she wants nothing to do with you. And you know what?” His jaw clenched, his chest heaving. “I don’t blame her.”

Bruce’s face was stone, but his silence said everything.

Jason shook his head, bitter laughter spilling out. “You don’t get it, do you? You keep collecting kids, throwing them into uniforms, and the moment they stop fitting into your perfect plan, you toss them aside like they never mattered.”

The words hung heavy. Damian’s brow furrowed, confused but clearly unsettled. Tim shifted uncomfortably. Dick flinched but didn’t argue.

Alfred finally stepped forward, his voice sharp. “Enough. This is not the time nor the place for shouting ghosts into the walls.”

Jason’s hands curled into fists, but he swallowed it back, breathing hard. His voice dropped, rough and raw. “Wherever she is… I’ll find her. And I’ll tell her myself. Because she deserves to know the truth, from me. Not from you.”

Helmet clutched under his arm, Jason stormed back toward the door, the slam reverberating through the manor like thunder.

Bruce stood rooted to the stairs, the weight of guilt pressing down harder than any enemy ever had.

-

The city hummed below,  lights flickering against the haze of Gotham’s ever present smog. You sat curled up on the rooftop ledge of the hotel, knees pulled to your chest, staring out at the skyline with hollow eyes. 

Gojo found you there, slipping through the roof access door as if he’d known exactly where you’d run. He didn’t speak at first. Just walked over and sat beside you, long legs dangling over the ledge. For a while, the only sound was the distant wail of sirens and the hum of traffic.

“You know,” he finally said, his tone soft, “when I was your age, I used to sit on rooftops too. Pretending the world was smaller from up high. Pretending it couldn’t hurt me if I was looking down on it.”

You sniffed, your chin resting on your knees. “Did it work?”

Gojo chuckled lightly. “Not even a little. But it made me feel less… small. And sometimes that’s enough.”

You turned your head slightly, studying him. “How are you always like this? Like nothing can touch you.”

He tilted his head, his blindfold catching the glow of the city. For once, his smile was faint, almost sad. “Because if I let the world touch me, I’d break. And if I break, then the people who rely on me have nothing left. So, I fake it. I play the clown. And when that doesn’t work, I just keep going anyway.”

Something in his tone, gentle, honest, struck you. You looked away, your voice small. “They let me mourn him, Satoru. For years. And they never told me.”

Gojo didn’t try to spin it, didn’t try to cheer you up with a joke. Instead, he reached out and rested a large, steady hand on your back, rubbing slow circles.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You deserved better than that.”

The dam cracked, and your shoulders shook. “Why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t Bruce fight for me?”

Gojo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t let the anger seep into his voice. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. Some people don’t know how to be parents, Y/N. Some people hide behind excuses instead of doing the hard work. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t worth fighting for. You always were.”

Your breath hitched, tears burning hot. “Then why does it still hurt so much?”

Gojo pulled you into his side, wrapping an arm around you and pressing your head against his shoulder. “Because you loved him. And when the people we love fail us, it cuts the deepest.”

You clung to him, your sobs muffled in the fabric of his jacket.

Gojo stared out at the skyline, his hand steady on your back, his expression hidden behind the blindfold but his thoughts razor-sharp.

She’ll never know this kind of pain again, he swore silently. Not if I can help it. I’ll raise her better. Stronger. Loved. I won’t be another Bruce Wayne. She deserves more than shadows and silence. She deserves a father who sees her.

The vow lodged deep in his chest, unshakable.

He tightened his hold on you just slightly, resting his chin lightly on top of your head. “You’re mine, brat,” he murmured. “And I don’t throw away what’s mine.”

For the first time that night, you let yourself believe it.

-

The night pressed in thick and wet, Gotham’s neon bleeding into the clouds above. Gojo had been grinning like an idiot all day the next day, excited, unusually focused, because the trail they’d followed had finally tightened into something real: a scent of cursed energy that hadn’t belonged to this city yesterday. Sukuna’s fingerprint, or at least the echo of something attached to him. You could taste the electricity in the air, metallic and bitter, and it thrummed under your skin like a second heartbeat.

“We move quiet,” Gojo murmured, voice low though his grin never left. “We sweep. We find. We stab. That’s the plan.”

You tightened your fingers on Severance and followed the others over the roofs. Yuji’s footsteps were light and eager; Nobara’s boots hit the tiles with a steady cadence; Megumi shadowed the perimeter, eyes hooded and watchful. Gojo drifted like a stray comet, both guardian and gust of wind. You felt oddly calm, honed down to the point, the way you always did when steel met threat.

The first curse slithered out of a blocked gutter like a thought becoming flesh, a hunched, smudged thing that smelled like old fear. You didn’t think. You moved, Severance flashing in a clean arc. The thing dissolved into black snow.

And the memory hit, warm and sudden. Jason sneaking you into the kitchen past midnight, whisper laughing while Alfred pretended not to hear the cookie jar lid clink. You blinked the memory away and kept moving. The city around you was a chorus of small horrors, alleyways heaving with fractured shapes that fed on the worst of people’s nights. Each time you struck, another clean slice of memory slid into place, not from learned nostalgia but like the muscle memory of a life you’d built with him.

A pair of shadow hands lunged at Yuji; he cracked a grin and drove his elbow through its center. Nobara laughed then flung a nail that pinned the screaming thing to the brick. You’d only just separated yourself from the next attacker when another memory warmed you: Jason tackling you onto the garage floor to stop you from falling when you’d tried to climb onto a shelf that was always too high. He’d cursed and cursed and then, softer, had said, “Don’t become a broken wing, kid.” You could still feel the echoes of that warmth, the way his voice had wrapped you like a promise.

Sometimes the remembrance hit in the smallest gestures: his thumb sweeping a strand of hair from his forehead when he was thinking; how he always smelt faintly of smoke and old leather; the ridiculous, ridiculous way he ate sandwiches. With each swing, your longing doubled, folded inward: you wanted more than anything to see him again. Not as a ghost of memory, not as a name thrown around at dinner, him. Whole. Angry. Laughing. Real.

You told yourself it was tactical focus. You told yourself you were doing it for the finger, for the mission. The truth was sharper and simpler, your soul throbbed with a need so physical it ached. The emptiness he had once filled was a hollow that no amount of training could fully cover. Each curse you sliced open peeled that scar back, raw and wanting.

The night’s hunt pulled you through narrow streets, over wet satellite dishes, and through a half collapsed tenement where a cluster of curses had nested like mold. It was here,down a narrow fire escape, breath fogging in the chill, that you found the one that hummed different: not merely hunger but bad intent braided with something older, a small pulse of power that stung like iron against your palm.

The thing saw you and laughed, not a laugh of humor but of a predator tasting confidence. It lunged, and you met it head-on. Severance bit through its chest with a sound like thunder, the shadow cracking like brittle ice. As it dissolved, a ribbon of dark energy flared and you saw it, embedded in the ruin where it had been feeding: a slither of something polished, blackened with age. For a breath, you imagined it was the thing you’d come for.

You reached out before anyone stopped you, eyes locking on the object. It was small. It was wrong. And then footsteps, hard, faster, cracked behind you.

You didn’t have time to think. The world narrowed to sound, the whump of boots, a curse’s final bark, the hiss of dissolving shadow. You spun, and there he was.

Standing at the mouth of the building, helmet in his grip, rain dripping down his jawline. Taller now. Broader. Worn by years you hadn’t shared. But those eyes—those eyes were Jason’s.

Your breath caught, the air gone from your lungs. The world went quiet.

For years you had buried him in your heart, folded his memory into grief so deep it had twisted your soul. And now here he stood—alive, real, staring at you like he was seeing a ghost.

Your throat burned, words clawing upward but failing. All you could do was whisper, soft and breaking, the only truth you had left.

“Jason.”

TAGLIST: CLOSED

a/n: guys were almost there! I shed a few tears writing this and ive been rewriting so much just because there so many ways this can go, let me know what you guys think!

The study was dark, save for the low fire snapping in the grate. Bruce stood at the window, rain streaking down the glass, his reflection fractured by the storm outside.

He hadn’t taken off the suit. The cowl sat discarded on the desk, but the armor still clung to him, heavy and suffocating, as though it could shield him from the thoughts tearing through his head.

You.

For years, he had convinced himself he had done the right thing, that sending you away, letting Alfred shoulder the burden, was mercy. He had told himself he wasn’t cut out for raising another child, that you would only become collateral in a war you never chose.

But deep down, he knew the truth. He hadn’t had the courage.

He could face Joker’s madness, Bane’s strength, Ra’s al Ghul’s schemes, but he couldn’t face the small, shaking child who had once looked up at him with innocent eyes, begging for something he didn’t know how to give. So he let Alfred become your world instead.

And when Gojo told him you were his blood and was ready to fight for you? He hadn’t fought it. He had told himself it was safer that way. Cleaner.

But tonight… tonight he had seen you.

Not the broken child he had left behind, but someone older, sharper, blade in hand, laughter twisting into mockery. You hadn’t even flinched at the sight of him. You had mocked him, mocked Robin, and stood taller for it.

And worse, you weren’t alone.

That man. Blindfolded, smiling like he owned the night. Power rolled off him in waves Bruce couldn’t measure, something otherworldly, dangerous. You had stood beside him as if he were family. As if he had taken Bruce’s place.

Jealousy gnawed at him, raw and bitter. That stranger had been there to shape you, to train you, to keep you alive when Bruce had failed to even try. That stranger had the trust Bruce had thrown away.

He braced his hands against the windowsill, head bowed, eyes closing. He could still hear your voice: “Another Robin, finally replacing Drake.” The scorn in it, the edge of bitterness, the sharp reminder that you knew exactly what he’d done to Jason.

The manor’s silence pressed in. He thought of Damian, angry, persistent. Jason, out there in the Narrows, still carrying wounds Bruce had carved. Dick, building his life apart because he couldn’t bear the shadow. Tim, always trying to prove himself to a man who never gave him enough. 

And you. The one he had let slip through his fingers without even fighting.

Bruce clenched his fists, nails digging into the gauntlets. The great Batman, who could plan for every contingency, anticipate every enemy, prepare for every disaster… had never found the courage to type your name into a search bar. To check if you were okay. To see what became of you.

Because some part of him had known he wouldn’t like the answer.

And now, standing in the stormlit study, he knew that fear had come true.

You had become strong without him. You had become someone who didn’t need him.

And maybe you never would again.

-

Back at the hotel, while the kids were bickering and raiding the mini-fridge, Gojo leaned against the window, blindfold tilted just enough to let his Six Eyes sweep over the city.

He thought back to the rooftop.

Batman. Bruce Wayne.

Gojo had known of him in passing, a human boogeyman whispered about even across the ocean. A man who had built himself into a weapon sharp enough to cut through Gotham’s endless cycle of decay. In his own way, Gojo respected that. A human climbing so far without cursed energy? Impressive.

But standing across from him tonight, Gojo had seen more than Gotham’s so called Dark Knight.

He’d seen the guilt clinging to him like smoke. The jealousy bristling under that armor. The way his gaze lingered too long on you, not as if you were an enemy, but as if you were a ghost.

Gojo had nearly laughed on the spot. So that’s the guy, huh? The one who couldn’t even keep his own kid safe, who let you slip through his fingers?

It explained everything, the bitterness in your smirk, the sharp edge in your voice when you called the boy beside him “another Robin.” It wasn’t just mockery. It was a wound, still bleeding after all this time.

Gojo let his head rest back against the glass, a smile tugging at his lips. Figures. Gotham’s golden boy turns out to be just another coward when it really matters.

He remembered your face when Batman appeared, tense, guarded, but steady. Not a child looking to be claimed. A sorcerer standing with her team.

And that was the part Bruce hadn’t realized.

You weren’t his anymore. You weren’t his soldier, his mistake, or his shadow. You were yours.

Gojo had promised your mother he would protect you. And unlike Bruce, he didn’t intend to break that promise.

“Sleep well, brat,” he murmured to himself, glancing at your door down the hall. His grin softened into something gentler. “You’ve already outgrown him.”

The city outside groaned with curses and crime, but Gojo’s smirk only widened.

If Gotham wanted to drag you back into its claws, it would have to get through him first.

-

The next morning, Gojo announced over breakfast that he had “grown up business” with a couple of sorcerers stationed outside Gotham. His tone was breezy, but the look he shot you was deliberate, watch the kids, but also watch yourself.

So you found yourself playing tour guide.

“You’ve all fought curses here,” you said as you led Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara down one of Gotham’s crowded avenues, the sky forever stuck in shades of gray. “But you haven’t seen the city yet. Might as well.”

Yuji’s eyes sparkled like he was on a field trip. “This place is huge! And creepy. Huge and creepy.”

“Try living here,” you muttered, tugging your hood up.

You showed them Crime Alley, where desperation clung to the air like mold. You passed by the Narrows, with its sagging rooftops and neon signs flickering like dying fireflies. And at every turn, you explained, half bitter, half matter-of-fact.

“Gotham doesn’t need curses to be a nightmare. We’ve got people for that. Joker. Two-Face. Scarecrow. You name the horror, we’ve had it.”

Nobara smirked at Yuji. “Don’t tell me you’re scared already.”

“I’m not scared,” Yuji shot back quickly. “I just think you’d scream first.”

“In your dreams,” Nobara snapped, giving his shoulder a shove.

Megumi sighed, trailing a step behind. “You’re both loud.”

“Aw, don’t pout,” Nobara teased, looping her arm around his shoulders just to watch him scowl.

Despite the city’s shadows, the banter warmed you. 

For once, Gotham wasn’t drowning in rain. The sky was pale and heavy with clouds, but the streets were dry, and the air smelled faintly of damp leaves. You had dragged Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara to a park, a rare pocket of green in the middle of Gotham’s stone and steel.

Yuji immediately darted toward a vendor cart, waving a fistful of crumpled bills. “Hot dogs! Gotham style!”

Nobara wrinkled her nose. “If by ‘style’ you mean questionable meat, no thanks.”

Megumi sat on a bench, arms folded, watching Yuji haggle with the vendor like his life depended on it. You sat beside him, the weight of Gotham heavy in your chest but dulled by the rare sound of your friends laughing.

For the first time since you’d landed, the city felt bearable.

Until you heard footsteps behind you.

You turned, and your whole body went cold.

Tim Drake stood a few paces away, civilian clothes but posture sharp, every inch the soldier you remembered him as. Beside him was a child, arms folded, his stare intense and unblinking.

“Y/N,” Tim said quietly, almost cautious. “We need to talk.”

You stood slowly, Severance nowhere in sight but your words sharp enough to cut. “Drake.” You let the name fall heavy, dripping with disdain. “Still playing the loyal replacement, I see.”

Tim flinched, just barely, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came to make amends.”

You laughed once, bitter and humorless. “Amends? Don’t make me laugh”.

Behind you, Nobara raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tension. “Ooo, this is better than a soap opera.”

Yuji returned with two hot dogs, mouth already full. “What’d I miss?”

“Family drama,” Nobara whispered back.

Meanwhile, Damian stepped forward, chin tilted up, his voice confident and sharp. “Enough. I am Damian Wayne. Your half-brother.”

The words hit harder than you expected, but you didn’t let it show. You crossed your arms, eyes narrowed at his tiny. “…And?”

Damian blinked. “And that means something. We share blood. You have no right to ignore me.”

You tilted your head, smirk twisting bitterly. “Listen, kid. I don’t care about blood. If that’s all we share, then you’re nothing to me.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, his pride cracking for a second. “Tt. You speak like a coward. You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t want to know you,” you snapped, your voice rising enough that even Yuji stopped chewing. “You’re just another face with the Wayne name . Just another soldier he picked up to replace the last one. Why would I waste my time?”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the distant chatter of the park.

Tim finally exhaled, a slow, weary breath that seemed to take something out of him. His hands stayed shoved deep in his jacket pockets, but his shoulders slumped under the weight of everything unsaid. “You’ve changed,” he said, almost like it hurt to admit it.

You didn’t answer at first. The words hung between you, fragile but sharp. You stared at the grass instead, jaw set, fighting the urge to laugh at the obviousness of it all. Changed? Of course you had. He just wasn’t there to see it. None of them were.

When you finally looked at him, your eyes were steady and flat. “No.” Your voice was low but carried a strange clarity, the kind that leaves no room for argument. “I finally stopped caring.”

Tim flinched, just barely,  a twitch of his jaw, a flicker behind his eyes. He opened his mouth like he might argue, but nothing came out. Maybe he’d expected you to cry, to fight, to explain. Instead, you were still. You were finished.

Tim dropped his gaze. For a second, he looked like he wanted to reach out, to fix it somehow, but his hand stayed buried in his pocket. “I… didn’t think you’d ever get to this point,” he said finally, barely more than a whisper.

You shrugged, a small, tired motion. “Neither did I.”

Then you turned your back on them, walking toward the path with the trio trailing after you.

Yuji jogged to catch up, whispering, “Sooo… you guys aren’t gonna, like, hug it out?”

“Shut up, Yuji,” Nobara muttered, though her smirk hadn’t faded.

Megumi, quiet as always, glanced back once at Tim and Damian, two figures left standing in the park, both stung by rejection, and then looked ahead at you.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew this wouldn’t be the last time the past tried to drag you back.

-

The sound of your footsteps faded down the path, swallowed by the chatter of children playing and the distant honk of Gotham traffic. For a long while, Tim and Damian just stood there, two shadows left behind in a park that suddenly felt much colder.

Damian’s fists clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. “Tt. She is insufferable,” he spat. “How dare she dismiss me as though I am nothing?”

Tim didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the spot where you had been, expression tight and unreadable.

Damian turned to him sharply, his voice edged with fire. “You heard her. She called you ‘replacement.’ She doesn’t even respect you, Drake. Why do you stand there like it means nothing?”

Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because she’s not wrong.”

Damian froze, caught off guard by the bluntness.

Tim finally looked at him, eyes tired. “I did replace someone. Jason. And I replaced her, too, in a way. Took the role Bruce never gave her. You can’t blame her for resenting me. If I were her, I’d feel the same.”

Damian scoffed, trying to shake it off, but the bite was gone. He looked away, muttering under his breath. “She should still acknowledge me. We share blood. That matters.”

Tim’s gaze softened slightly, almost pitying. “Blood doesn’t always mean family, Damian. She’s made her choice.”

Damian’s nostrils flared, pride warring with something more vulnerable. “Then I’ll make her change her mind.”

Tim sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew that stubbornness, he’d seen it in Bruce a thousand times. Damian wasn’t going to let this go.

And deep down, Tim wasn’t sure he wanted to, either.

Because as much as her words stung, as much as her rejection burned… he wanted to prove he wasn’t just a replacement. Not to Bruce. Not to Jason. And not to you.

-

The rain had let up just enough for Gotham’s streets to glisten like black glass under the streetlights. You walked between Yuji and Nobara, Megumi a step behind, and Gojo bringing up the rear with his usual lazy swagger. The five of you were headed to dinner, Gojo had promised something “better than Gotham’s hot dogs,” though Yuji had nearly cried betrayal at that claim.

“Seriously, though,” Nobara said, gesturing at Yuji with her chopsticks still tucked in her purse from earlier, “if you order a burger at some fancy restaurant, I’m pretending not to know you.”

Yuji groaned. “C’mon, Gotham food’s been amazing so far!”

“You literally ate questionable meat off a cart,” Megumi muttered.

“Exactly! Amazing!” Yuji said brightly.

You shook your head, smiling faintly, when a familiar figure appeared ahead, stepping out from the glow of a sleek black car parked by the curb.

Bruce Wayne. No cape, no cowl, just the billionaire playboy mask he wore better than the bat one. His suit was immaculate, his expression carefully composed. But his eyes locked on you.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low but steady. “May I have a word?”

Your steps faltered, but only for a heartbeat. You adjusted your coat and kept walking, not sparing him a glance.

Bruce tried again, stepping slightly into your path. “Please. Just dinner. One evening. To talk.”

You brushed past him as though he were a stranger on the street. “Move, Wayne.”

The others glanced between you and him, curiosity sparking, but Gojo was already moving. He slid easily between you and Bruce, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders as though shielding you.

“Ohhh,” Gojo drawled, his grin wide and cruel in its playfulness. “Good Evening Mr. Bruce Wayne. Must sting, huh? Gotham’s golden boy ignored like last week’s tabloid scandal.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Gojo tilted his head, blindfold catching the light, his voice deceptively light. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m her legal guardian. Everything concerning her concerns me.”

The words were a blade, sharp and deliberate. Bruce flinched almost imperceptibly, but Gojo caught it, his smirk widening.

“C’mon, kid,” Gojo said, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Our table’s waiting.”

You let him guide you forward, resisting the urge to look back.

Bruce remained on the sidewalk, hands curling into fists at his sides, watching as you disappeared into Gotham’s crowd with people who had already claimed what he had thrown away.

And for the first time in years, Gotham’s richest man felt utterly, devastatingly powerless.

-

Bruce stood in the cave, the glow of the Batcomputer painting his face in pale blue. Damian’s words were sharp in his ears: She dismissed me as nothing. Tim’s were sharper still: She’s not wrong.

He’d thought he was ready for this. That if you ever came back to Gotham, he could bury the past under mission reports, patrols, and silence. But hearing how coldly you had rejected them cut deeper than any blade.

Because he knew exactly why.

It was his fault.

He hadn’t just sent you away. He hadn’t checked in. Not once. Not a letter, not a phone call, not even a trace pulled from the endless resources at his disposal. For all he knew, you could have been starving in some alley, and he had chosen to look away. Because it was easier. Because cowardice had been easier than fatherhood.

And now, you stood before him stronger than he ever thought possible, but colder, too. Colder toward him, toward the family.

Bruce clenched his fists at his sides, his reflection fractured across the computer screens. He couldn’t fix this alone.

His hand reached for the comm. After a pause, he dialed.

“Yeah?” Dick’s voice was tired, static buzzing faintly in the line.

“It’s me,” Bruce said. He hesitated, uncharacteristic, then continued. “She’s back. Y/N.”

Silence crackled for a moment. Then Dick’s voice softened. “…And you want me to try and talk to her I assume.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. “…She won’t listen to me. Or Tim. Or Damian. But you, maybe she’ll listen to you.”

“Maybe,” Dick said after a long beat, “But honestly she has no reason to”. His tone carried none of Bruce’s usual certainty, only quiet resolve. “But she deserves the chance to say no, too.”

The line went dead. Bruce stood in the cave, the silence deafening.

-

The city’s air was damp, heavy with the stink of curses feeding on Gotham’s endless misery. Yuji slammed a hulking shadow into the pavement, Nobara pinned another to a lamppost, and Megumi’s shikigami shredded a third to ribbons.

You swung Severance through a mass of smoke that dissolved into nothing, your breathing steady, your body moving on instinct. Gotham hadn’t changed, but you had.

Then you heard it. The faint scrape of boots on a rooftop. Not curse born. Human. Familiar.

You turned sharply, and there he was.

Nightwing. Blue insignia glowing faintly in the dark, escrima sticks at his sides, his posture cautious but open.

“Y/N”  he called softly, his voice carried easily across the roof. “Just give me a chance to talk.”

The trio tensed behind you, but you raised a hand to stop them. Your stomach twisted. Dick. The one who had been closest to a brother before Jason, the one you’d watched Bruce actually be a father to.

Your voice came out flat. “What’s there to talk about? I don’t owe you anything and vice versa Dick.”

He dropped down to your level, hands raised, not in surrender, but in patience. “I didn’t even know you were gone until it was too late. And when I did… I didn’t think you’d wanna be found.”

You scoffed, but it lacked heat. “Convenient.”

Dick stepped closer, eyes searching yours even through the mask. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just want you to see Alfred. You don’t owe Bruce anything. Or Tim. Or Damian. But Alfred, he never stopped waiting. You know that.”

Your grip on Severance tightened. You wanted to walk away, to snap that Alfred had chosen Bruce, too. But the memory of his warm embrace, the way his hand had trembled on your shoulder at the door, the voice that had once whispered your name… it cut through your armor.

Dick saw it. His voice softened, just enough. “Just one visit. For him. If you walk away after that, I won’t stop you.”

You exhaled sharply, looking away, your chest aching.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “For Alfred. But only him.”

Dick nodded once, relief flashing in his eyes. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Behind you, Nobara crossed her arms, whispering to Yuji and Megumi. “So we’re meeting the family now? This should be fun.”

Yuji grinned. “Yeah, I bet this Alfred guy makes way better food than Gojo.”

Megumi sighed. “You’re both impossible.”

But you didn’t laugh. Your heart was too heavy, your mind already racing ahead to the manor gates.

You weren’t ready. But maybe Alfred deserved this much.

-

The ride up felt longer than you remembered. The car wove out of the heart of Gotham, away from neon and shadow, into a stretch of quiet country road. Trees loomed on either side, the occasional flash of gargoyle-like stone fencing appearing through the fog.

Yuji was plastered to the window. “Whoa… this looks like the start of a horror movie.”

Nobara nudged him with her elbow. “Please. This is clearly an old money movie. Creepy mansion, dead ancestors, maybe a haunted piano.”

Megumi gave them both a flat look, though his eyes stayed on you. He could tell the shift in your posture, the way you sat straighter, fists tightening in your lap.

Gojo lounged in the front passenger seat, sunglasses tilted down just enough for him to watch you from the reflection in the glass. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he was ready if you bolted.

And then it appeared.

Wayne Manor.

Dark stone walls stretched across the hilltop, windows glowing faintly in the gray morning light. The gates creaked open as the car approached, iron bars sliding wide like the maw of some beast.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The car stopped in the circular drive, tires crunching gravel. You climbed out slowly, every step dragging against a weight in your chest. The others followed, eyes wide as they craned their necks at the sheer size of the place.

“Geez,” Yuji muttered. “This place is huge.”

“It’s overcompensating,” Nobara said dryly, but even she looked impressed. She just wanted to hate, as a way to defend you, but even she knew the Wayne Manor was nothing short of ginormous. 

Megumi said nothing, but the way his gaze swept over the windows and doors told you he was already memorizing escape routes.

The front doors opened before you could knock yourself.

And there he was.

Alfred Pennyworth.

He stood as immaculate as ever in his tailored suit, posture straight despite the years. But the moment his eyes landed on you, something in his carefully built composure fractured.

“Miss Y/N…” His voice trembled, soft but thick with emotion. “You’ve come home.”

Your throat tightened, words lodged there. You hadn’t realized how much you missed the warmth of that voice until it was breaking against your ears.

Slowly, you stepped forward. His hand twitched as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach for you.

You made the choice for him.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. For a heartbeat, Alfred froze. Then his arms came around you, steady and strong, one hand trembling against the back of your head.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered, his voice breaking in a way you’d never heard before. “You’ve grown so much”.

Tears blurred your vision. You pressed your forehead against his chest, unable to answer, your shoulders shaking.

Behind you, Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi had gone utterly silent. Even Gojo, leaning lazily on the doorframe, had let his smile fade into something gentler, softer.

For once, no one teased. No one interrupted.

This was yours.

And as Alfred held you, murmuring words of comfort against years of silence, you finally let yourself feel it, like coming home, if only for him.

-

Alfred didn’t let go of you until he absolutely had to. Even then, he kept one hand gently at your back as he guided you inside, his voice warm but brisk, like he needed to keep busy or else the emotions would undo him.

“You must be cold after the drive, Miss Y/N. Come along, I’ll see the fire lit in the sitting room. And tea, of course. And something to eat. Have you been eating properly?”

“Alfred…” you started, half laughing, half choked up.

He gave you a pointed look over his glasses. “That wasn’t a no.”

You swallowed hard, the weight in your chest easing slightly. “I’ve been eating, I promise.”

“Hmph. I’ll be the judge of that.”

Behind you, Yuji leaned close to Nobara, whispering, “Wow. He’s like… Gojo, if Gojo was actually responsible.”

Gojo smirked. “Careful, Itadori. I can still expel you.”

Nobara ignored them, her sharp eyes darting over the manor’s high ceilings, polished floors, and framed portraits. “This place is insane. You grew up here?”

“‘Grew up’ is generous,” you muttered, but your gaze stayed on Alfred.

Megumi, quiet as ever, gave a small nod of approval as Alfred ushered everyone into the sitting room. “It suits them,” he said under his breath.

The fire was already roaring by the time Alfred ushered you all in. He pulled extra chairs closer, fussed with blankets, and returned with a tray of tea and a spread of finger sandwiches that looked far too carefully made to be casual.

“Eat,” he instructed, setting the tray down with finality.

Yuji’s eyes went wide. “Yes, sir.” He grabbed a sandwich instantly.

Nobara rolled her eyes but took one, too. “This is way better than the hotel.”

Alfred allowed himself the smallest smile before his gaze returned to you, soft and searching, as though he were memorizing every detail of how you’d changed.

And that was when you felt it.

The weight of other eyes.

You turned your head, and there they were. Bruce, standing in the doorway like a shadow, Damian just behind him, stiff and watchful. Tim lingered further back, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

Your stomach twisted.

“Y/N,” Bruce said quietly, almost careful. “Welcome home.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.

Instead, you reached for one of the sandwiches and bit into it, turning back toward Alfred. “You still remember my favorite.”

Alfred’s eyes crinkled. “As if I could forget.”

Damian’s brows furrowed, clearly unsettled by your dismissal. Tim’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. Bruce’s face didn’t move, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed it. That same guilt, that same heavy sorrow.

But you didn’t care. Not right now.

Because Alfred was here, and that was enough.

Gojo lounged back in his chair, sipping his tea with a smug smile. “Mmm. Not bad, old man. Not bad at all.” His grin sharpened as he looked toward Bruce, the mockery deliberate. “Guess she really does have family worth coming back for, huh?”

Bruce said nothing.

And for once, silence was the only answer he deserved.

-

The sitting room eventually settled into chatter, Yuji trying to coax Nobara into admitting the sandwiches were amazing, Megumi quietly observing the endless portraits lining the walls, Gojo making himself far too comfortable in an antique armchair.

Alfred waited until the noise filled the space before gently resting a hand on your shoulder. “Come with me, Miss Y/N. Just for a moment.”

You followed him into a smaller side room off the main hall, quieter and softer, filled with books and the faint smell of polished wood. It was one of the rooms he’d always retreated to when you were younger, somewhere safe, somewhere warm.

The moment the door shut, Alfred turned to face you fully. His composed mask cracked again, eyes glistening as he reached for your hands.

“My dear child,” he whispered. “Forgive me… for not being able to stop him. For not keeping you here where you belonged.”

You shook your head quickly, voice catching. “Alfred, no. You did everything. You were everything.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. “You’re the only one who ever saw me. Who ever… cared.”

His hands tightened around yours, trembling just slightly. “And I never stopped. Not for a day. Not for a moment. Every night, I prayed you were safe. That someone—anyone—was giving you the care I could not.”

Your chest ached, but you managed a small, watery smile. “Someone did. My uncle. Satoru. He’s… a lot.” A faint laugh escaped you. “But he’s there for me.”

Alfred’s breath hitched. Relief softened his face, even as guilt lingered in his eyes. “Then I am grateful. Grateful that, even if it was not I, you were not alone.”

You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him again, tighter this time. “I missed you,” you whispered. “So much.”

“And I, you,” he murmured back, his voice breaking. He gently pressed a soft kiss on top of your hair and murmured. “Always.”

-

Unseen, just outside the door, Bruce stood in the shadows.

He could hear every word. Every crack in Alfred’s voice, every tremor in yours.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to step in, to speak, to say the things clawing at his chest. I missed you. I should have fought for you. I was wrong.

But he couldn’t.

Cowardice still chained him.

So he stayed in the hall, listening, while Alfred gave you what he never could.

And for Bruce Wayne, silence hurt more than any wound.

TAGLIST: CLOSED

The plane ride was long, but it didn’t feel that way. Yuji spent most of it with his face pressed against the window, pointing out clouds like a kid on his first flight. Nobara scrolled endlessly on her phone, already making a list of Gotham shops she wanted to raid. Megumi dozed off halfway through, earbuds in, pretending not to hear Yuji’s rambling.

You spent the entire flight staring at the dark horizon, your reflection faint in the glass. Gotham. You thought you’d buried that chapter for good.

When the wheels touched down, it was like being jolted awake from a dream.

The city hit your classmates instantly.

From the moment the car rolled out of the airport, Gotham loomed, its skyline jagged and uneven, towers piercing through the fog, the streets below a maze of alleys and neon lights that flickered like dying stars.

Yuji pressed his face to the window again. “Whoa. It’s like… New York but scarier.”

Nobara scoffed. “Scary? You literally have Sukuna inside you and you’re talking about scary.” Still, her sharp eyes lingered on the graffiti-streaked walls and the shadowed alleys as though memorizing every escape route.

Megumi said nothing, but you caught the way his gaze lingered on the people, hunched figures darting through the rain, faces half hidden, shoulders tight. Always moving like they expected danger around the corner.

“This place reeks of cursed energy,” he muttered finally.

He wasn’t wrong. Gotham’s negativity bled into the air, desperation, anger, grief. The kind of emotions curses loved to feed on. It was heavier than anything in Japan.

And to you, it was all horribly familiar.

-

​​By the time you checked into the hotel, the others were already twitchy.

“Jeez,” Yuji muttered, rubbing his arms. “It’s like the whole city’s glaring at me.” Nobara wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. It’s like walking through sewage, but like emotional sewage.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened. “There’s more cursed energy here than anywhere I’ve ever felt. It’s oppressive.”

You sank into the hotel bed with a dry laugh. “Yeah. That’s Gotham for you. Misery capital of the world.”

Only Gojo looked unaffected, sprawled across an armchair with his blindfold tilted up. “Mmm. Like a buffet. Don’t you just love it?”

The plan came quickly. Keep your heads down during the day, exorcise curses at night, and search for the finger. Gotham wouldn’t notice a few shadows disappearing in alleys, it had plenty of its own.

On the first night, the four of you moved across rooftops, the skyline jagged against the glowing haze of neon and smog. Severance hummed in your grip as curses slithered into view, bloated shadows feeding off muggers’ fear, twisted shapes clinging to old brick walls.

Yuji smashed one through a car hood, Nobara pinned another with her nails, Megumi’s shikigami tore a third into wisps of smoke.

You swung Severance through a hulking blob crouched on the rooftop ledge, its form unraveling in a hiss.

“You’re back where it all started”,  Sukuna’s voice filled the night, smug. “Home sweet hell. I can almost taste your hatred for this place”

“Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, blade dripping with cursed residue.

“Oh, but you love it here”, Sukuna teased, his mouth appearing on the side of Yuji’s cheek, his grin stretching in the back of your skull. “So much pain. So much loss. It suits you”.

You smirked faintly, flicking Severance clean. “If Gotham suits me, then you’re overdressed.”

Sukuna barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Careful, brat. Keep talking like that and I might almost enjoy you”.

-

Gotham was alive with its usual chaos, sirens in the distance, the hum of electricity through neon signs, the shuffle of desperate feet in dark alleys. From a shadowed perch three rooftops away, Batman crouched low, the rain dripping down his cowl.

He hadn’t been tracking crime tonight. Not exactly. The signal had come from something else, a ripple of unfamiliar energy, like static crawling over his skin. Something foreign to Gotham.

And then he saw them.

Four figures leaping effortlessly across rooftops, dispatching things that no one else could see. He watched as one, a pink-haired boy, drove his fist straight through a grotesque shadow that vanished in a hiss of smoke. Another, a girl with a hammer, nailed something invisible to the side of a water tower until it cracked and dissolved. A dark-haired boy moved with practiced precision, strange creatures snapping at his heels.

And you.

Blade glowing with some unearthly light, cutting through monstrosities he couldn’t name. You moved with the confidence of someone who’d been fighting for years, every swing efficient, lethal.

For a long moment, Bruce couldn’t breathe. The child Alfred used to coax to bed, the little shadow Jason that had followed him everywhere, you were here. Older. Hardened. And standing beside… sorcerers? Mutants? He didn’t know.

When Gojo appeared at your side, calm, smiling, blindfold glowing faintly under the neon, Bruce’s jaw clenched. Something about him screamed dangerous. Dangerous, and untouchable.

“Father,” Robin’s voice cut in from behind him, low and sharp. “They aren’t League. They aren’t ours. What are they?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Not yet. He just rose to his full height, cape unfurling behind him. “We’ll find out.”

-

The last curse of the night disintegrated into black ash, the stench of rot curling away into Gotham’s polluted air. Yuji wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Phew. Man, Gotham’s curses are ugly.”

Nobara adjusted her hammer with a frown. “Ugly city, ugly curses. Checks out.”

Before you could reply, a faint whirrrrr sliced through the night air. Instinctively, you tensed. A grappling line snapped into place, and two dark figures swung down onto the rooftop opposite you.

They landed in perfect silence, one tall and broad, cape flowing like a living shadow, the other smaller, leaner, with a sharp hood and a domino mask glinting under the faint glow of a billboard.

Batman. And Robin.

You froze for just a heartbeat, Severance humming faintly at your side. The trio, though, completely unprepared.

Yuji blinked, eyes wide. “Uh… who are these cosplayers?”

Nobara barked a laugh, doubling over. “No, no, this is priceless. Look at that cape. He looks like a giant leather bat! And the kid—pfft—someone let him out of a Ren Faire early?”

Megumi, though, kept his tone flat but curious. “They don’t feel like sorcerers. Not curses either”.

You frowned, letting the tension bleed into sarcasm. “Local legends. Gotham’s very own vigilante circus act.” You flicked your blade once, eyes sliding over the new Robin’s uniform. “And would you look at that, another Robin. Guess Drake finally got replaced.”

Robin’s head snapped toward you instantly, staff twitching in his hand. “Tt. You’d do well to hold your tongue.”

Nobara snorted. “Ooo, scary. The little knight speaks.”

Yuji leaned toward Megumi and whispered way too loudly, “Wait his name’s Robin? Like the bird?”

Megumi muttered, “…This city’s insane.”

Batman, however, wasn’t watching them. His eyes were fixed on you. That same unreadable, heavy silence you remembered. Like a weight pressing into your skin. He didn’t speak, but you knew that stare anywhere.

He knew.

And when Gojo finally stepped forward, hands in his pockets, smile too sharp, Bruce’s gaze flicked toward him as well. For just a second, something dangerous passed between them, recognition, assessment, a clash of power neither intended to show here.

The air was thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Batman turned slightly, his cape sweeping around him. “Let’s go.” His voice was low, gravel scraping against steel.

Robin frowned, glaring at you as if daring you to say more. He hesitated before following, his mood sour enough to hang in the air after him.

You cupped a hand around your mouth, calling after them with a grin that didn’t reach your eyes. “Nice catching up, Bats. See you around, Birdie!”

Damian’s scowl deepened, but he disappeared into the dark with his father, leaving the rooftop silent once more.

Yuji finally let out the breath he’d been holding. “Okay. Who were those guys?”

Nobara folded her arms, still grinning. “Batman and Robin? Next you’re going to tell me there’s like a Ratman or Spiderman”.

Megumi gave you a sidelong glance. “You knew them.”

You shrugged, trying to make your smile stick even as your chest tightened. “Once upon a time.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, tone light but his eyes sharp behind the blindfold. “Alright, kids, fun’s over. Back to the hotel. Gotham nights are long, and we’ve got fingers to find.”

You fell back into step with the others, your smirk fading as the weight of Bruce’s stare lingered in your mind.

Because you knew this was only the beginning.

-

The city blurred past as the Batmobile roared down the slick streets, rain streaking across the windshield. Inside, silence pressed heavier than the engine’s growl.

Damian sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms folded, his glare still fixed on the memory of your mocking grin. “She knew us. She mocked me like we’d met before.” His voice was tight, clipped. “Explain.”

Bruce’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“She is not your concern.”

“Tt.” Damian’s lips curled. “Not my concern? She knew who I was. She called me another replacement-” His words faltered, but the sharpness in his tone cut deep. “She’s blood, isn’t she?”

Bruce’s jaw locked. He didn’t answer, and that silence was all Damian needed.

Damian’s fists clenched on his knees. “Why hide her? Why let her run with strangers? If she’s family, she belongs here.”

“She made her choice,” Bruce said finally, though he could hear the hollowness in his voice. “And I made mine.”

Damian turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Or you let her get away”.

The words landed like knives, but Bruce didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes forward, the city lights streaking across his cowl. In his chest, guilt sat like lead. You had been his responsibility once, but he had given you away, handed you over to Alfred, and then to Gojo.

Now you stood stronger than ever, and the sight of you cut deeper than Damian’s words ever could.

In the rearview mirror, the rooftop replayed in his mind: your smirk, your blade, your voice mocking him like he deserved it. Another Robin finally replacing Drake.

Bruce gripped the wheel tighter.

“She doesn’t need us anymore,” he muttered under his breath.

Damian scowled, gaze turning back to the rain slick streets. “Then I’ll make her need me.”

The Batmobile thundered on, but both of them knew the truth, Gotham had ghosts. And one of them had just come home.

-

By the time you made it back, the city’s rain had soaked through your clothes. The others barely noticed, they were still buzzing from the rooftop encounter.

Yuji was the first to break the silence as he flopped face-first onto his bed. “Okay. Seriously. Who were those guys? I mean long cape dude? Tiny bird kid? And why did you drag them like that?”

Nobara tossed her hammer onto the desk, grinning. “I mean, she wasn’t wrong. That cape screamed midlife crisis. And the kid, he couldn’t have been older than me, but he acted like he invented fighting crime.”

Megumi sat cross-legged on his bed, arms folded, eyes sharp. “They weren’t curses. But they weren’t ordinary either. They moved like soldiers. Military?” His gaze flicked to you. “You knew them.”

You stood by the window, staring down at Gotham’s sprawl of neon and shadow. The glass was cool beneath your fingertips, grounding you. “…Yeah. I knew them.”

Yuji rolled over onto his back, propping his chin on his hands. “So spill it. What’s the deal?”

For a moment, you wanted to shrug it off, crack another joke, keep it hidden. But the way they were looking at you, expectant, curious, trusting, it made lying feel heavier than telling the truth.

You exhaled slowly. “The big one? Batman. The other? Robin. Gotham’s self proclaimed protectors. They don’t fight curses. They don’t even know curses exist. They fight people. Crime. The city worships them, fears them, and depends on them.”

Nobara leaned forward, intrigued. “So, like, knock off sorcerers without cursed energy?”

You gave a humorless laugh. “Something like that.” Your eyes lingered on the window again. “Batman… he’s Bruce Wayne. My father.”

Silence fell like a weight.

Yuji sat bolt upright. “Wait what?! That Batman dude is your dad?!”

Nobara’s mouth dropped open, then curved into a sly smirk. “No wonder you went for the throat. Daddy issues explained.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, though a small smile ghosted across your lips.

Megumi didn’t move, but his gaze softened slightly. “So that’s why you said another Robin replaced Drake. You watched him do that with others before.”

Your chest tightened. Jason. Tim. And now with someone even younger than both of them. “Yeah. That’s what he does. Collects soldiers. Replaces them when they break.”

Yuji frowned, his voice quieter now. “…And you?”

You turned from the window at last, meeting their eyes. “I wasn’t even worth replacing. Just kinda… thrown away.”

The words hung heavy in the room.

For a second, no one spoke. Then Yuji slid a candy bar across the nightstand toward you. Nobara groaned. “Really, Yuji? Your solution for everything is sugar.”

But he grinned sheepishly. “It works.”

You looked down at the wrapper, then at them, all three of them watching you not with pity, but with something steadier. Acceptance. Belonging.

The knot in your chest loosened, just a little.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

And for the first time that night, Gotham’s shadows felt a little less suffocating.

-

The manor was silent, save for the faint tick of an antique clock in the hall. Alfred sat in the study, hands folded on his lap, staring into the fire. He’d done this often in the years since you’d gone, sat, thought, and remembered. But tonight was different.

Something tugged at him. A weight in the air he hadn’t felt in years. Familiar. Yours.

He closed his eyes, whispering almost to himself, your name. 

The creak of the study door broke his thought. Bruce entered, cowl pulled back, cape damp with Gotham rain. Damian trailed behind him, face sharp with frustration.

“Father,” Damian started immediately, voice sharp. “You can’t expect me to just ignore this.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, hanging the cape on its stand. “We’re done talking about it.”

Damian’s fists balled at his sides. “Tt. You always say that when you don’t have an answer.”

Bruce turned, towering over him, but Damian didn’t flinch. His green eyes burned with stubborn fire.

“She does not even know me. On that rooftop, she mocked me, mocked us. If she’s truly family, I have the right to meet her.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. The word family cut deeper than Damian realized. “You’re not ready.”

“Not ready?” Damian snapped. “I’m her brother! You’ve hidden her from me, from all of us. Why? For what reason?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any scolding. Memories clawed their way up, the night Alfred begged him not to let you go, the cold choice he’d made anyway, the look on your face when he turned his back.

Because Bruce knew the truth, it wasn’t that Damian wasn’t ready. He wasn’t.

“Enough,” he said at last, his voice firm but hollow. “You will drop this, Damian. That’s an order.”

Damian bristled, lips pressed thin, but he didn’t back down. His cape swished as he stormed toward the door, muttering, “One day you won’t be able to bury your mistakes, Father. Not her. Not this time.”

Bruce stood in the study, Alfred a few feet away,, the words hitting harder than they should. His hands curled into fists at his sides, guilt gnawing deep, before he finally turned and followed into the dark hallways of the manor.

Alfred lingered by the study, his expression unreadable. He’d heard every word.

Bruce’s words replayed in his mind: You will drop this. That’s an order.

Alfred’s lips pressed into a thin line. Orders had never stopped him from doing what needed to be done. He had raised Bruce through grief, and then Dick, and then Jason, and then Tim. And he had raised you, too, even if Bruce had been too proud, too broken, to admit it.

You were his child, whether Bruce wanted to see it or not.

Slowly, Alfred pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumb hovered for only a moment before typing out a short message.

She’s here. In Gotham.

He stared at it, his chest tight. Then he added:

Be careful, Master Jason. But she should not face this city alone.

With a quiet breath, he hit send.

The phone slipped back into his pocket, and Alfred straightened his shoulders. The house was still quiet, still heavy with the absence of too many children lost, but for the first time in years, there was a spark of hope.

Because if Jason knew you were here, then maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t have to face Gotham’s shadows without someone who truly understood.

Taglist: CLOSED

a/n: a shorter chapter for today. just want to get the ball moving and make our way back to gotham hehe.

It hadn’t gotten easier.

Every day that passed after the detention center felt heavier, like a stone lodged in your chest. The halls of Jujutsu High buzzed with whispers about the boy who had swallowed Sukuna’s finger, about how he fought and fell. Megumi carried himself in a silence you recognized. A silence that reminded you too much of your own grief after Jason.

You wanted to tell him the truth. You wanted to tell them all that Yuji was alive, that he was safe, that you’d seen him breathing and smiling, grinning that sheepish grin only Yuji could pull off. But you couldn’t. Gojo had made you swear, and breaking that promise meant risking Yuji’s safety.

So you lied. By omission, by silence, by biting your tongue until it ached.

When Nobara stormed into your room one evening, slamming the door behind her, you almost broke. She ranted about how unfair it was, how stupid Yuji had been, how she barely knew him but still hated losing him. You sat there and listened, nodding at the right times, gripping your sheets so tightly your knuckles went white.

Only after she left did you let yourself collapse, muffling your sobs into the pillow. You weren’t grieving Yuji’s death, you were grieving the weight of the secret crushing you, the distance it built between you and your friends.

And yet, even with the ache in your chest, life didn’t stop.

Training intensified. The Kyoto Goodwill Exchange was announced, and with it came tension, whispers of rivalry. Maki drilled you on weapon work until your arms shook. Panda teased you mid-spar, forcing you to sharpen your reflexes. Inumaki offered quiet nods of approval, his few words enough to remind you you weren’t alone.

But when the others went back to their dorms at night, you found yourself wandering. Past the training fields, past the quiet halls, toward the hidden room where you knew Gojo kept Yuji tucked away.

Sometimes you stood outside the door, listening for any sound. Sometimes, if Gojo caught you, he’d let you slip inside for a few stolen moments, a whispered joke, a fleeting smile, the warmth of his presence enough to remind you that he was still real.

And each time you left, closing the door behind you, you swore you’d protect that secret. No matter how heavy it grew.

-

So you trained. Harder than ever. But no matter how sharp your blade felt or how steady your cursed energy flowed, the air around you grew heavier when the Kyoto students arrived.

Their presence was cold, deliberate, laced with the arrogance of people who thought they had the upper hand. And maybe they did.

You caught pieces of their conversations in the courtyard.

“The vessel should’ve been executed immediately.”

“A disgrace to keep him alive this long.”

“Tokyo’s students coddle monsters. It’s pathetic.”

Every word felt like a knife under your ribs. They didn’t know Yuji was alive, hidden away, training in secret but they spoke of him like he was already dirt under their boots. You clenched your fists, biting back the urge to snap.

Megumi noticed. He always did.

One afternoon, as you were leaving the training hall, he caught up to you. His voice was quiet, but sharp. “You’re more on edge than usual.”

You forced a shrug. “I just don’t like them.”

He studied you with those piercing eyes of his, the kind that saw too much. But, mercifully, he didn’t press.

Nobara, on the other hand, had no such restraint. “Ugh, those Kyoto jerks,” she groaned one evening, tossing herself across your bed. “If they talk about Yuji one more time like he’s some freak experiment, I swear I’ll smash their faces in with a hammer.”

You smiled weakly, hiding your guilt behind it. If only you knew.

The opening ceremony only made things worse. Principal Gakuganji’s speech was thinly veiled venom, and when he spoke of Sukuna’s vessel as a threat that needed to be “eliminated,” your stomach churned.

You kept your face neutral, your arms folded, but inside you were screaming. Yuji wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a curse. He was a boy who’d laughed at your jokes, who had grinned even after being knocked flat in training, who’d made you feel lighter when the world kept trying to drown you.

And you had to sit there, silent, as people planned his death without even knowing he was alive.

-

The main hall buzzed with tension as Tokyo and Kyoto lined up opposite one another. The air was thick with rivalry, the Kyoto students standing sharp and disciplined while Tokyo carried a looser, younger edge. Teachers and higher-ups looked on, their expressions unreadable.

You stood beside Megumi and Nobara, trying to ignore the knots in your stomach. You’d carried Yuji’s secret for weeks, through training, through grief, through every sideways comment about how the vessel “should’ve been executed.” Now, standing there under so many eyes, it was unbearable not to glance toward Gojo, not to wonder when the reveal would come.

Gojo strolled to the front, his grin as careless as ever, though you knew better—he was enjoying the drama of it. “Before we get started,” he said lightly, “there’s someone we’d like to reintroduce.”

The Kyoto students frowned, exchanging confused looks.

And then, with the slow creak of heavy doors, Yuji stepped into the room.

The sound of his footsteps echoed like a drumbeat.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The Kyoto side went wide-eyed, their whispers breaking into outrage almost immediately:

“Impossible—” “He’s supposed to be dead—” “The vessel—”

Even the higher-ups in the back leaned forward sharply, their gazes snapping between Gojo and Yuji like they’d been betrayed.

But all you saw was Yuji.

He looked alive. More than alive, bright, awkward, smiling that sheepish grin that had been burned into your memory since the detention center. For weeks, you’d replayed the way his chest had gone still, the way his body had lain cold and broken. Now he was here, warmth radiating from every step, his eyes alive and so damn familiar.

“Yo!” Yuji called, lifting a hand in a little wave. “Sorry to keep you waiting!”

Nobara’s jaw dropped. Her laugh burst out sharp and incredulous as she grabbed your sleeve. “He-he’s alive?! That idiot! He’s-” She didn’t finish, because she was already stepping forward, hands shaking with something between anger and relief.

Beside you, Megumi stayed rooted, his eyes narrowing. His composure was tight, but you saw it—the flicker of relief, the way his shoulders dropped half an inch.

You couldn’t hold yourself back.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up, and then you were running, the crowd a blur at the edges of your vision. The moment Yuji’s eyes locked on yours, his grin softened. He opened his arms.

You hit his chest hard enough to make him grunt, arms wrapping around his waist. Tears spilled hot and unchecked down your cheeks. “You-” Your voice broke. “You stupid idiot. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Yuji laughed, but it shook at the edges. He hugged you back, clutching you like he was just as scared you might disappear. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t exactly have a choice—”

His arms tightened around you. “I’m here now. I promise. I’m here.”

By then, Nobara had reached him, smacking his shoulder so hard it echoed. “You complete moron! You had us crying like idiots!” She shoved him once before yanking him into her own hug.

Megumi approached last, silent, his expression unreadable. Yuji’s smile faltered as he met his eyes. “Megumi…”

For a long moment, Megumi just looked at him. Then, quietly, he said, “…Welcome back.”

Yuji’s grin returned in full force.

The Kyoto students bristled, some already raising objections. One of them sneered, “You can’t be serious bringing him back-"

You turned sharply, standing just slightly in front of Yuji, your voice cutting like a blade. “His name is Yuji. And he’s one of us.”

Silence fell for a beat. The Kyoto students scowled. The higher-ups whispered. But none of it mattered, not when Yuji was standing there, real and alive, surrounded by the people who would fight tooth and nail to keep him that way.

Gojo clapped his hands together, delighted. “See? Perfect timing. Now we’re ready for the Exchange.”

And though arguments rose and protests hissed in the background, you didn’t care. Yuji was alive. You could feel his heartbeat still hammering under your palms.

And this time, you weren’t going to let him go.

-

The Goodwill Event hadn’t gone anything like the higher-ups intended.

What was supposed to be a simple competition between Tokyo and Kyoto students turned into a battlefield. Curses poured into the grounds, overwhelming both teams, forcing them to fight side by side. Even the strongest among you had been pushed to the brink, and when the cursed spirits finally retreated, the courtyard was left in ruins, scorched earth, shattered stone, and students bloodied but alive.

For once, the Kyoto students weren’t sneering about Tokyo’s vessel or throwing around orders from the higher ups. They were silent, shaken by what they’d seen, the truth that curses didn’t care about politics, that the only reason any of you were standing was because you fought together.

The event ended not with a victory, but with survival.

Later, after the teachers argued and the students were dismissed, you found yourself wandering the quiet halls of Jujutsu High. The adrenaline had faded, leaving exhaustion in its place. Your arms ached, your clothes were still smeared with dirt and blood, but none of that mattered.

You turned a corner and stopped short.

Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara were waiting there, like they’d known you would come.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, heavy but warm. Then Nobara crossed her arms and huffed, breaking it. “Well. That was a disaster. But hey we didn’t die. That’s what matters.”

Megumi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You almost did.”

“Details,” Nobara shot back.

Yuji laughed, loud, genuine, the sound bouncing down the empty hall. When his eyes landed on you, though, his smile softened. “We made it.”

Something in you cracked at those words. You closed the distance in a few quick steps and pulled him into a hug, tighter this time, no hesitation. “I thought I’d lose you again,” you whispered.

Yuji’s arms came around you instantly. “Not happening. Not ever again.”

Nobara groaned dramatically, but there was no bite in it. “Ugh, you two are so sappy.” Still, when you glanced at her, she was smiling too, small, real, like she didn’t mind.

Megumi stepped closer, his expression gentler than usual. “We stick together. That’s what matters.”

The four of you stood there in the hall, bruised, battered, but together. For the first time since Yuji’s death and return, the knot in your chest finally loosened.

The Exchange had ended in ruins, but for you, for all of you, it had given something better than victory.

It had given you a family.

-

The dorms were quiet after the classes.. Quiet in the way only exhaustion could make them.

Yuji had somehow managed to raid the vending machine again, his desk littered with candy wrappers. Nobara lounged on his bed, chewing a piece of gum like she owned the place, flicking through a magazine she’d “borrowed” from the common room. Megumi sat on the floor with one of his shikigami curled at his side, absently running his fingers over its head as if grounding himself.

You were perched at the windowsill, knees drawn up, head tilted toward the cool night air. For once, there wasn’t an edge of grief pressing against your chest. You were battered, sore, but safe. Together.

“Hey,” Yuji said suddenly, voice muffled through a mouthful of chocolate. “When all this is over, we should do something normal. Like go see a movie. Or karaoke.”

Nobara shot him a look. “If we ever go to karaoke, I’m not sitting through your terrible singing.”

Yuji clutched his chest dramatically. “What?! I have the voice of an angel.”

You snorted. “An angel that smokes three packs a day.”

Even Megumi cracked the faintest smile at that, shaking his head. “Karaoke sounds terrible,” he muttered.

“See?” Nobara grinned, pointing. “For once, I agree with him.”

Yuji groaned, but the banter filled the room with something warm. Something that felt almost like family.

That was when the door slid open without a knock.

“Kids!” Gojo sang, his blindfold pushed up so his bright blue eyes caught the lamplight. “Guess what?”

Nobara flopped back dramatically. “If it’s more training, I quit.”

Gojo smirked. “Not training. A field trip.””

He leaned against the doorframe, all casual mischief. “I found another one of Sukuna’s fingers.”

The room froze.

“Where?” Yuji asked cautiously, his grin fading.

Gojo’s smile widened, sharp and knowing. “Gotham City.”

Your stomach dropped. The name hit like a stone in your chest, dredging up memories of cold halls, Alfred’s quiet voice, Jason’s laugh, Bruce’s shadow.

“Gotham?” Megumi repeated, narrowing his eyes. “That’s… halfway around the world.”

“Yup,” Gojo said, popping the ‘p.’ “And that means we’re packing our bags. Field trip to the land of broody billionaires, gang wars, and questionable justice systems!”

He tilted his head toward you, and for a moment his playful tone softened. “Looks like we’ll be seeing some familiar sights, huh?”

Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile, masking the swirl of emotions crashing inside you. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Familiar.”

Yuji leaned forward, curious but cautious. “Hey  you grew up there, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked out the window, watching the moon glow pale against the sky. “Yeah,” you said finally. “But I didn’t think I’d ever go back.”

Silence stretched, the weight of your words settling over the group. Yuji reached across the desk and placed a candy bar in your lap without saying anything. A small gesture. But enough.

Gojo clapped his hands once, shattering the heaviness. “Alright! Get some rest, my little sorcerers. Tomorrow, we fly to Gotham. Should be fun.”

He slipped out, leaving you in the quiet again.

But this time, your chest felt heavy. Because you weren’t sure if Gotham would be ready for who you’d become.

And worse you weren’t sure if you were ready for Gotham.

We ate well this week and you SERVED (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

a/n: a brief little insight on how our favorite bats are doing present time. im excited to say that we are closer and closer to returning to gotham...

The manor had been unusually full since Damian arrived. His presence was sharp, like a blade being forced into a drawer already overflowing with knives. He moved through the halls like he owned them, chin lifted, eyes constantly searching.

One evening, while wandering, Damian stumbled into a wing of the house he hadn’t explored yet. He pushed open a door, expecting storage or another study.

Instead, he found a bedroom.

It was neat but untouched, as though frozen in time. The bed was perfectly made, though the blanket looked worn from years of use. A few trinkets still sat on the shelves, an old sketchbook, a mug chipped on the rim, a stuffed animal dulled by age. Dust had started to gather, but Alfred’s careful hand clearly kept it from falling into disrepair.

Damian frowned, stepping inside. “Whose room is this?”

Later, in the training area, he asked outright.

“Grayson,” he said, sword resting against his shoulder. “There’s a bedroom upstairs. It looks lived in. Who does it belong to?”

Dick froze, mid motion with his escrima sticks. For once, his easy smile faltered. “That’s… complicated, Damian.”

“Everything is complicated with this family,” Damian retorted. “Answer the question.”

Tim, sitting at the Batcomputer, didn’t look up from the screen. His fingers stilled briefly on the keys. “It was hers,” he said quietly.

“‘Hers?’” Damian pressed, eyes narrowing. “There was another sibling?”

Silence stretched. Dick set his escrima sticks down with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. There was.”

Damian blinked, startled by how heavy the air became. “And where is she now?”

Alfred’s voice cut through before anyone else could answer. He stood in the doorway, a tray of tea in his hands, his expression calm but his eyes distant. “She is not here, Master Damian.”

“Not here? What does that mean?” Damian demanded, frustration flaring.

Alfred set the tray down carefully, his back straight. “It means only what it sounds like. She is not here. And that is all you need to know for now.”

Dick glanced away, Tim kept typing, and even Bruce, passing through the Cave above, didn’t speak. The silence was answer enough.

Damian’s frown deepened. For all his sharpness, he understood when he had struck a nerve. He didn’t ask again.

But that night, lying awake in his own room, he thought of the untouched bed and the carefully dusted shelves. Someone had lived here. Someone the family still carried like a wound.

And Damian Wayne hated not knowing why.

-

That night, after the house had quieted, Alfred carried a tray down the hall. The others were asleep, or pretending to be. Damian’s questions had unsettled everyone, tugging at scars that never really healed.

He paused at the door Damian had found earlier. Your door. His hand lingered on the knob before he pushed it open.

The room greeted him with its familiar stillness. Moonlight spilled across the neatly made bed, glinting off the small trinkets you’d left behind. Alfred stepped inside, setting the tray, tea he didn’t intend to drink, on your old desk. He moved with slow precision, as if afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile memory that hung in the air.

He straightened the already tidy blanket, smoothed the pillow, and dusted the shelves that hadn’t collected more than a day’s worth of specks. He did this every evening, a ritual as steady as the beating of his heart.

His fingers brushed across your sketchbook, the worn edges soft under his touch. He didn’t open it, he never did, but he lingered there, thumb pressed gently against the cover as though holding onto a piece of you through the paper itself.

Alfred’s chest ached. Damian’s voice echoed in his mind. Who does it belong to? Where is she now?

He had wanted to tell him. To say your name out loud again, to let the silence break. But the words had stuck in his throat. The truth was heavy, complicated, wrapped in grief and secrets too sharp for a boy Damian’s age to carry.

So instead, Alfred sighed softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “Wherever you are, my dear,” he murmured into the quiet, “I hope you know this home has never stopped being yours.”

For a moment, he closed his eyes. And in the silence of the manor, he could almost hear your laughter, faint and fleeting, like the ghost of a memory too precious to fade.

-

It was late in the Batcave when Damian asked. The hum of the Batcomputer filled the silence, monitors glowing across Bruce’s face as he typed, his cowl resting on the desk beside him.

Damian stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, his sword strapped across his back. He didn’t bother with the preamble. “Father. Who lived in the locked room upstairs?”

Bruce’s hands paused on the keyboard. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he resumed typing. “It’s not important.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Not important? I asked Alfred, Grayson, even Drake. All of them dodge the question. They avoid even saying her name. Why?”

“Drop it.” Bruce’s voice was firm, final.

But Damian Wayne wasn’t one to let go. He strode forward, his voice cutting through the hum of the cave. “If she was family, then I have a right to know. Was she a failure? A disgrace? Did you cast her aside the way you nearly cast me aside?”

Bruce’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he turned sharply. His glare was icy, but beneath it was something heavier, something Damian didn’t expect. Pain.

“She was your sister,” Bruce said at last, his voice low. “And she’s gone.”

The words hit harder than Damian expected. He blinked, caught off guard, but recovered quickly, his chin lifting. “Gone where? Dead? Missing?”

Bruce stood, towering over him, the weight of the cowl still present even when it wasn’t on his face. “Enough.”

The word cracked like a whip through the cave.

For a long moment, Damian just stared up at him. He saw the faint flicker of grief in Bruce’s eyes, the same grief that hung over Jason’s case, the same grief that seemed carved into the walls of the manor itself.

Damian’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated the silence. Hated being left out of the truth. But even more, he hated the way Bruce’s voice had broken on that single word: sister.

With a frustrated growl, Damian turned on his heel, storming back toward the cave stairs. But in his chest, a fire burned hotter than before.

Whoever you were, he wasn’t going to stop until he knew.

-

The manor was quiet that night, save for the crackle of the fireplace in Bruce’s study. The rain outside tapped steadily against the tall windows, filling the silence Alfred had let stretch between them.

Bruce stood near the fire, his cape draped over the back of a chair, his shoulders taut. Alfred set down a silver tray with two cups of untouched tea, his movements deliberate, calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

“You should have told him,” Alfred said at last. His voice was soft, but the words landed sharp.

Bruce didn’t turn from the fire. “He doesn’t need to know.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed faintly. “He asked. He found her room. How much longer do you intend to bury her memory beneath silence and locked doors?”

“She’s not here anymore,” Bruce said flatly. “The less Damian knows, the better.”

Alfred’s composure cracked, just slightly. His voice tightened. “And what does that make her, then? A ghost? An inconvenience to be swept aside?”

Bruce’s shoulders stiffened, but he still didn’t look away from the flames. “It makes her a liability. Damian is already carrying enough with Ra’s, the League, the expectations he’s drowning in. Adding her story… it’s not fair to him.”

“Not fair to him,” Alfred repeated quietly, his gaze hardening. “Or not fair to you?”

The words hung heavy between them. For once, Bruce faltered. His hand curled into a fist, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

Alfred stepped closer, his voice gentling but no less firm. “She was your daughter, Master Bruce. Your child. Pretending she never existed won’t erase what was done to her, or the part you played in letting her slip away.”

Finally, Bruce turned, his expression caught somewhere between anger and grief. “I did what I thought was best.”

“And look where that has left you,” Alfred replied softly. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, toward the wing where your untouched room waited. “A house full of children, and yet somehow… always missing one.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. In the flicker of the firelight, he saw flashes of you, your small hands clutching Alfred’s sleeve, your eyes searching for his attention, the silence you wrapped around yourself like armor when you realized he would never give it. The guilt gnawed at him endlessly. You had been his responsibility. His child. And he had failed you.

He looked away first, his shoulders sagging just enough for Alfred to see the weight pressing him down. The rain beat harder against the windows, drowning out the crackle of the fire.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The fire popped in the hearth, the storm rumbled outside.

Bruce looked away first, his shoulders sinking just enough for Alfred to see the weight pressing on him. Alfred, as always, said no more, but in his chest, he carried the same vow he had made the day you left:

That no matter what Bruce chose to hide, he would never let your memory fade.

-

The Narrows were always alive at night. Neon signs buzzed faintly, half their bulbs dead, while the streets pulsed with crime and shadows. Jason moved through it like a ghost, helmet gleaming red under the flickering lights.

Another brawl. Another gang dumb enough to test the Red Hood.

The last thug went down with a crack, his pipe clattering uselessly against the wet pavement. Jason’s chest heaved beneath his leather jacket, smoke from his gun curling into the rain-heavy air.

But even as his enemies lay groaning around him, his mind wasn’t on the fight.

It was on you.

He’d seen your face for a split second, in the eyes of a terrified teen he’d yanked out of the line of fire. Wide, startled, too familiar. His stomach had lurched before reality snapped back. The kid wasn’t you. Couldn’t be you.

Because you were gone.

That was what Bruce told him when he first clawed his way back into Gotham’s underbelly, raw and broken. That you were gone. Just one more body swallowed by Gotham’s endless hunger.

Jason clenched his jaw, helmet tucked under one arm now. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, streaking down his scarred face. Gone. Bruce never elaborated. No grave, no details, just a hollow statement that twisted in Jason’s gut every time he thought of it.

But tonight, as he wiped blood from his knuckles, the flashes kept coming.

You, small and scrappy, laughing as you tugged his cape too big for your shoulders. You, chirping in his ear like the “Little Bird” nickname he couldn’t shake. You, clutching him tight when he first put on the Robin suit, pride glowing in your eyes.

Jason cursed under his breath, slamming his fist into the crumbling brick wall beside him. The Narrows swallowed the sound, uncaring.

“Where the hell are you, kid?” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Because for the first time in years, Jason wondered if Bruce had lied.

And the thought of you being out there somewhere, alive, hurting, thinking you were alone, burned hotter than any of his rage.

-

It was well past midnight when Jason slipped into the manor. He didn’t bother with subtlety, boots muddy, jacket soaked from Gotham rain. The place still smelled the same, old wood and polish, like nothing in it had changed since he was a kid. Except him.

He found Alfred in the kitchen, as he always did. The butler was just setting a kettle on the stove, sleeves rolled neatly, calm even in the dead of night.

Jason leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, helmet under his arm. “Still making tea at ungodly hours, huh?”

Alfred didn’t flinch. He turned, meeting Jason’s tired eyes with the same steady warmth he always had. “Some habits refuse to die, Master Jason. Much like some young men.”

Jason smirked at the jab, but it didn’t last. His expression hardened. “I need to know something.”

Alfred’s brow lifted. “And what might that be?”

Jason stepped forward, dropping his helmet onto the counter with a hollow clunk. “The girl. Y/N. Bruce told me she was gone. That was it. No grave. No explanation. Just gone.” His voice tightened, the edge of anger breaking through. “But I keep… I keep seeing her. Or thinking I do. So tell me straight, what the hell really happened to her?”

Alfred stilled, one hand resting on the teapot handle. His face betrayed nothing, but his silence was heavy.

Jason’s fists clenched. “Don’t you start too. I’ve had enough of Bruce’s half assed truths and Grayson’s pity looks. If she’s dead, just say it. If she’s not-” His voice cracked despite himself. “If she’s not, then why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?”

Alfred’s eyes softened, a flicker of grief breaking through his composure. He set the kettle aside and faced Jason fully. “She is not dead, Jason. At least… not in the way you fear.”

Jason blinked, his breath catching. “Then where-”

“That is not my secret to tell,” Alfred interrupted gently, though his voice wavered at the edges. “But know this: she was taken where Bruce believed she would be… safer. Whether that decision was right is another matter entirely.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. The words landed like a gut punch. Alive. Out there. And Bruce had let him believe otherwise.

Jason dragged a hand over his face, letting out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Safe? That’s rich. Gotham eats people alive every day and somehow he thought lying to all of us was the answer?”

Alfred’s voice dropped, raw with unspoken sorrow. “I argued with him. Believe me, I did. But in the end… Bruce chose, as he always does.”

The kitchen fell quiet, save for the soft whistle of the kettle. Jason stared at the floor, his chest burning with something between relief and fury.

Finally, he grabbed his helmet, slipping it back under his arm. “Thanks, Alfie. You told me more than he ever did.”

-

Damian hadn’t meant to overhear. He was passing through the hall when Jason’s raised voice caught his ear, sharp with frustration. Out of instinct, Damian lingered by the door, quiet as a shadow.

The words sank into him slowly. Alive. Alfred’s voice was steady, certain. His sister, the one everyone avoided speaking about, wasn’t dead after all. She was alive, somewhere beyond the manor’s walls.

When Jason finally stormed off, Damian stayed rooted in place, mind racing. He thought of the untouched room upstairs, of Alfred’s care in keeping it clean, of the way everyone had avoided his questions.

Later that night, Damian made his way into the Batcave. Bruce was at the computer, cape draped over the back of his chair, the glow of the monitors reflecting in his tired eyes.

“Father,” Damian said, his voice even.

Bruce glanced at him briefly. “You should be asleep.”

“I overheard Jason speaking with Pennyworth,” Damian said plainly. “He was asking about her.”

Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. “Damian”

“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Damian pressed, tilting his head. His tone wasn’t accusing, not angry, just curious, insistent. “My sister.”

For a long moment, the cave hummed with silence. Then Bruce sighed, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t confirm it directly, but he didn’t deny it either.

Damian stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back in an almost formal posture. “Why has no one told me? Why keep her a secret?”

Bruce’s gaze softened, though it was shadowed by something Damian couldn’t yet name. “Because her life took a different path. One that isn’t tied to this family the way yours is.”

Damian frowned, his brows knitting. “But she is family. My blood.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. She is.”

Damian looked thoughtful, not combative. He nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch. “I would like to meet her one day,” he said at last. “To know her.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His eyes returned to the monitors, though his jaw tightened faintly. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

Damian didn’t push further. But as he walked away, his mind was already turning. He wanted to understand this sister who had been hidden from him. And deep down, he knew curiosity would one day drive him to find her, no matter what Bruce decided.

TAGLIST: CLOSED

a/n: so excited to write about my fav trios. also I lowkey forgot that (MANGA SPOILERS) yuuta and gojo are related, so actually as the ruler of this universe that is not canon and youth's and mc's bloodline actually never touch ONCE.... anyways.... ENJOY!

Finally, you were officially enrolled into Tokyo Jujutsu High. Gojo had dragged his feet on the paperwork for as long as he could. “What’s the rush? You’ve already been training with me!”

 Principal Yaga finally cornered him about it. He argued, Gojo grinned, and in the end, you were given your uniform and welcomed properly into the halls you’d already come to know so well.

By then, you had grown stronger. Severance wasn’t just instinct anymore; it was discipline, precise and sharp. You sparred often with Maki and Megumi, Panda teased you like a younger sibling, and Inumaki had grown fond of handing you onigiri with the flavors he knew you liked. It felt like family in ways Gotham never had.

But like always, the darkness never strays too far.

It started small. Subtle.

At first, Tsumiki only seemed tired. She’d smile through it, waving you off when you worried, but you noticed how her steps slowed when walking home from school, how she lingered too long catching her breath after climbing the stairs. She brushed it off with excuses. “I stayed up too late studying, I’ve been busy, it’s nothing”.

But you knew better. You’d lived with loss long enough to recognize the weight of something creeping in, unseen.

One morning, she didn’t wake up.

You and Megumi found her in her room, lying peacefully, her face pale against the pillow. For a heartbeat, you thought she was gone. The fear that ripped through your chest nearly crushed you. But when you shook her gently, she stirred, weakly, sluggishly, and whispered your names.

That’s when you saw it.

It wasn’t visible to Megumi, but your eyes caught it immediately: something coiled faintly around her, thin threads of cursed energy clinging to her skin like blackened vines. It wasn’t like the little baby curses you’d once seen in Gotham, either. This was something deeper. Stronger. The residue of a contract she hadn’t agreed to.

Gojo examined her not long after. His usual easy grin faded into something sharper, the air around him heavy. “It’s a binding vow,” he explained. “Forced on her. The kind that keeps her alive, but asleep. Two years ago, when curses started spiking across Japan, a handful of non-sorcerers were marked. She’s one of them.”

Megumi’s fists clenched at his sides. “Why her?”

Gojo’s expression softened, though the lines of his jaw stayed tight. “Because she was kind. Because she cared. Because curses feed on that just as much as fear.”

You sat by her bed that night, holding her hand. Her breathing was steady, her pulse faint but there. But the sight of those black threads, tugging invisibly at her life, made your stomach twist.

From then on, every mission, every curse you exorcised, felt like one step closer to saving her. Tsumiki wasn’t just Megumi’s reason to fight. She had become yours too.

-

It wasn’t just Tsumiki who was cursed. It was you and Megumi too, in a way.

Every day, you both lingered in her room, checking her pulse, brushing stray hairs from her face, whispering words she couldn’t answer. At first, you tried to be hopeful. She’ll wake up. She has to. But as weeks passed, hope turned into something heavier. A dull ache that never left your chest.

Megumi carried it like armor, his face hardening every time someone mentioned her name. You recognized the look because you wore it too. Gotham had taken your mother, Jason, even the little scraps of family Bruce could have given you. Now Megumi was staring down the same emptiness.

The grief should have pulled you under, but instead, it pulled you closer to each other.

One night, you found him sitting on the engawa outside, his shoulders rigid, his hands clenched. You sat beside him without a word, knees brushing his, the silence heavy between you. Finally, he muttered, “She’s all I had.”

“I know,” you whispered back. “She’s all I had too.”

He turned, surprised, but when he saw the rawness in your eyes, something softened. From that night, there was no need to explain the ache, you both understood.

It wasn’t the kind of closeness that came from laughter or lighthearted moments. It was deeper than that, forged in the fire of loss. You started watching each other the way siblings do: he’d make sure you ate when you were too drained to care, and you’d drag him out of training before he broke himself trying to forget. During missions, you moved in sync without speaking, each of you unwilling to let the other fall.

It wasn’t about blood. It was about survival. About choosing to stand shoulder-to-shoulder when the world wanted to hollow you out.

Megumi wasn’t just your friend anymore. He was your brother. And together, you’d do whatever it took to protect what was left of your family, even if it meant carrying the weight of grief on your backs until it crushed you.

-

Then came Yuji Itadori.

You first heard his name through Gojo, who returned one night grinning ear to ear.

Gojo had been hyped about it all day. He burst into the estate with that wild grin plastered on his face, tossing his blindfold onto the couch like he owned the place.

“You’ll never guess what I found today,” he said, rummaging through the cupboards for snacks. “A kid who swallowed a cursed object.”

You nearly choked on your tea. “He what?”

“Yup. Whole finger, down the hatch. Sukuna’s finger, no less.” He said it like he was talking about someone eating the last cookie in the jar. “And get this. He survived.”

That was your first introduction to Yuji Itadori: not in person, but as the reckless boy who ate a cursed object and lived.

When you finally saw him for yourself, it was nothing like you expected. You thought he’d look haunted, dangerous, maybe even twisted by Sukuna’s presence. Instead, you found a boy your age with round eyes, messy pink hair, and an expression that wavered between nervous and cheerful. He was sitting awkwardly in the courtyard, his hands fidgeting against his knees as Megumi stood nearby, watching him like a hawk.

“So this is the kid who swallowed Sukuna’s finger?” you asked, tilting your head.

“This is him,” Gojo announced, patting Yuji’s shoulder like he was showing off a prize. “The miracle stomach.”

Yuji blinked at you. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting a smirk. “Honestly, I thought you’d look scarier. Y’know, fangs, horns, glowing eyes. But you just look like some random high schooler who got lost on the way to track practice.”

His jaw dropped. “Hey! That’s- okay, that’s fair. But I swear I’m tougher than I look.”

You grinned, stepping closer. “Sure, miracle stomach. Whatever you say.”

Megumi shot you a warning look, but you ignored it. Teasing Yuji was too easy.

Yuji puffed his cheeks, muttering under his breath, then suddenly leaned forward. “Well, what about you? You don’t look scary either. What’s your deal?”

You smirked, letting a flicker of cursed energy spark around your hand, sharp and crackling like shattered glass. The air between you hummed. “My deal is that I can cut you in half before you finish that sentence.”

Yuji froze, eyes widening. Then, to your surprise, he grinned. “Cool! Wanna train together sometime?”

You stared at him, thrown completely off. Most people flinched when you showed your cursed energy. He just smiled.

For some reason, that made you laugh. “You’re weird, Itadori.”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “But weird people make the best friends, right?”

Megumi sighed behind you, clearly regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. But you couldn’t help it, already, you liked Yuji. Teasing him was too much fun.

-

The first evening after Gojo dragged Yuji to Jujutsu High, the three of you ended up in the training yard. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky orange, and the air felt heavy with the scent of grass and sweat.

Yuji was still bouncing with nervous energy, eyes darting around the school grounds like he couldn’t believe he was really there. “This place is huge,” he muttered, half to himself. “It’s like Hogwarts but… creepier.”

You smirked. “Great. Another weirdo with no idea what he’s signed up for.”

“Hey!” Yuji turned toward you, pouting. “I mean, yeah, I don’t know anything about cursed energy, but I’m not that clueless.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “You swallowed a rotten finger because you thought it was the only way to help Megumi.”

He hesitated. “…Okay, fair. But it worked, didn’t it?”

You couldn’t help laughing, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Megumi sighed beside you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is what I’m stuck with.”

Yuji leaned closer to you, cupping a hand to the side of his mouth like he was sharing a secret. “Does he ever smile? Like, ever?”

You grinned, playing along. “Not unless you count when his shikigami maul curses.”

Megumi glared at both of you. “I can hear you.”

That set you laughing even harder, and for a moment Yuji looked at you like he’d just scored a victory.

Later, after Megumi excused himself to deal with the shikigami, you found yourself sitting with Yuji under the engawa. The cicadas buzzed in the trees, and he kicked his legs idly.

“So…” he started, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “Do you ever get used to all this? The curses, the fighting, the… dying?”

The question made your chest tighten. You stared at the wooden floorboards for a moment before answering. “You don’t get used to it. You just learn to live with it.”

Yuji studied you quietly, and then, instead of making a joke, he nodded. “Guess I’ll figure it out too.”

Something about the way he said it, quiet, steady, without fear, made you believe him.

-

The next morning, Gojo dragged you and Megumi out to the training yard. Yuji trailed behind, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, his pink hair sticking up in every direction.

“Alright!” Gojo clapped his hands dramatically. “Time for our newest addition to show us what he’s made of. And what better way to do that than a spar?”

Yuji perked up immediately. “Wait like, hand-to-hand? I can totally do that!”

You leaned on your weapon, smirking. “You’re excited now, but don’t start crying when you lose.”

His jaw dropped. “What makes you think I’ll lose?”

Megumi muttered from the sidelines, “Do we really have to do this?” but Gojo ignored him, practically bouncing with excitement.

“Okay, okay,” Gojo said, pushing Yuji into the ring. “No cursed energy yet, just fists. Show us how good you are at the basics.”

Yuji grinned, bouncing on his toes. “You’re on.”

The fight started fast. Yuji lunged first, his movements quick but wild. You slipped past his punch easily, and jabbed him lightly in the ribs.

“Too open,” you teased.

He spun, grinning. “Not bad! But I’m just warming up.”

He came at you again, faster this time. You ducked under his swing, sweeping his leg out from under him. He hit the ground with a grunt, staring up at the sky in disbelief.

“…Ow.”

You crouched beside him, grinning. “I thought you said you could totally do this.”

His cheeks flushed. “I slipped!”

Gojo laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Ohhh, this is going to be fun. Yuji, you’ve got power, but Y/N  has control. You’ve got a long way to go, kid.”

Yuji sat up, rubbing his back, but then his grin returned, bright and unshaken. “Alright then. Guess I’ll just have to get strong enough to beat you.”

You arched a brow. “Good luck with that.”

For the rest of the session, Yuji kept trying, again and again, even when you knocked him flat. And each time, he got back up smiling, as if defeat was just another step forward.

By the time Gojo finally called it, you were sweaty, a little bruised, and, though you wouldn’t admit it out loud, you found yourself grinning too.

Because Yuji was different. He wasn’t weighed down like the others. He wasn’t afraid of failing. And in some strange, reckless way, that made you want to keep fighting too.

-

The air smelled faintly of sweat and earth. The field where Gojo had put you all through hours of sparring was littered with scuffed dirt and stray pieces of training tape. The sun was slipping low, the sky melting into pink and orange.

Yuji was the first to drop, falling backwards into the grass with a loud groan that broke the quiet. “Uuuugh… this is it. I’m done. Tell Gojo I said he’s the worst.”

Megumi lowered herself beside him with her usual unbothered calm. Despite the scratches on his  arms and the way his hair clung damp to his face, he looked strangely composed.  “I’ll let him know you died heroically,” he said flatly, peeling off one glove.

You walked over slower, every muscle burning, and collapsed on Yuji’s other side. “Heroically? Megumi, he tripped over his own foot at least three times.”

Yuji lifted his head just enough to glare at you, though the effect was ruined by the sweat running down his forehead. “Those were strategic dodges.”

Megumi didn’t blink. “Into the ground?”

You burst into laughter, a tired but genuine sound that made Yuji cover his face with both hands. “It was very heroic,” you teased.

“Brutal,” Yuji muttered through his palms. But when you tossed him your spare water bottle, he sat up just enough to catch it. “Thanks, Y/N. At least someone here has a heart.”

Megumi, still expressionless as he unwrapped a protein bar, said, “Low bar.”

You grinned, glancing at her. “He says that, but he saved your butt like… twice today.”

Yuji froze mid-sip. “Wait, seriously?”

“He did.” You pointed at Megumi’s arm, a new smear of dirt where he’d shoved Yuji out of the way earlier. “You were about to get flattened.”

Megumi shrugged, his tone casual but her eyes briefly flicking toward Yuji. “Didn’t feel like cleaning up the mess.”

Yuji let out a startled laugh that turned into something warm. “You’re the best, Megumi. Even if you won’t admit it.”

His expression didn’t change, but you caught the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth before he looked away.

For a while, nobody spoke. The wind rustled the grass; somewhere behind the field, a few birds chirped their last songs of the evening. The silence wasn’t awkward. Iit was the heavy, peaceful kind that comes after shared exhaustion. You leaned back on your hands, watching the colors of the sky stretch and fade.

“You know,” you said after a moment, your voice softer, “we’re getting better. Like… actually better.”

Yuji glanced at you, his eyes bright even in his tired face. “Yeah. Today felt different. Stronger.”

Megumi took a slow sip from his water bottle, then nodded once. “…Less sloppy.”

Yuji laughed at that,  short but proud. “I’ll take it. Next time, we won’t even need Gojo.”

Megumi looked at him with the calmest side-eye imaginable. “Bold.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against Yuji’s. “But maybe true. You’ve come a long way.”

Yuji’s grin softened into something quieter. He looked at both of you,  you, sweaty and tired but smiling,  Megumi, calm and unreadable but somehow present  and said, “This was a good day.”

Megumi didn’t look up from the wrapper his was folding, but he said softly, “Not bad.”

“Not bad at all.”

The three of you sat there until the sun finally slipped below the horizon, shoulders brushing, the quiet easy and earned. For once, it felt like the world could wait.

-

Gojo led you, Megumi, and Yuji through the bustling streets of Harajuku, the noise and color of the district swallowing you whole. You weren’t sure why you all had to come meet the new student here, of all places, but Gojo seemed unbothered, his usual grin plastered across his face.

“Why here?” you muttered, falling into step beside Megumi. “Wouldn’t the school have made more sense?”

Megumi shrugged, looking equally unimpressed. “With Gojo, there’s never a reason.”

“Exactly!” Gojo said, spinning on his heel. “First impressions matter. Besides, Harajuku’s perfect for her.”

That was when you saw her.

Standing near a storefront, suitcase in hand, was a girl with striking orange hair and a sharp glare. A model scout was pestering her, waving a business card like it was a golden ticket.

“Don’t waste my time,” Nobara snapped, arms crossed. “Do you have any idea how many scams start with ‘you should be a model’? Pathetic.”

The scout stammered, insisting it was legitimate, but she reached into her bag and let the handle of a hammer peek out. That was enough, the man blanked and bolted down the street.

“Feisty,” Gojo commented cheerfully, waving the group over. “This is her. Meet Kugisaki Nobara, our new first year.”

Yuji’s eyes lit up. “Whoa, that was awesome! I’m Itadori Yuji, nice to meet you!”

She looked him up and down once, unimpressed. “Too eager.”

You couldn’t help laughing, stepping forward with a grin. “Don’t mind him. He’s basically a walking puppy, excited about everything, no brain cells to spare.”

“HEY!” Yuji yelped.

Nobara’s lips twitched like she was holding back a smirk. Her gaze slid to you. “At least someone around here has standards.”

You smirked right back. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

Megumi muttered under his breath, already annoyed. “This is going to be unbearable.”

“So,” she said at last, “these are my classmates? A brooding kid, a hyperactive idiot, and… you.”

You raised a brow. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”

She tilted her chin up, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Both.”

Yuji stepped in quickly, flashing her the friendliest smile possible. “Don’t mind her! We’re actually a really good team. You’ll see, it’ll be great to have another girl around.”

Nobara’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed. “What’s that supposed to mean? That you were getting lonely with just the two of them?”

Yuji froze, hands flailing. “N-No! I didn’t mean it like-”

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth. “Oh my god, Yuji, she’s going to eat you alive.”

Megumi sighed, rubbing his temple. “Do we really have to do this here? In public?”

“Of course!” Gojo chimed in, utterly ignoring the tension. “Harajuku is about the atmosphere. Bonding through chaos, you know?”

Nobara side-eyed him, then looked back at you. “You’ve known these guys for a while?”

“Unfortunately,” you said with mock solemnity, elbowing Megumi. “I’ve been stuck babysitting him for years.”

Megumi shot you a look, but didn’t argue.

Nobara chuckled, clearly warming up, though her voice still carried an edge. “Good. Then at least I won’t be the only one who sees through them.”

Yuji groaned. “You two are going to gang up on me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you and Nobara said in unison.

Gojo clapped his hands together, delighted. “See? Teamwork already! This is going to be so much fun.”

Megumi muttered under his breath, “Fun isn’t the word I’d use…”

-

The detention center loomed ahead of you, dark and hulking against the cloudy sky. The building reeked of cursed energy, thick and suffocating, even before you stepped inside. Police tape flapped in the wind, and the few guards outside looked pale, muttering about people disappearing.

Gojo, of course, looked completely unbothered. “Alright, kiddos. Time for a practical test! Exorcise the curse inside. Bonus points if you make it look cool.”

“Cool?” Nobara repeated, incredulous.

Gojo winked, then vanished, leaving you, Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara at the gates.

Yuji blinked at the empty spot where your teacher had been. “Did… he just ditch us?”

“Yes,” Megumi said flatly, already moving forward.

You sighed, tightening your grip on your weapon. “Welcome to Jujutsu High. Step one: abandonment.”

-

Inside, the air was damp and foul. The corridors were cracked and rotting, cursed energy oozing from the walls like mold. Whispers echoed through the empty hallways, thin and sharp like glass against your skin.

Yuji tried to lighten the mood, glancing around. “So, uh… first mission together! We got this, right?”

Nobara gave him a sharp side-eye. “Don’t get cocky. Try not to slow me down.”

You smirked. “Careful, Yuji. She bites.”

“Why is it always me?!” he groaned, but you could see the nervous sweat on his brow.

The first curse lunged out of the shadows not long after—a twisted, half-formed thing with too many arms. Nobara reacted instantly, slamming a nail into the wall with her hammer. Her cursed energy snapped through it, pinning the curse in place like a bug.

“Gotcha,” she hissed, driving another nail straight through its head.

Yuji’s jaw dropped. “That was AWESOME!”

She smirked, hammer on her shoulder. “Of course it was.”

Another curse slithered from the ceiling, but you were already moving. Severance gleamed in your hands, slicing upward in a clean arc. The creature shrieked before dissolving into sludge.

“Watch your blind spots, idiot,” you called to Yuji.

“Hey! I saw it!” Yuji protested.

“No, you didn’t,” Megumi muttered, his shikigami growling as it tore through a curse behind him.

The deeper you went, the worse it became. Shadows writhed at the edges of your vision, whispers growing louder. And then, you found it—the remains of the detainees, torn and scattered. Yuji froze, fists clenching.

“These were people,” he whispered, horror in his eyes.

You felt your stomach twist, but Megumi’s voice was steady. “Focus. Right now, our job is to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

And then the air changed. Heavy. Suffocating. The three of you turned at once as a hulking curse emerged from the darkness, its shape grotesque, its energy radiating the weight of a Special Grade.

Your pulse spiked. “That’s… way above our level.”

Nobara’s smirk faltered. “You think?”

Yuji swallowed, stepping forward anyway. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t run.”

The curse roared, and the fight began.

-

The Special Grade towered above you, a hulking mass of teeth, eyes, and limbs that seemed to bend the air itself. Its cursed energy pressed down so heavy your knees almost buckled. The walls groaned under its presence.

“Special Grade,” Megumi said tightly, summoning his shikigami. “We’re not equipped for this.”

“Ya think?!” Nobara snapped, nails trembling in her hand.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, Severance humming in your grip. The curse shifted, its too-wide grin splitting as it lunged forward. Instinct took over—you swung, the blade cutting through its arm with a screech. For a heartbeat, you thought it would fall.

It didn’t.

The limb regenerated instantly, sharper than before, slamming you into the wall with bone-crushing force. The air left your lungs in a gasp as pain exploded through your back.

“Y/N!” Yuji shouted, darting forward. He planted himself between you and the curse, fists clenched. His cursed energy sparked weakly, but he didn’t hesitate.

The Special Grade’s claws raked down, and Yuji caught the blow, his muscles straining, blood dripping instantly. He grinned through the pain. “Go! I’ll hold it!”

“You can’t!” Megumi barked, but Yuji only shook his head.

“People are dying out there. We can’t run!”

Something in his voice hit you like a knife. Jason had spoken like that once. Brave. Stupid. Ready to throw everything away.

Your chest tightened. “Yuji don’t you dare-”

But it was too late.

The Special Grade’s hand speared through his side, blood spraying across the cracked floor. Your scream tore out of you before you could stop it.

“YUJI!”

His face twisted in pain, but he still turned his head, eyes finding yours. “I’ll… be okay.”

And then you saw it, his expression shift, his features contort. Black markings spread across his face like fire, and Sukuna’s laugh echoed through the hall, cold and cruel.

“Finally,” Sukuna drawled, stretching Yuji’s body like a puppet. “I was getting bored.”

Every muscle in your body froze. The cursed energy pouring off him was suffocating, endless. The Special Grade that had nearly killed you? It shrank back in fear.

Sukuna slaughtered it like it was nothing.

When the last of the sludge dripped away, Sukuna turned, eyes settling on you. His grin was wide, sharp, hungry. “You’ve got potential. Sharp little blade. Maybe I’ll carve you up next.”

Your grip on Severance shook, not from fear, but rage. If he so much as breathed wrong, you’d cut him apart, even if it killed you.

But then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, Sukuna clicked his tongue and vanished. Yuji’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

You ran to him, knees hitting the floor hard. His skin was pale, blood pooling beneath him. He wasn’t breathing.

“Yuji, no, no, no,” you whispered, hands pressing desperately against the wound, even though you knew it was pointless. Your fingers trembled, slick with his blood. “You’re not allowed to do this. Not you too.”

Megumi knelt beside you, his face grim but steady. Nobara stood frozen, hammer slack in her grip, her eyes wide with shock.

You shook your head violently, tears blurring your vision. “He was just, he was just here. He smiled at me. He said he’d be fine-”

But there was no answer.

For the second time in your life, you felt the universe rip someone away from you, and the hollow silence it left behind was unbearable.

Jason. Now Yuji.

You bowed your head over him, your hands still clutching his bloodied shirt, and for the first time since Gotham, you felt like that little kid again helpless, empty, screaming against a world that never listened.

-

The infirmary was too quiet. Too clean. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and suffocating, and it made your stomach twist.

You sat on the edge of the bed they’d carried Yuji to, your hands still stained with his dried blood. No matter how hard you scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off. It was under your nails, etched into your skin, burned into your memory.

He was gone.

You didn’t even cry at first. You just sat there, staring blankly at the sheet pulled over his body, your chest heavy and hollow. The weight of it felt unbearable. Jason. Your mom. Now Yuji. How many more pieces of you had to die before the world was satisfied?

The door creaked, and Gojo stepped inside. He wasn’t smiling this time. His blindfold hung loose around his neck, white lashes framing eyes too sharp, too knowing.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, taking in the sight of you. Then he crossed the room and crouched down in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Hey,” he said softly. Not his usual playful tone. Just a quiet word, steady and calm.

Your throat burned. “Why does this keep happening?” you whispered. “Why is it always me? Everyone I care about… they leave. They die. And I can’t stop it.”

Gojo’s expression flickered, just for a second, pain, regret, something you rarely saw break through his endless confidence. He let out a slow breath and reached out, resting a gloved hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. “Curses take. That’s what they do. But that doesn’t mean you’re cursed too.”

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling hot down your cheeks. You shook your head. “But I couldn’t save him. I was right there. I watched him-” Your voice broke.

Gojo squeezed your shoulder gently. “You were there for him. That matters more than you think.”

You let out a shaky sob, your hands clenching in your lap. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, Satoru. I can’t.”

For once, Gojo didn’t try to make a joke, didn’t try to deflect with his usual arrogance. He leaned forward and pulled you into a hug, his long arms wrapping around you in a way that felt almost unfamiliar, soft, grounding.

“You won’t lose me,” he murmured against your hair. “And I’m not letting you carry this alone. Not anymore.”

You clung to Gojo’s uniform, sobs wracking your chest until you were too tired to cry anymore. Your throat ached, your eyes burned, and still you didn’t let go. For once, Gojo didn’t push, didn’t make a joke, he just stayed there, steady and warm, until the storm inside you dulled to quiet tremors.

When you finally pulled back, sniffling, Gojo reached up and gently wiped a tear from your cheek with the edge of his sleeve. His expression was uncharacteristically serious, his sharp blue eyes fixed on yours.

“Y/N,” he said quietly. “I need you to listen to me. And you can’t tell anyone else. Not Megumi, not Nobara, not even the higher ups if they corner you. Swear it.”

You blinked, confusion threading through your exhaustion. “Swear what?”

“That you’ll keep a secret.”

Something in his voice made your heart jolt. You swallowed, nodding. “I swear.”

Gojo leaned back slightly, his lips quirking, not into a smirk, but into the smallest, faintest smile. “Yuji’s not gone.”

Your breath caught. “…What?”

“He died,” Gojo admitted, his tone careful, “but Sukuna brought him back. The brat’s alive. Right now, he’s resting somewhere safe. I pulled him out before anyone else could see.”

Your heart lurched, tears springing fresh to your eyes, but this time, from sheer relief. You pressed a hand to your mouth, muffling the gasp that tore from your chest. “He’s-he’s alive?”

Gojo nodded once. “Alive. But the higher ups would kill him for real if they knew. They can’t stand the idea of Sukuna’s vessel walking around free. That’s why this has to stay between us for now.”

Your pulse raced. The crushing weight in your chest lifted all at once, replaced with shaky laughter that slipped out against your will. “I thought-I thought I lost him too.”

Gojo’s hand returned to your shoulder, grounding you. “You didn’t. But you’ve gotta act like you did. Not even a crack in your mask, understand?”

You nodded quickly, still laughing and crying all at once. “I can do that. I swear.”

For the first time since the detention center, hope sparked in your chest. Yuji was alive. He was out there. And you would keep his secret safe, no matter what it cost you.

-

The infirmary’s silence still clung to you when Gojo finally stood, stretching his long arms above his head with a sigh. But his eyes stayed locked on you, sharp and steady.

“Come on,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Where?”

He tilted his head toward the door, already walking. “Trust me.”

Your legs felt heavy, but you followed him anyway, wiping at your face as you trailed behind. The halls of Jujutsu High were dim, shadows stretching across the floorboards. Every creak of your shoes sounded too loud.

Gojo led you down a corridor you rarely went through, past the storage rooms and wards meant to mask cursed objects. Finally, he stopped in front of a sliding door. He didn’t open it right away, he turned back to you, crouching slightly so his gaze met yours.

“Remember what I said,” he murmured. “Not a word. To anyone. You’ve got to act like nothing’s changed. Can you do that?”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded. “I can.”

Only then did he slide the door open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single lamp. And sitting cross-legged on a futon, alive and breathing, was Yuji. His pink hair was messier than ever, his expression sheepish as his wide eyes landed on you.

“…Hey,” he said, voice quiet, almost guilty.

You froze in the doorway. For a long heartbeat, you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The sight of him, warm, alive, real, hit you like a punch to the chest.

Then your body moved on its own. You crossed the room in two steps and dropped to your knees, throwing your arms around him. He stiffened in surprise before letting out a shaky laugh, wrapping his arms around you just as tight.

“You idiot,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “You absolute, reckless idiot. I thought you were gone. I thought I lost you.”

Yuji’s chest shook with his own unsteady laugh, though his voice was rough when he whispered back, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your hands still gripping his shirt. “Don’t ever do that again. If you die on me one more time, I’ll kill you myself.”

Yuji grinned weakly, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Deal.”

Behind you, Gojo leaned casually against the wall, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, reunion time over. He’s still supposed to be dead, remember? So hug it out quick, wipe your face, and get ready to keep a secret.”

You ignored him, burying your face in Yuji’s shoulder one more time. Because for now, all that mattered was that he was here. Alive.

And you weren’t letting him slip away again.

TAGLIST: CLOSED

a/n: I have been writing non stop for the past week so hopefully everything is up to everyones standards. I'll be focusing on the jjk side a bit more in the next chapters or so just to be able to set up a timeline that's more accurate for the plot. I want to build up mc's relationship with everyone before we switch back to batfam

Back in Gotham, the manor felt heavier without you.

Alfred still laid out an extra place at the table some nights before catching himself, hands pausing mid motion. He still lingered at your old room’s door, dusting shelves that no longer needed dusting, straightening blankets no one would sleep under.

He missed your voice in the quiet halls, even the silence you had wrapped yourself in after Jason. He missed the way you followed Jason like a shadow, the way your laughter used to echo faintly before grief had dulled it.

Some nights, when the storm rattled the windows, he caught himself almost expecting to see you appear at the top of the staircase, clutching your blanket, eyes wide. He would’ve taken your hand, led you to the kitchen for cocoa, sat with you until the thunder eased. But the stairs stayed empty. The house stayed quiet.

And though he told himself you were safer where you were, with a family who understood the world you’d been born into, Alfred’s chest ached every evening when he passed the window and saw the empty garden.

Because no matter where you had gone, to Alfred… you would always be his child.

-

Meanwhile, in Japan, your world was already beginning to shift. Gojo’s training pushed you harder each day, Tsumiki’s kindness softened the sharp edges of your grief, and Megumi’s quiet understanding grew into something steady, almost unshakable. For the first time in years, you weren’t just surviving. You were becoming something more.

Two years had passed, finally 15, and in that time, you had grown into someone almost unrecognizable from the lonely child Alfred once tucked into bed. Your cursed energy had sharpened under Satoru’s watchful eye, your technique honed until “Severance” became more than instinct, it was a weapon you could call upon at will. The curses that once stalked you now scattered when they felt your presence.

You weren’t enrolled at Jujutsu High, not officially. Gojo said it was “too early” and “too boring” to deal with the paperwork, but mostly, you suspected he liked keeping you close under his wing. Still, since you were always at his side, it was only natural that you, Tsumiki, and Megumi eventually crossed paths with his first years.

Maki had been the first to test you. She sized you up the second you met, her sharp gaze flicking from your stance to your grip on your practice weapon. “So this is Gojo’s niece,” she said, unimpressed. “Hope you’re not soft like him.” That earned her a playful whack on the head from Gojo, but you just grinned. “Wanna find out?” By the end of the spar, both of you were panting, bruised, and maybe, just maybe, a little impressed with each other.

Panda, on the other hand, was the easiest to get along with. He treated you like a kid sibling from the start, cracking jokes, giving you rides on his shoulders, and sneaking you snacks during breaks. His energy was infectious, and it reminded you of Jason in the way he could lighten even the heaviest moods.

Inumaki was quieter, but you understood him in a way you didn’t expect. He didn’t need words, you’d catch the way his eyes softened when you got frustrated during training, or the way he’d offer you onigiri with a simple “shake” or “tuna mayo.” It was his way of saying I get it. You’re not alone.

You met Principal Yaga soon after, his towering frame and stern voice intimidating at first, until you realized he, like Alfred, carried his care in quiet, steady ways. He tested you, pushed you to prove that you were more than your clan’s name, and when you did, his approving nod felt heavier than a medal.

Nanami came next. Unlike Gojo, who treated lessons like a game, Nanami was sharp, precise, and unyielding. He had a way of seeing through you, of reminding you that sorcery wasn’t a storybook adventure. It was survival. You respected him immediately, even when his honesty stung.

Training with them became a new routine. You, Tsumiki, and Megumi would be pulled into their drills, sparring sessions, and Gojo’s chaotic “team building exercises.” You weren’t a student yet, but you were learning alongside them all the same. Sometimes you wondered if this was what school was supposed to feel like, sweat, laughter, aching muscles, and people who didn’t just tolerate your presence, but wanted you there.

-

You hadn’t expected Gojo to bring someone new home that day.

He swept into the estate with his usual careless energy, hands shoved into his pockets, humming like he hadn’t just returned from something serious. But you could tell from the tightness in his smile that this wasn’t an ordinary student.

Trailing behind him was a boy who looked like he was carrying the world on his back. His uniform hung loose on his frame, his eyes dull and restless, like he’d already given up on something he couldn’t name.

“This is Yuta Okkotsu,” Gojo announced, pushing him gently forward as if he were showing off a prize. “Brand new first-year. Be nice to him, he’s got it rough.”

You tilted your head, studying him. There was something heavy clinging to him, a weight you could feel even without Gojo’s explanation. And then, in the corner of your vision, you saw her. The twisted, monstrous figure that hovered at his back.

Rika.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Not because she frightened you, but because of what she meant. Gojo explained in broad strokes, Rika was once a girl, someone Yuta had loved deeply, and now she was bound to him in death, a curse that refused to let go.

That night, lying awake in your room, the image of Rika burned in your mind. You kept turning it over in your mind. Rika’s twisted devotion, Yuta’s desperate bond. And then Jason’s face pushed itself into the forefront of your thoughts. For a horrible, fleeting moment, you wondered: what if Jason could come back to me the same way? A curse bound to your soul, his laugh distorted, his shadow twisted. And for one dark, terrible heartbeat, you imagined him at your side the way Rika clung to Yuta, monstrous, broken, but still him. Still yours.

The thought curdled quickly. Jason had deserved better than that. He had deserved peace, not chains. But grief didn’t care about right or wrong, it whispered what-ifs, and it left you trembling.

-

The first real conversation happened a few days after Gojo brought him in. You found Yuta sitting in the courtyard, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the stones like they held all the answers he couldn’t say out loud. Rika lingered close, her shadowy form curled protectively around him.

You hesitated before stepping closer, careful not to spook him. “She doesn’t scare me,” you said softly.

Yuta blinked, startled, his eyes snapping up to yours. “Rika?”

You nodded. “She… reminds me of someone I lost. Not her, exactly. Just… the way she’s still here with you.”

His face tightened, his shoulders hunching in. “I didn’t ask her to stay. I never wanted-” His voice cracked, breaking into a whisper. “I just wanted her to live.”

The ache in his words echoed in your chest. You lowered yourself onto the stone step beside him, staring straight ahead. “I know what that feels like. To want someone back so badly, even when you know it isn’t possible.”

Jason’s smile flickered in your memory, warm and fleeting.

Yuta’s hands clenched on his knees. “Sometimes I think… if I let her go, I’ll lose her forever. But if I keep her like this, she’ll never be free. And I don’t know which one’s worse.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I used to think about what it would mean if the person I lost came back like that. A curse, bound to me. I hated myself for even thinking about it, but grief… grief makes you imagine things. It makes you selfish.”

Yuta turned, really looking at you for the first time. There wasn’t pity in his eyes, just understanding. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Wanting them back and knowing you can’t.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “Every day.”

For a long moment, the two of you sat in silence, Rika looming but strangely gentle at Yuta’s back. Then, almost shyly, Yuta said, “Maybe… if we both carry it, it won’t feel as heavy.”

It wasn’t a promise, not really. But it was something, an anchor in the storm. You let yourself lean against his shoulder, just barely, and he didn’t pull away.

For the first time, you didn’t feel like grief was your own private cage. Someone else understood.

-

The months that followed blurred together, training, missions, curses. But everything began to shift the day Yuta was officially brought into Tokyo Jujutsu High as a student.

Gojo, of course, pulled you, Tsumiki, and Megumi along for the ride. “You’re not enrolled, so don’t get any ideas,” he teased, wagging a finger at you. “But no way am I leaving my girl out of the fun.”

Gojo didn’t waste time throwing you and Yuta into the field. “Nothing bonds people like shared trauma!” he said cheerfully, waving you off as if curses weren’t literal nightmares waiting to devour you.

That’s how you ended up side by side with Maki, Panda, and Inumaki as Yuta stumbled through his early days. You sparred with them, fought small curses together, and slowly, Yuta stopped shrinking into himself. He started standing taller, and you noticed he’d glance at you when his courage wavered.

The first major mission came quickly: Rika’s power surged during a confrontation, nearly overwhelming everyone. You still remembered the way the air had felt, thick and crushing, when she manifested fully for the first time. Yuta had collapsed afterward, terrified of himself.

You had been the one to sit beside him in the aftermath, your hand on his trembling shoulder. “You’re not a monster, Yuta. If anything… you remind me of someone I loved. Someone who would’ve protected me no matter what.” You didn’t say Jason’s name, but the ache in your voice told the story.

Through Gojo’s “mentorship” (if his chaotic babysitting could be called that), you and Yuta were pulled deeper into the world of sorcery. You watched as he grew closer to the first years, just as you did, fights, training, meals shared in the mess hall, the beginnings of family.

And then came Suguru Geto.

When Geto declared war on Jujutsu High, the tension in the air shifted. Gojo grew sharper, more serious, though he still cracked jokes to keep everyone calm. You noticed Yuta watching him like a lifeline, and you couldn’t help but think of how you used to watch Jason the same way.

-

December 24th was chaos.

Geto’s curses poured into Shinjuku and Kyoto like a living tide, spilling from the shadows in grotesque shapes, jagged limbs, fanged maws, eyes blinking open in places no eyes should be. The air was thick with cursed energy, the smell of rot and iron overwhelming.

You fought shoulder to shoulder with Maki, Panda, and Inumaki, Severance cutting through curses with terrifying precision. The first time your blade split a semi-grade 2 clean in half, Maki gave you the quickest smirk mid swing. “Not bad, kid.”

But there wasn’t time to bask in praise. The waves never stopped.

Inumaki’s voice rattled through the street: “Explode!” A dozen curses detonated in the distance, their ichor spattering the walls. Panda barreled through the wreckage, his fists breaking curses apart with thunderous cracks. You darted in between them, your strikes making sure nothing regenerated.

And still, more came.

The night sky lit up with sorcerers fighting across rooftops, explosions of cursed techniques splitting the dark. Screams rang through the air, curses and people both. For the first time, you understood the scale of war in the jujutsu world.

Somewhere across the battlefield, you caught glimpses of Yuta. His cursed energy flared like a beacon, Rika’s monstrous form towering behind him as he charged headlong into the swarm. His sword slashed arcs of light, every swing dripping with desperation. He wasn’t just fighting curses, he was fighting for the right to belong, to live.

You had to keep your focus. One slip, and you’d be devoured.

At one point, a grade 1 curse, hulking and grotesque, loomed over you. Its claws nearly pinned you to the pavement, the stench of its breath filling your lungs. Panic surged, but instinct answered. Severance flared sharper than it ever had before, slicing through its arm with a shriek of splitting glass. You followed with another swing, cutting the creature from shoulder to hip. It dissolved into black sludge at your feet.

“Nice one!” Panda shouted as he crushed another curse beside you.

But victory never lasted. The tide never slowed.

And then everything shifted.

The pressure of cursed energy spiked so violently it nearly dropped you to your knees. You looked toward the epicenter and saw Yuta and Geto clashing, Rika manifesting fully. Her roar shook the ground, sending curses scattering in fear. The sky seemed to crack under the weight of her presence.

Your heart hammered. You knew, at that moment, this was Yuta’s fight. Yours was just to survive long enough to see the sun rise.

The battle raged on until the final clash, when Yuta gave everything, binding his soul to Rika’s, unleashing her in a way that silenced the city. The explosion of energy washed over the streets like a tidal wave, curses evaporating in its wake.

When it was over, when Geto laid broken and Rika finally dissolved into light, the silence that followed felt heavier than the battle itself.

You stood among the ruins, bloodied and aching, your sword dripping cursed energy. And all you could think, as you watched Yuta cry in the middle of the wreckage, was: If Jason had been bound to me like Rika… would I have ever let him go?

The intrusive thought left a bitter taste in your mouth. You shook it away, forcing yourself to step forward, to be there when Yuta needed someone to lean on.

Because if you had learned anything from Gotham and from curses both, it was this: grief could break you, or it could bind you together.

And you weren’t going to let Yuta face it alone.

-

The days after the Night Parade felt hollow. The city still smelled of smoke, the streets cracked and stained with curses that no longer twitched. Repairs had begun, but you knew it would take more than carpenters and sorcerers to fix what had been broken.

And then came the news: Yuta was leaving.

Gojo told you casually, like he always did. “He needs distance. Training. Time to settle what happened with Rika. Africa’s good for that. Trust me, he’ll come back stronger.” He had smiled, but even you caught the sadness buried in the edges of his tone.

You found Yuta in the courtyard the night before he was set to leave, his sword slung across his back, a small bag at his feet. He sat quietly, looking up at the stars as though waiting for something.

“You’re really going,” you said softly.

Yuta turned, startled, then gave you a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I think… I need to. If I stay here, I’ll keep trying to hold onto her. And I know that’s not fair to Rika.”

You sat down beside him, the cool wood of the engawa pressing against your palms. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The cicadas filled the silence, a low hum that seemed to stretch on forever.

Finally, you broke it. “You know… I get it. Wanting someone back so badly you’ll do anything to keep them. Even if it hurts.” Yuta’s hands clenched loosely over his knees. “You think the pain ever goes away?”

You shook your head. “No. But… I think it changes. If you let it. And if you have people who’ll carry it with you.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Like you did for me.”

You felt your chest tighten, a lump rising in your throat. You wanted to tell him how much it mattered, finding someone who understood grief the way you did. How he had made the silence less crushing. But all that came out was, “Don’t forget me, okay?”

He shifted, hesitating, then reached out shyly and took your hand. His grip was warm, a little shaky, but steady enough to make your chest ache.

“I couldn’t forget you even if I tried,” he murmured.

Your heart stuttered. Before you could say anything else, he leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. The touch was clumsy, innocent, but it made your breath catch all the same.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered, voice thick but certain. “And when I do… we’ll pick up right where we left off.”

You nodded, blinking fast to keep the tears from spilling. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

When he finally pulled away, shouldering his bag and lifting his sword, you let him go without calling him back. Because even though it hurt, you knew this wasn’t the end.

It was the start of something new. Something fragile, but real.

Before you could lose your nerve, you leaned in the smallest bit closer. Your lips brushed his, soft, quick, the kind of kiss that felt more like a promise than anything else. Yuta froze, then let out a shaky laugh, cheeks flushed scarlet.

“I guess that’s another reason to come back,” he murmured, embarrassed but smiling.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your own face warm. “Then don’t make me wait too long.”

When he finally stood to leave, you let him go, but this time, the ache in your chest was tied to hope, not just grief.

-

While you sat beneath the Japanese sky, whispering promises with Yuta, Gotham drowned in rain.

Back in the Batcave, Tim hunched in front of the glowing monitors, the blue light washing his tired face. His fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling surveillance feeds, cross-referencing data, trying to stay three steps ahead of Gotham’s crime families. He didn’t notice Bruce suiting up behind him, didn’t notice the water dripping steadily from the cave ceiling. To Tim, nothing mattered except proving that he could carry the mantle of Robin, even if it meant breaking himself in the process.

Miles away in Blüdhaven, Dick crouched on a rooftop, rain slicking his hair to his forehead. His escrima stick twirled idly in his hand as he watched the street below, his ribs sore from a fight he’d already won. The city pulsed beneath him, broken, angry, alive. He sighed into the storm, thinking briefly of Gotham, of Bruce, of the family he’d left behind. But Blüdhaven demanded him now. He couldn’t afford the luxury of looking back.

High above Gotham, Batman stood on the ledge of a tower, cape snapping in the wind, the Bat-Signal blazing against the storm clouds. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed beneath the cowl, his mind already cataloging the night’s threats. Tonight was just another war, another mission, another distraction. Somewhere in the cave, an old Robin uniform sat sealed in glass, an unspoken reminder. But Bruce didn’t let himself think about it. He never did.

In the Narrows, a man slumped in a dimly lit safehouse, water dripping steadily through the cracked ceiling. His crimson helmet sat discarded on the table beside a half-cleaned pistol and a torn newspaper clipping about yet another gang war. He lit a cigarette he wouldn’t finish, the smoke curling lazily into the air as his eyes lingered on the clipping. For a fleeting moment, he thought about the manor, about Alfred, about what could have been if things had been different. But then he shoved it down, burying it all under smoke and silence.

And in the manor, Alfred sat alone in the kitchen. The kettle whistled softly, steam fogging his glasses as he poured himself a cup of tea. Out of habit, he set another across from him, before stopping and carrying it back to the sink. The halls were too quiet, the silence pressing in around him. He told himself you were safer where you were, with people who understood you, but the ache in his chest never faded. Every evening, he found himself glancing toward the empty garden, half-hoping to see you there again.

So on that night, while Yuta pressed his forehead to yours, whispering a promise to return, Gotham carried on without you. A broken family scattered across rooftops and rain, too fractured to realize what they had already lost.

TAGLIST: CLOSED

𝖺/𝗇: 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺. 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈. I also changed the name of this fanfic to Shadows and Curses. It resonated with this story to me more than the one before. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗃𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝖶𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖦𝗈𝗃𝗈'𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾. 𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖼'𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈w. 𝖤𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄! 𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗓 :(

You didn’t know what to make of Gojo. Sitting across from you, he looked completely out of place. Even without seeing his eyes, you could feel him watching you, his blindfolded head tilting slightly every time you shifted in your seat.

He had this energy around him you couldn’t even describe. It wasn’t like Bruce, who carried a weight that pressed down on every room he entered. It wasn’t like Alfred, whose presence wrapped you in quiet comfort. Gojo’s energy was loud. Untamed. It filled the space and made the air hum, like a storm you couldn’t see but knew was there.

He lounged with one arm stretched across the back of the seat, legs casually crossed, grinning like this was some kind of joyride. “Soooo,” he started, “you don’t talk much, huh?”

You stared out the window, the blurred skyline of Gotham retreating behind you. 

“Fair,” he said after a pause, not even fazed. “I’d be pretty ticked too if I got yanked out of my house and shoved in a car with a guy in a blindfold.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Still, you didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “You know… curses don’t like you. Scurry away like cockroaches when the lights come on.” His grin widened. “That’s not normal. Means you’ve got something special. Something strong.”

Your chest tightened at the word curses. You hadn’t told him you could see them. You hadn’t told anyone except Alfred and Bruce, and they hadn’t believed you.

Gojo must have sensed your tension, because his grin softened, just a little. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to laugh at you. I see them too.”

For the first time, you looked at him. Really looked. He couldn’t see your eyes, not with that blindfold, but you felt pinned all the same, like he’d peeled away every layer of silence you’d built around yourself. “You can see the monsters too?” you asked timidly. He responded with only a hum.

And somehow, that was even scarier than the curses.

-

The flight to Japan, though long, seemed short to you. Maybe it was because you barely noticed the hours passing, your forehead pressed to the window, watching the endless stretch of clouds. Or maybe it was because of Gojo, sitting beside you, yapping your ear off like the two of you had known each other forever.

“They’re not monsters,” Gojo said, leaning back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other. “Those things you’ve seen all these years? They’re curses. Born from human emotions. Fear, anger, hate, all that good stuff. People leak out negative energy all the time, and when enough of it builds up…” He clapped his hands together sharply, making you flinch. “…bam. A curse.”

You blinked at him, the weight of his words sinking slowly into you. Curses. Not just figments of your imagination, not nightmares following you from your grief. Real. Tangible.

Gojo tipped his head, the blindfold shifting as he smiled wider. “And Gotham? Whew. That place is practically a buffet. Crime, corruption, despair, it’s like a five-star all-you-can-eat for curses. No wonder they were swarming you.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course Gotham had been crawling with them. It wasn’t just your mind breaking under Jason’s death. It wasn’t just you.

Gojo must have noticed the way your hands curled into fists on your lap, because his voice softened, not serious, but lighter, as though he wanted to lift the weight he’d just dumped on you. “The thing is, kid, curses don’t like you. They’re scared of you. That’s rare.”

You turned your head slowly, studying him, trying to decide if he was lying, if this was another dismissal like Bruce, another wave of the hand. But there was something different in the way he spoke, an undercurrent of certainty, as if he knew exactly what you’d lived through.

“Scared?” you asked at last, your voice rough from disuse.

Gojo grinned, leaning closer like you’d just handed him a victory. “Scared stiff. You’re part of the Gojo Clan, after all. It’s in your blood. And lucky for you, that makes you my problem now.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head, humming as though the matter was already settled. His last words somehow made you crack a smile, small and fleeting, laughing through your nose before you could stop yourself.

“Yours?” you asked, your voice carrying a hint of amusement, though your chest still felt heavy.

Gojo tilted his head toward you, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, mine.”

-

The Gojo estate was beautiful. Nothing like you have seen before. 

The car rolled up a winding path, the air shifting the moment you left the city behind. Towering walls framed the property, and beyond them stretched acres of manicured gardens, koi ponds glimmering beneath arching bridges, and ancient trees that had stood for centuries. The house itself wasn’t a manor like Wayne’s, cold stone and shadow, but a sprawling traditional estate with curved rooftops and wooden beams that seemed to hum with history.

It felt alive in a way Gotham never had.

You stepped out of the car slowly, your shoes crunching against the gravel. The air was fresher here, cleaner, carrying the faint scent of pine and incense. Your eyes darted everywhere, trying to take it all in, the painted screens, the paper lanterns swaying gently in the breeze, the sound of water trickling through the gardens.

Gojo stretched lazily beside you, grinning at your wide-eyed stare. “Pretty nice, huh? Told you it’d beat gloomy Gotham.”

You didn’t answer, still caught between awe and unease. Gojo’s grin softened, just a fraction. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it.”

But as you crossed the threshold into a new world, you couldn’t help but feel that something was watching you, waiting, like the estate itself was testing whether you belonged.

A pale wind slid over the pond and you shivered, suddenly small in the wide world again. Gojo glanced at you, blindfolded head tilting as if he could read the exact shape of your doubt. He slowed and offered, with a softness that surprised you, “You can ask anything. When you’re ready.”

“How are we even related?” you asked. “You told Bruce my mom was part of this clan, but I don’t understand. How come I’ve never even heard of you?”

Gojo leaned back, the usual grin slipping into something heavier. “She was my little sister.”

The words froze you where you sat.

“She followed me everywhere when we were kids,” he said, his tone quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Always trying to keep up, always looking at me like I was something untouchable. And I wanted to protect her, I did. But being the strongest doesn’t mean you’re always there. Doesn’t mean you save the people you love most. I was gone too much, always busy fighting someone else’s battles. I wasn’t there when she needed me.”

His jaw clenched. “She ran away because she knew what the clan had planned for her. They were going to marry her off, tie her to someone powerful so she’d be easier to control. She wanted no part of it. She wanted freedom. A normal life. That was her rebellion.”

Your chest ached, heavy and tight.

Gojo’s voice dropped even lower. “She didn’t mention you to anyone. Not until the very end. Not because she forgot, but because she knew. If they’d learned about you, they would’ve come for you the same way. Forced you into the same cage she was trying to escape. She kept you hidden so you could have the life she never could.”

The silence that followed felt unbearable.

“When she was dying,” Gojo said, his words breaking just slightly, “she finally told me. She said your name. She told me about you, about how much she loved you, how she hoped someone would find you and give you a chance to choose your own life. She said she trusted me.” His voice cracked again, rawer this time. “She said she knew I wouldn’t fail you the way I failed her.”

You stared at him, unable to move. The weight of it pressed into your bones, leaving you hollow and trembling. And you thought of Jason. How he’d teased you, called you Little Bird, how he’d made you feel seen when no one else did. How he had been your shield. How he was gone.

Jason had been to you what your mom had been to Gojo. A bond too bright for the world, stolen away too soon. And now the two of you sat with nothing but the same hollow grief, mirrored in different shapes.

For the first time in months, your eyes burned. The numbness cracked.

Gojo leaned forward, his blindfolded face tilted toward you, his voice softer than it had been all night. “So yeah. You’re mine. Not because of blood, not because of the clan. Because she asked me to love you the way I loved her. And this time…” He let out a long breath, steady and unshakable. “This time I’m not going to fail.”

-

You spent your first night talking with your uncle. Satoru, what he urged you to call him, felt strange at first, but soon it rolled out like you’d been saying it your whole life. He was a fresh breath of air, easy, unguarded, a presence that didn’t demand anything from you. Talking with him felt like slipping into a place you hadn’t realized you’d been searching for.

He told you what it was like growing up with your mother, the way she pouted when she didn’t get her way, the way she laughed too loud at her own jokes, the way she would stubbornly push through training even when it left her sore and bruised. He gave you glimpses of her as a girl, a sister, not just the mom you’d known, and you gave him the pieces of her you carried, the tiny apartment, the smell of her cooking, the nights tangled under one blanket, the mornings she woke you with a smile.

Finding out she was truly gone was a jagged pill to swallow. Deep down, you’d suspected for years, but hearing it now cracked you open all over again. Still, you understood. She’d done everything to keep you safe. And knowing she had still loved you, still thought of you until her last breath, it was bittersweet.

When you spoke of Gotham, the words tumbled out faster, heavier. You told him about Alfred, the one person who never gave up trying, who folded your sweaters like they were treasures. You told him about Bruce, how he always felt like stone, how his silence cut deeper than his words, how quickly he let you go. You told him about Jason, your partner in crime, your shield, the brother who had called you his and made you feel seen, and how losing him had torn your world apart.

And then you spoke of Dick. How at first he had seemed like everything a big brother should be, bright, steady, someone you thought you could look up to. How you had admired him from the shadows of the manor. But the fights with Bruce grew louder, colder, until one day he was just gone. Another person who left you behind, choosing to carve his own path, leaving you in the echo of another empty room.

You even spoke of Tim, though the words were sharper, bitterer. The boy who’d stepped into Jason’s uniform, Jason’s colors, like he could fill a role that wasn’t his. You hated him for it, hated Bruce for allowing it, hated yourself for not being able to forgive it.

Through all of it, Satoru sat and listened. No judgment. No interruptions. Just there, steady, letting you unload the weight you’d carried for too long.

And when your voice cracked, when you sobbed for Jason, for Dick, for your mother, he pulled you into his arms without hesitation. His hold was warm, steady, unshakable. He let you cry into him, blindfold brushing your hair, the scent of clean linen and faint incense grounding you.

His voice came quiet, certain. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to miss them. You’re allowed to hurt. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

And for the first time since Jason’s laughter had died, you felt like you weren’t carrying the weight alone.

-

The next couple of days were quite eventful. Adjusting to a new home, a new country, and even a new timezone drained you more than you expected. The estate was beautiful, but it wasn’t just the scenery that left you reeling. It was a complete shift in your life.

Satoru insisted on buying you everything new. Clothes, shoes, even accessories you didn’t think you needed. “Fresh start, fresh threads,” he’d said with a grin, waving away your half-hearted protests. “No point dragging Gotham’s ghosts into Japan.” You didn’t even try to fight him after that. Having a rich uncle had its perks, and honestly, you didn’t hate the idea of shedding the pieces of your old life.

But it wasn’t just shopping trips and fancy meals. Satoru filled you in on the world your mother had run from. He explained curses, how they were born from fear and hatred, why Gotham had been infested with them like rats. He told you about jujutsu sorcerers, the politics of clans, and techniques passed down through bloodlines.

He showed you his own technique, Infinity, letting you hold your hand just short of touching his before your palm pressed against something invisible. “See? Infinity,” he said proudly, grinning wide under the blindfold. “No one touches me unless I want them to.”

And when you tilted your head, unimpressed, he laughed and leaned back on the tatami mat. “Don’t look at me like that! You’ll think it’s cooler when you’re older.”

One evening, he tugged the blindfold up just enough for you to see the eyes beneath. You froze. They were impossibly blue, crystalline like shards of a summer sky. For a second, you couldn’t breathe.

“These are the Six Eyes,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just revealed something otherworldly. “Helps me see cursed energy down to the tiniest detail. Pretty, right?”

You nodded dumbly, unable to look away. Pretty wasn’t the word. They were terrifying in their clarity, like they saw straight through you.

And then came your first lesson.

“You’ve got cursed energy leaking out all over the place,” he told you, crouching across from you on the tatami mats. “Raw, unrefined. First step? Feel it.” He tapped your chest lightly with one finger. “It starts here.”

You sat cross-legged, frowning. “Feel it how?”

“Like this.” He closed his eyes, his presence shifting, the air around him thrumming faintly. When he opened them again, even behind the blindfold you could feel the pressure of his energy pressing against you, heavy but controlled.

“Now try,” he said, grinning.

It took a long time, long enough that you got frustrated and threatened to quit twice, but eventually, something stirred inside you. A warmth, coiled and buzzing, rising from deep in your chest to the tips of your fingers. You gasped softly as the sensation spread, foreign and thrilling all at once.

“There it is,” Satoru said, his grin turning smug. “Told you it was there. You’ve got power, kid. More than you realize.”

-

Training began the very next morning.

Satoru dragged you out into one of the estate’s gardens at sunrise, still half-asleep and grumbling, with the dew on the grass soaking your socks. He, of course, looked perfectly awake, blindfold in place, humming like he hadn’t just yanked you from the best sleep you’d had in months.

“Rule number one,” he said, crouching in front of you with that lazy grin, “cursed energy isn’t just about having it. Everyone’s got it. What matters is control.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “I thought you said I was powerful.”

“You are,” he said easily. “But raw power without control? That just makes you a curse’s snack. Think of it like water. A flood destroys everything. But a river, directed, can move mountains.”

You rolled your eyes at the metaphor, but he just laughed.

He had you start small, lighting a candle’s flame with your energy, then keeping it steady without letting it flicker out. The first time, you nearly blew the candle across the garden. The second time, it sputtered and went out instantly. By the fifth, your hands shook with frustration.

Gojo clapped his hands together, delighted. “This is perfect! Means you’ve got a lot. It’s just messy. Which is good for me, teaching clean-up is my specialty.”

The exercises grew harder. He taught you how to sense the energy around you, not just inside yourself, the buzzing of curses hiding in the distance, the threads of negativity that clung to ordinary objects. At first, it overwhelmed you, the world too loud, too sharp. But Satoru’s voice was always there, steady, guiding. “Focus. Don’t listen to all of it at once. Find your thread in the noise.”

By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Your head pounded from overthinking, your body felt like lead, and yet, when you sat still, breathing deeply, you could feel it now. The cursed energy inside you, steady like a heartbeat, yours to command.

And when you managed to hold the candle’s flame perfectly steady for the first time, Gojo whooped so loud the servants came running. He threw an arm around your shoulders and ruffled your hair until you squawked in protest.

“See? Told you, kid,” he said proudly. “You’re gonna be unstoppable.”

-

The next stage of training came quicker than you expected. Once you could steady cursed energy and keep it from spilling uncontrollably, Satoru wasted no time in pushing you further.

“Alright, kid,” he said one morning, spinning a stick of pocky between his teeth, “control’s cute and all, but let’s make this fun. You’ve got too much raw energy to just sit around playing with candles. Time to learn how to fight with it.”

He brought you into one of the estate’s training yards, an open space lined with warding charms and talismans. The air itself felt heavy, charged, as though the whole place had been built to contain curses and the chaos that followed them.

“Your energy is different,” he explained, his tone unusually serious as he stood in the center of the yard. “It’s sharp. Most people leak cursed energy like smoke. Yours is like glass, dense, cutting. It unsettles curses, makes them recoil. Which means your technique is going to lean into that. Something that cuts.”

He tossed you a wooden staff and grinned. “Show me what you’ve got.”

At first, the staff felt awkward, clumsy. But when you let your cursed energy flow into it, the wood vibrated faintly, humming in your hands. Gojo watched, nodding. “Good. Now picture it. Picture what you want that energy to do. Give it shape.”

You gritted your teeth, focusing, and the hum sharpened. When you swung, the air seemed to split with it, an arc of pale light, invisible and silent, but strong enough to slice a row of practice dummies clean across the chest.

You froze.

Gojo whistled low, his grin widening. “Well, would you look at that? That’s not just cutting. That’s severing.”

Over the next days, you refined it. Your cursed technique revealed itself, Severance. The ability to channel cursed energy into thin, razor sharp strikes that cut through curses as though they were paper. At its weakest, it sliced skin. At its strongest, it could split solid stone.

Every swing left you drained at first, your arms trembling, but the more you practiced, the more natural it became, an extension of your grief and fury, honed into precision.

Gojo leaned against the fence one evening, watching as you split another target in two. “That’s your thing,” he said proudly. “Your mom ran to keep you away from this world, but if she could see you now? She’d be proud. Scary proud.”

You lowered the staff, sweat dripping down your forehead, your chest heaving. For the first time, when you looked at your reflection in the polished wood floor, you didn’t see a neglected child from Gotham. You saw something new.

Something dangerous.

Something yours.

-

It wasn’t long until you met Tsumiki and Megumi.

Satoru had insisted you wouldn’t be stuck in the estate forever. “Being locked up is boring,” he’d said, grinning as he tugged you out the door. “Besides, you’ve gotta meet kids who’ll actually make you feel like a normal human being. Well, as normal as sorcerers get.”

That’s how you found yourself standing in front of a quiet girl with kind eyes and her little brother, who looked at you with more suspicion than most adults ever had.

“Tsumiki, Megumi,” Satoru introduced breezily, one hand on each of your shoulders. “This is my niece. She’s gonna be hanging around from now on. Play nice, 'kay?”

Tsumiki smiled immediately, warm and welcoming. “It’s nice to meet you. I hope you’ll feel at home here.” Her voice reminded you faintly of Alfred, gentle, steady, the kind of kindness that didn’t feel forced.

Megumi, on the other hand, crossed his arms and gave you a look that was sharp for his age. “So you’re Gojo’s niece,” he said flatly. Not a question, more like he was testing the truth of it.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “And you’re Gojo’s student?”

His brows furrowed. “…Tch.” He looked away, but you could see the faintest flicker of something like respect in his eyes.

Tsumiki nudged him gently. “Don’t mind him. He’s… protective.”

You nodded slowly. You understood protective. You thought of Jason, how he shielded you without hesitation, and for a moment, the ache returned. But when Tsumiki reached for your hand and squeezed it lightly, the sting dulled.

-

Tsumiki was easy. She treated you the way Jason once had, listening without judgment, smiling patiently even when your words stumbled. She’d braid your hair when the three of you sat outside, or let you lean against her shoulder when you grew tired of Gojo’s endless chatter. With her, you felt like you’d found an older sister you didn’t even know you needed.

Megumi, though… he was harder. Sharp, quiet, always watching. The first time you asked him to train with you, he scowled and muttered, “You’ll slow me down.” But the next morning, he showed up anyway, standing beside you with his hands in his pockets like it was just a coincidence.

“You’re stubborn,” you told him one day after sparring.

“You talk too much,” he shot back, though you caught the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

The three of you together started to feel like something steady, something real. A family, fragile but growing.

Of course, Satoru couldn’t resist meddling.

One afternoon he herded you all into the courtyard, clapping his hands together. “Alright, kiddos! Bonding time! Let’s see how well you know each other.”

Megumi groaned audibly. “I’m leaving.”

“Nope,” Gojo said, grabbing him by the back of his jacket like an unruly cat. “You’re staying. Now” He pointed at you dramatically. “Tell me Y/n’s favorite food.”

Megumi blinked at you, caught off guard. “…Rice balls?”

“Ha! Wrong!” Gojo announced, spinning dramatically. “It’s-”

“Pocky,” Tsumiki cut in gently, smiling when your eyes widened. “Right?”

You nodded shyly, and Gojo slapped a hand over his chest. “See? Tsumiki gets it. Megumi, step up your game!”

Megumi muttered something under his breath, cheeks faintly pink, and you laughed, really laughed, for the first time since Jason.

And just like that, it didn’t feel so strange to imagine this as home.

-

It happened after a long day of training. Tsumiki had gone inside early, leaving you and Megumi sitting out on the garden. The cicadas buzzed in the distance, the air warm and heavy with summer.

You glanced at him, expecting the usual silence, but his gaze was fixed on the koi pond, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t talk much,” you said finally.

He didn’t look at you. “Neither did you, when you first got here.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “…I guess that’s true.”

There was a stretch of quiet before he spoke again. “You’ve lost people, haven’t you?”

The words dug deeper than you expected. Jason’s face flickered in your mind, his grin, his voice, the way he called you Little Bird. You swallowed hard, staring down at your hands. “Yeah. I have.”

Megumi nodded slightly, as though confirming something for himself. “Me too.”

For once, there was no sharpness in his tone, no edge to his words. Just honesty. And in that moment, you understood him in a way words couldn’t fully explain. Two kids carrying grief too big for their shoulders.

You opened your mouth to say something, maybe to ask about Tsumiki, but before you could, the sliding door banged open.

“There you are!” Gojo announced, stepping dramatically into the fading light. He was holding a tray of snacks in one hand and balancing a stack of board games in the other. “What’s with the gloomy faces? Bonding time isn’t supposed to look like a funeral!”

Megumi groaned and slouched against the railing. “Please stop.”

“Never,” Gojo said cheerfully, plopping down between you and Megumi and shoving a bag of chips into your lap. “Now! Whoever loses has to do the winner’s laundry for a week. And before you ask- yes, Megumi, that includes your socks.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, and even Megumi’s lips twitched upward, just barely. Gojo grinned like he’d won a prize.

And though the grief never really left, that night, sitting shoulder to shoulder with them, you realized something new: maybe this was what Jason would’ve wanted for you. To find people who understood, who stayed.

Taglist: CLOSED

𝙉𝙚𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙒𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙧, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙪𝙥 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝘿𝙞𝙘𝙠, 𝙅𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙞𝙢—𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧’𝙨 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙅𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝘽𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙤, 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝘼𝙡𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙙’𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙨. 𝙐𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙂𝙤𝙟𝙤 𝙎𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙪, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣. 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙂𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙢 𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙨—𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

a/n: This has been the longest I have ever written for a fanfic omg. I actually shed some tears writing this. I hope you all enjoy! Let me know what you think. Can you tell Jason Todd holds my heart?

It doesn’t really change after that. The brief meeting with Bruce and Dick was just a preview of how the next few years were going to be. Your only consistent companion was Alfred, but even he had his own duties to attend to. 

Living in the manor was vastly different from how you lived with your mom. Instead of waking up to your mom smiling down at you, asking you how you slept, you would open your eyes to see Alfred, quickly setting down your uniform for school, briefly mentioning that breakfast would be ready for you as soon as you finished getting ready.

A week after moving into the manor, you were quickly switched over to a private elementary nearby, your previous school to out of the way for Alfred. Hearing the news felt like something inside you broke. Another thread to your old world had been cut, leaving you adrift in a house that was too big, too quiet, and never truly yours.

Your days soon fell into a quiet rhythm. Alfred wakes you for school, the long drive to your new classroom, hours of lessons, then returning to the manor. After school, you wandered the endless hallways and echoing rooms, poking your head into places you hadn’t yet explored. Dinner was usually quiet, Alfred fussing politely while reminding you to eat your vegetables, before ushering you to bed.

It was always Alfred. Always steady, always there. Bruce and Dick were different. They drifted in and out of the manor like shadows, always busy, always distracted. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of Bruce heading out in a pressed suit, or Dick dashing through the hall with a backpack slung over his shoulder, but their attention never lingered long on you. You grew used to the quick smiles, the rushed “I’ll talk to you later,” that never seemed to come true.

You were seven years old when you learned the truth. At first, it was little things: Bruce’s late nights, the way Alfred carefully hid certain news articles from the morning paper, the mysterious bruises on Dick’s arms. Then, one night, unable to sleep, you padded down the hall and peeked through the slightly open door of Bruce’s study.

What you saw didn’t make sense at first, Bruce fastening a black cowl over his face, the pointed ears sharp against the light of the fire. Behind him, Dick tugged at the sl Your breath caught in your throat as realization washed over you.

Batman. Robin.

Your father and brother were Gotham’s vigilantes. And while the city had them, you had Alfred. That’s all you really needed. 

-

It wasn’t too long when these creatures appeared. It was another lonely day in the manor, Alfred doing some household chores, Bruce and Dick were god knows where, and you were out in the garden, trying to find something to do, in order to alleviate the loneliness in your heart. 

You were out in the garden when you saw it. A tiny, shadowy blob by the bushes, slowly making its appearance. At first you didn’t quite understand what you were seeing. This was no human, no animal, and not something you can recall ever seeing before. ​​It had no eyes, yet you felt its gaze press into you, heavy and suffocating, as if it were staring straight into your soul.

It stepped closer to you little by little, and every step toward you had you moving one step back. It wasn’t until the blob stopped a few feet away from you that you started getting scared. Not until its mouth stretched wide, taking up half of his face, showing you his massive teeth. 

Your chest tightened. Your little hands trembled. And for the first time, you realized, whatever this thing was, it wasn’t just watching you. It wanted you. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the terror that had been slowly building finally burst free.

“HELP!” you screamed, your voice cracking as tears burned your eyes. “ALFRED!”

The shadowy blob twitched at the sound, its grin stretching wider, teeth gleaming. You stumbled backward, scraping your palms on the stone path.

Alfred’s footsteps came quickly, his voice sharp with alarm. “Miss!” He hurried into the garden, coat tails brushing the grass as he reached your side.

You pointed with a shaking finger. “Th-there! The monster!”

But when Alfred followed your gaze, there was nothing. Only the bushes swaying in the breeze, the garden bathed in evening light. The shadowy blob was gone.

Alfred knelt beside you, his hands steady as he checked your trembling shoulders. “What monster?” he asked gently, scanning the garden again with narrowed eyes. “There’s nothing here, my dear.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you shook your head. “No! I saw it had teeth, and it was smiling at me!”

Alfred’s heart clenched at your fear. He drew you close, his voice calm and reassuring even though doubt flickered in his mind. “It must have been your imagination. The garden is quite safe. I promise.”

But as he held you, trying to soothe your cries, you glanced back at the bushes one last time. And for the briefest moment, you swore you saw that wide, jagged grin in the shadows, watching.

From that day forward, you kept seeing them, those little things, those monsters. They were everywhere. Some clung to people’s backs like twisted shadows, whispering in ears no one else seemed to hear. Others drifted through the streets, their warped bodies brushing past ordinary humans who never even noticed.

At first, you cried out whenever they appeared, pointing and shaking, desperate for someone else to see. But after a few outbursts that ended in confusion and gentle scolding, you realized the truth: you were the only one who could.

Alfred always dismissed it with patience, though his eyes grew sad each time. “It’s only your imagination, Miss,” he’d insist, brushing your hair back from your face, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

Once, you gathered the courage to tell Bruce. You described the grinning blob in the garden, the shadows crawling through the halls, the teeth, the whispers. You wanted him to believe you, to protect you. But Bruce only scoffed, tired and distracted, not even looking up from the papers on his desk. “Nonsense. Alfred will handle it,” he said curtly, waving you off. His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp, final, like your words had no weight.

You stood there in silence, your small fists clenched at your sides, your throat tight. For the first time, you felt something worse than fear, you felt invisible.

-

Years had passed since you were first brought to the manor. By the time you were ten, you had seen countless of those creatures. Yet, more often than not, they kept their distance, as if something about you unsettled them. You had grown so used to their presence that ignoring them became second nature.

The past few months had been unusually quiet, but the silence in the manor was different. It wasn’t peaceful, it was fractured. Dick and Bruce had been fighting for a long time, and though no one told you the details, you had overheard enough whispered arguments through closed doors to understand. Alfred spoke carefully, but the truth slipped through, Dick had left. He had walked out of the manor, out of Bruce’s shadow, and chosen a new path for himself.

The house felt emptier without him. Bruce was more withdrawn than ever, burying himself in work and patrols, leaving only Alfred’s steady presence to remind you that someone still noticed you.

And then Jason Todd arrived.

His presence was different from the beginning. Jason wasn’t like Dick. He wasn’t polished, wasn’t trained to smile and perform. He was rough around the edges, loud, stubborn, and sometimes reckless. But he saw you. He actually noticed when you were in the room, asked you questions, and didn’t look past you when you spoke.

Jason’s arrival wasn’t gentle. He came into the manor loud, defiant, dragging the outside world in with him, streets, dirt, and all. At first, you thought he might ignore you, the way Bruce and Dick often did. But he didn’t.

The first night, you caught him in the kitchen raiding the fridge. He looked at you, still in your pajamas, clutching a glass of milk, and smirked. “Guess we’re both night owls,” he said, tossing you an apple like it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked, caught it clumsily, and for the first time in a long while, you laughed. 

​​You and Jason had claimed the sitting room, a fortress of couch cushions and blankets piled high around you like castle walls. Jason was sprawled across the rug, tossing a rubber ball in the air and catching it one-handed, while you sat perched on the arm of the couch, watching him with bright eyes.

“Careful, Little Bird,” Jason said as the ball nearly slipped from his grip. “Wouldn’t wanna dent Alfred’s fancy floors.”

You giggled. “Alfred would be mad at you, not me.” Jason smirked, rolling onto his side to look at you. “Yeah, but you’d rat me out in two seconds flat.”

“I would not!” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“Oh yeah?” He lunged suddenly, grabbing a pillow and swatting you lightly on the arm. “Bet you’d squeal the second Alfred asked.”

You yelped, snatched up a pillow of your own, and swung back at him. Soon the fortress you’d built was under siege, feathers flying as the two of you laughed and darted around the room, your voices echoing off the high ceilings.

Jason flopped back onto the rug, hair sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard. You collapsed beside him, breathing heavily, hugging your pillow to your chest. “See?” Jason said between breaths, poking your forehead. “Told you, you’re like a bird. Always perched up high, waiting to swoop in when I least expect it.”

You scrunched your nose. “That’s silly.”

Jason chuckled, folding his arms behind his head. “Maybe. But it’s yours, Little Bird.”

From then on, the name stuck, less of  a nickname and more a secret joke between you. And every time he used it, it made the big, cold manor feel a little warmer.

- 

Life in the manor was beautiful after that. For the first time since you arrived, the halls didn’t feel so empty, the rooms didn’t feel so quiet. You finally had someone, other than Alfred,who truly saw you. Someone who didn’t dismiss your words or brush you aside, but laughed with you, teased you, and made you feel like you belonged.

It didn’t matter to Jason that you were three years younger. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it. To him, you were this bright little energy ball that never stopped chirping, darting in and out of rooms, tugging at his sleeve, demanding his attention. And Jason gave it to you gladly.

He’d roll his eyes dramatically when you followed him around, but you always caught the small smile tugging at his lips. When you perched on the back of the couch while he read, he’d mutter, “Careful, Little Bird, you’re gonna fall,” but he never told you to leave. For the first time, the manor felt like home. Not because of its size or its luxury, but because someone inside it finally recognized you as part of the family.

-

You should have realized that it wouldn’t be too long until Bruce took Jason from you. You found Jason in his room, the door left half open, a rare thing for him. Curiosity tugged you inside, and there he was, standing in front of the tall mirror, grinning at his reflection.

“Jason?” you asked softly, clutching the doorframe.

He turned, and your eyes widened. The bright red tunic, the yellow cape, the green gloves,it was nothing like the grease-stained hoodies and jeans he usually wore. He looked different. He looked like he belonged to something bigger.

“Well?” Jason asked, spreading his arms wide with a cocky grin. “How do I look?”

You blinked, stunned, before whispering, “Like a hero.”

Jason chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s the idea. Took forever for Bruce to finally let me wear it. Guess I proved myself.” He tugged at one of the green gloves, trying to look casual, but you could see the pride glowing in his eyes.

He crouched down to your level so the cape pooled around both of you. “Not bad for your big brother, huh, Little Bird?”

You smiled, reaching out to touch the smooth fabric of his tunic. “It’s… amazing.”

Jason leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but… you’re the first person I wanted to show. Alfred would just tell me to mind my posture, and Bruce-” He rolled his eyes. “He’d just nitpick the stitching or something. But you? I knew you’d get it.”

You hugged him suddenly, burying your face against the bright yellow cape. Jason stiffened in surprise before chuckling and wrapping an arm around you, careful not to crush the costume.

“Careful, kid,” he teased lightly, ruffling your hair. “Don’t wanna get snot all over my new uniform.”

Even after donning the mantle of Robin, Jason didn’t give you up. If anything, he made sure you knew, loud and clear, that a piece of him still belonged to you. It was evident in the way he defended you from Bruce’s harsh words. 

One evening at dinner, the long table felt even longer than usual. Bruce sat at the far end, reading something on a sleek tablet between bites, while Alfred moved quietly around the room. Jason sat closer to you, picking at his food with none of the manners Alfred always reminded him to use.

You had been waiting all day to share a story about school. Finally, you leaned forward, eyes bright. “Today I drew a picture in art class, it was of a big bird! My teacher said it was really good, and-”

“Eat first,” Bruce interrupted, not looking up from his tablet.

Your words froze in your throat. The excitement drained from your face, replaced by that familiar ache of invisibility. You lowered your gaze to your plate, pushing peas around with your fork.

Jason’s chair scraped against the floor as he shifted, his blue eyes narrowing. “She was eating,” he said sharply. “She was just talking at the same time. Y’know, like normal people do?”

“Jason,” Bruce said in that low, warning tone.

But Jason didn’t back down. He leaned closer to you, his voice softer now. “Finish your story, Little Bird. I wanna hear it.”

You hesitated, glancing nervously between Jason and Bruce, but Jason gave you a little nod. So you continued, quieter this time, describing the drawing and how proud your teacher had been. Jason listened like it was the most important thing in the world, nodding at the right parts, grinning when you mentioned the bright feathers you’d colored in.

By the time you finished, Bruce had set his tablet aside, his jaw tight, but he said nothing. The silence that followed was heavy, but Jason just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and muttered under his breath, “Someone’s gotta listen.”

You smiled faintly, the sting in your chest easing. For once, you didn’t feel invisible. Not with Jason there.

After dinner, you lingered in the dining room while Alfred cleared the plates, your drawing folded carefully between your hands. Jason stretched, muttering something about going down to the cave, when you tugged at his sleeve.

“Wait,” you whispered, pulling the paper from behind your back.

It was crumpled from being hidden all through dinner, but when you smoothed it out, the colors still shone, bright blues and yellows, wings outstretched. A bird, fierce and proud, its feathers outlined with careful, uneven strokes.

Jason raised his eyebrows. “This is it? The one you were talking about?”

You nodded shyly, holding it out with both hands. “I… I want you to have it.”

For a second, Jason just stared at you. Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness, he took the paper from your hands. His eyes softened as he looked it over, and the usual cocky grin faded into something warmer.

“You drew this for me?” he asked.

You shrugged, cheeks heating. “You call me Little Bird. So… it’s yours.”

Jason was quiet for a moment, the weight of your words settling in. Then he ruffled your hair, his grin returning but softer this time. “You’re something else, you know that?” He carefully folded the drawing, tucking it into his jacket pocket. “Guess I’ve got my first piece of fan art.”

You giggled, relieved, and Jason bumped your shoulder with his. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it safe. Always.”

And from that day forward, no matter how many times Alfred washed his clothes or Bruce lectured him about clutter, Jason always made sure that folded up bird stayed close by, worn and creased, but never forgotten.

-

Good things never last. At least not in your life.

Two years flew by, and in that time you and Jason had become inseparable. When he wasn’t Robin, he was yours. Your partner in crime. He watched shows with you long after Alfred thought you should be asleep. He took you to the park, bought you snacks with the little pocket money Alfred gave him, and wrestled with you in the sitting room until both of you were scolded for breaking a lamp. Whatever you wanted, Jason made sure it happened.

And then one night, he didn’t come home.

At first, you thought it was just another patrol. He’d be late, and Alfred would sigh when he stumbled in past dawn, bruised but grinning. But the hours stretched, and the silence in the manor grew heavier. You overheard Alfred on the phone, his voice low, trembling in a way you had never heard before. You caught Bruce’s shadow passing through the halls, faster, sharper, like a storm brewing.

It wasn’t until Alfred entered your room that you knew something was wrong. His eyes were red, his composure cracked. He sat beside you on the bed and took your small hand in both of his.

“Miss,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the words, “I am so very sorry.”

Your chest tightened. “Where’s Jason?”

Alfred’s lips trembled as he tried to answer, but the silence spoke louder than anything he could say.

You tore away from him, rushing into the hallway, down the stairs, desperate to find Jason’s laugh, his smirk, even his scolding when you teased him too much. Instead, you found Bruce in the cave, standing rigid before the glowing screens. His cowl was off, his face pale, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. On the monitor was wreckage, fire still smoldering, an image of what was left.

“Where is he?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

Bruce looked at you then, and for the first time, you saw something unbreakable in him shatter. But he didn’t step forward, didn’t reach for you. He only said Jason’s name, and his voice was hollow.

You screamed. You screamed until your throat was raw, until Alfred rushed to pull you into his arms, rocking you while you sobbed. Bruce turned back to the monitor, his jaw clenched, his grief buried under steel.

The manor was never the same. The laughter was gone. The halls were colder. You were left clutching the memory of Jason’s yellow cape against your cheek, the word Little Bird echoing in your mind.

And in the silence that followed, you realized good things never last.

-

After Jason’s death, you became a ghost of yourself. You spoke less, smiled less, even laughed less. The hole he left inside you was so big it ached to breathe.It felt like your entire world had been ripped away, torn apart before you could cling to it. Jason had filled the hollow in your chest with laughter, warmth, and a fierce kind of loyalty that made the manor feel alive. Without him, the halls echoed. Without him, the silence was unbearable.

 But the world didn’t stop. Gotham kept moving, the manor kept functioning, and Bruce kept fighting.

But the silence wasn’t empty.

The monsters came back, more of them than ever before. They swarmed the manor grounds, lurked outside your new school, crawled from the shadows of Gotham’s streets. Yet something was different. Where once they toyed with you, grinned their jagged smiles, now they trembled when you passed. Even the larger ones,the ones towering with claws and teeth, the ones that made the air heavy with dread, kept their distance. Their eyes tracked you, but they didn’t dare come closer. It was as if your grief had cloaked you in something darker than they were.

And then Bruce brought him in.

Tim Drake. Bruce brought him into the manor only months after Jason’s death. A boy around Jason’s age, sharp-eyed and quiet, who seemed to know too much about all of you already. He was polite, clever, and careful with his words. Bruce looked at him with the same calculating gaze he once gave Jason, measuring, testing, grooming.

The sight of him in Jason’s old colors made your stomach twist.

One night, when you couldn’t take it anymore, the anger finally boiled over. “You’re replacing him!” you screamed across the dining room, your fists slamming the table hard enough to rattle the silverware.

Tim flinched, trying to stammer something calm, but you weren’t listening. Tears blurred your vision, rage and grief tangled into one. “He’s not gone! You can’t just—just shove someone else into his place like he never mattered!”

“He’s not gone! Jason’s NOT gone! You can’t just stick someone else in and act like he never mattered!”

Tim tried to speak, voice nervous but calm. “I’m not trying to replace-”

“SHUT UP!” you shrieked, tears burning your eyes. “You don’t get to say his name! You don’t even KNOW him! You don’t belong here!”

Bruce’s chair scraped sharply as he stood, towering over both of you. His voice cut like a blade, “That’s enough.”

You whipped around, glaring at him, your chest heaving. “No! No, it’s NOT enough! You let him die! You let Jason die, and now you’re just-” Your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, the words sharp and venomous. “You’re replacing him like he was NOTHING!”

Bruce’s face hardened, his jaw locked. “Go to your room.”

“No!” you spat, fists clenched so tight your nails dug into your palms. “You don’t get to order me around like you care! You didn’t care about Jason, don’t pretend to care about me!”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Alfred stood in the corner, pale, stricken, unable to move. Tim sat frozen, unsure if he should stay or run.

And you, you stormed out, your footsteps echoing through the manor like gunshots. When you slammed your bedroom door and collapsed against it, you felt the air shift. Outside, in the garden, in the halls, you knew the monsters were there. Watching. Waiting. Drawn to your rage, feeding off it.

But even they didn’t dare come closer.

Because now, you weren’t just grieving. You were furious. And even monsters were afraid of your anger.

-

The manor had been silent for weeks. You hardly spoke anymore, and even Alfred’s gentle persistence couldn’t pull words out of you. Bruce buried himself deeper in his work, Tim kept his distance, and the house felt like stone around you.

It was a gray afternoon when the knock came.

You lingered upstairs, hovering on the landing, as Alfred’s voice rose sharp in the foyer, a tone so rare it made your stomach twist.

Standing in the open doorway was a tall man in dark clothes, his hair white and wild, a strip of black cloth tied over his eyes. He leaned casually against the frame, but the air around him was… different. Heavy, charged.

“I’ll be brief,” the stranger said, his smile far too casual for the tension in his voice. “The girl doesn’t belong here. She’s part of my family—the Gojo Clan—and she has to come back with me.”

Alfred stiffened, his hand tightening into a fist. “She is no one’s to claim. Her home is here, with us.”

Gojo tilted his head, grin widening. “Her mother’s blood runs through her veins. That means she’s ours before she’s yours. You can dress her in uniforms, put her in schools, pretend she’s a normal kid—but she isn’t. And keeping her here isn’t doing her any favors.”

Bruce, silent until now, stepped forward. His voice was low, even, unreadable. “What would you give her?”

Gojo shrugged. “A place she belongs. Training. Family. The things she isn’t getting here.”

Alfred’s eyes flashed. “And what do you call us? She has family here.”

“Family?” Gojo’s voice sharpened, just a little. “Tell me, when was the last time you listened to her? When was the last time she smiled in this house?”

The words cut deeper than Alfred wanted to admit. His mouth pressed into a thin line.

Bruce’s gaze flickered, just for a moment, toward the stairs,toward where you stood in the shadows, unseen but listening. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Then he spoke. “If it’s what’s best for her…”

Alfred spun toward him, eyes blazing. “Master Bruce-!”

But Bruce’s voice was iron. “Then she goes.”

Your breath caught, the world tilting beneath you. In that instant, you understood: Alfred wanted to fight for you. Bruce was ready to let you go.

And the man in the doorway, this Gojo,was smiling like he already knew the outcome.

-

The manor felt colder than it ever had before. Alfred had packed your things with a quiet care, folding each shirt, each little keepsake, as if by doing so he could stall the inevitable. His hands lingered on every button, every zipper, trembling just slightly though his face never cracked.

He found you in the foyer, standing small against the enormity of the house you once called home. He knelt in front of you, straightening the collar of your coat as if it were just another school day. His eyes, however, betrayed him, red-rimmed and glassy.

“My dear girl,” Alfred said softly, his voice breaking only at the edges, “I would stop this if I could. Please know that. If I had the power, you would never leave my sight.” He reached up, cupping your face with one gloved hand. “You are the brightest joy this house has ever known. Do not let them dim you.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your body felt heavy, like every word, every sound had been stolen from you. All you could do was stare, unmoving, as he pressed a kiss to your forehead and straightened, holding himself tall for your sake.

Bruce was there too, standing off to the side, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. He didn’t look at you as much as he looked through you, already thinking of the next battle, the next war. When his eyes did meet yours, they were sharp, not soft. Almost relieved.

The hollow feeling inside you widened. You turned your face away, refusing him the chance to pretend this was a goodbye between parent and child.

Tim lingered behind him, shifting awkwardly, opening his mouth as if to say something. But you didn’t give him the chance either. Not after everything. Not after Jason. You kept your gaze on the floor, your silence louder than any words you could have spoken.

“Alright, kid,” Gojo’s voice drawled from the doorway, far too casual for the weight of the moment. His blindfolded face tilted toward you, his grin sharp as always. “Time to hit the road.”

You followed him out without a sound, your footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Alfred’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, to pull you back, but he didn’t. Bruce stayed motionless, a statue of stone and shadow. Tim looked down at his shoes, shame tightening his shoulders.

Outside, a sleek car waited, black and unfamiliar. Gojo strolled ahead, whistling like the world wasn’t ending, opening the door with a flourish. “After you, Little Bird.”

You climbed in without looking back. You didn’t cry. You didn’t wave. You didn’t give Bruce or Tim the satisfaction of seeing anything at all.

But as the car pulled away from the manor, your chest ached with the one thought you couldn’t shake: Bruce had been so eager to let you go.

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