st.patrizia

The last thing Y/N remember before her vision becomes dark, was a group of owl masked people suddenly grab her when she is just outside of the local bookstore near the manor. So it take her a long time before her vision adjusted to the sudden bright luminescent light that is coming from the ceiling. And just like ten years ago she found herself being strapped once again in a chair of what seems to be a laboratory. But this time, she is just alone. Her and the machines, along with a big mirror in which she assumes to be a two way mirror. She could feel in her skin how someone is looking intently at her.

Then the door suddenly open, the moment she saw who enters the room. Her memories of the experiment, torture and suffering went rushing through her mind. It was her, the who wears black and gold mask, the woman whom she hear in passing as Abatis. But unlike ten years ago, which this woman is just lurking around, observing and commanding the others on what to do with the test subjects–to them.

She is standing infront of her, alone but intimidating. Y/N cant help but to feel how this woman seems familiar to her, the posture and even the mannerism feels like she know her all her life.

“Who are you?” Y/N asked. No, she isn’t asking it to get her name but rather the possible connections between them.

“Funny, you know me who I am” Abatis replied, while slowly sitting on the chair infront of the strapped chair where Y/N is place.

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” Y/N protested, because regardless on what she feels towards the woman, she doesnt know her.

“You’ll be surprise when you realize how deep you know me” she cockily replied while staring intently to Y/N.

“Why did you take me again? Is killing respawn not enough? Or do you want to kill me so bad to do this again?” Y/N shouted in the woman’s face.

“Y/N darling, i would never want respawn dead more than anything. Let’s called it minor miscalculation in my part. But please, i owe your grandfather in your mother side a big favor for giving that kind of ability to him.” Abatis almost affectionately told yn. It was almost believable except on the part that you can taste the sarcasm from her tone.

“Is he alive? Where is he? Did you kidnapped him again too?” Y/N could feel the irony from her question, given the fact that she herself is being kidnapped too,

“Oh no, I won’t bother. I don’t need him anymore, it’s just you” Abatis laughed while answering her. Then suddenly she shifted her aura to a more serious one.

“Now, answer my question. When will you admit that you are not kidnapped by us?”

“What do you mean?” Y/N is confused on this woman’s question.

“Come on, darling. We both know you intentionally let us found you to be kidnapped, scratched that, you are actually tracing us don’t you? Because you want something”

Y/N who is staring at abatis confusedly suddenly change her aura into a more confident and sly demeanour. Gone was the timid and meek expression and it was replaced by a big smirk.

Abatis was right, Y/N who follows what Bruce asked her to do is just a guise for making it seems natural that she is weak, a very good opening to be kidnapped. She knew that tracing the court would be hard knowing its secrisy and lack of resources. So the best way is let her self be kidnapped by them once again. Coincidentally, Y/N received a letter anonymously while she doing a painting in her room. It was written what yn wants to know, “Do you want to do revenge?” Now, Y/N is looking at abatis intently.

“So tell me what does the letter meant? And how can I trust you when we are inside the laboratory” 

Abatis sighed, “This laboratory is just part of an abandon biology and research center by Wayne Enterprise. Due to some risk of contamination, your father signed an order to close this facility. So it was only us here.”

“And you? Why won’t you tell me who you really are” Y/N told her. She wants this to end but how can she do that when the bugs in her skin kept pestering her out of curiosity for the woman.

“That's a great question, actually,” Abatis said, and for the first time since she entered the room, something in her expression changed. It was subtle, almost impossible to notice beneath the black-and-gold mask, but Y/N could feel it. The woman was no longer speaking to her like a scientist speaking to a test subject. There was something almost personal in the way she looked at her, something that made Y/N's skin crawl more than the restraints around her wrists ever could. 

“That's why I knew you would be a perfect person for the experiment.” Y/N stared at her, trying to understand what she meant, but every answer only seemed to create another question. The woman had been present in her memories for as long as she could remember, always somewhere behind the glass, always watching while the scientists did things to her that she still couldn't properly remember. She had heard the name Abatis whispered between the scientists, had heard it spoken whenever someone needed permission to proceed with another procedure, but she had never once seen the woman's face. Now that she was finally sitting directly in front of her, Y/N couldn't shake the strange feeling that she had met her before. Not in the laboratory. Somewhere else. Somewhere she couldn't remember. “Let me tell you a very interesting story,” Abatis said. 

Y/N didn't answer. She simply watched her. There was something unnerving about the woman's calmness, particularly because Y/N knew exactly what kind of place they were sitting in. The machines around her weren't decorative. Some were old enough to have rust around their joints, while others looked considerably newer, their screens still glowing faintly despite the abandonment of the facility. Wires ran along the walls and disappeared beneath panels, and every few seconds Y/N could hear the low electrical hum of something operating somewhere beneath the floor. It reminded her too much of the laboratory from ten years ago, except this time there were no scientists rushing around her, no people shouting measurements, no cold hands attaching wires to her temples. There was only Abatis. And somehow, that was worse. “Once upon a time,” Abatis began, “there was a girl who grew up in Gotham. But she didn’t came alone in the world” She spoke slowly, almost conversationally, as though she were telling a bedtime story to a child. 

“They wasn't born into the kind of family people would write books about. They didn't inherit a fortune. They didn't grow up believing that the city belonged to them. They are just trying to survive a place that had been eating people alive long before They were born.” 

“--they are just children of a blue collar man. Who may be young at the time the twins are born, have the guts to take responsibility to them. Especially, when their mother died in child birth”

Y/N's eyes narrowed. “You're talking about yourself.” Abatis smiled beneath her mask. “I told you I was going to tell you a story.” “That doesn't mean you have to lie.” “I haven't lied,” she answered calmly. “Not yet.” Y/N didn't like the way she said it. There was no hesitation, no defensiveness. Abatis spoke as though lying was something beneath her, something unnecessary because the truth itself was already disturbing enough. 

“The two grew up watching Gotham destroy people,” Abatis continued. “They watched good people become tired. And watched honest people become corrupt because honesty didn't pay the bills. They watched children learn very early that there were two kinds of laws in Gotham. One for people who had nothing, and another for people who had everything. Their father believed education could change that. But people around their small family knew better ” Abatis paused, her fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. 

“Their  father understood that Gotham wasn't simply corrupt. Corruption was part of its architecture. It was built into the foundations. You could remove one corrupt man and another would simply take his place. You could destroy one criminal organization and another would rise from the ashes. There was always another monster waiting.” 

“ But their father tried his best to ensure that his children will never be touched by that monster. Alas, it was just an ambition, a hopeless man can dream. Because the children whom he treasured so much was taken from him” Abatis tone slightly change, that YN almost failed to noticed. But the way Abatis told the story, the more ache YN felt.

“--Eventually, the girl discovered that there were people who believed they could fix Gotham. They called themselves the Court of Owls” Y/N's body immediately stiffened at the name. The Court of Owls.

Even hearing the word made something cold settle in her stomach. “But it wasn't exactly the Court you've been investigating, the one who experimented with you” Abatis said. “Your Court likes old money. Old families. Secret societies hiding beneath respectable buildings. Men and women sitting at expensive tables while someone else does the killing for them. They believe Gotham belongs to them because their families have owned pieces of it for generations.” Her head tilted slightly. “The Court the girl knew was different. It still believed Gotham belonged to them, but it didn't want to sit comfortably in the shadows while the city rotted. It wanted to tear the city apart and rebuild it in its image.” 

Y/N stared at her. “So they were revolutionaries?” Abatis laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “That's what they called themselves.” She leaned forward slightly. “They liked that word. Revolutionaries. Liberators. People willing to do what ordinary citizens were too frightened to do. They trained soldiers. They trained assassins. They created people who could move through Gotham without leaving a trace and kill without hesitation when ordered. Their Talons weren't simply ghosts from old families. They were weapons.” Y/N's fingers tightened against the restraints. 

Abatis continued, “They told themselves that they were different from criminals because they had a purpose. They told themselves that violence was justified if it produced a better Gotham. But that was the lie they used to sleep at night. In reality, they were simply another group of people who had convinced themselves that their suffering gave them permission to inflict suffering on everyone else.” 

There was a pause before Abatis continued, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “The Court didn't create monsters out of nothing. That's the part people misunderstand. They found people who were already wounded. People who had lost someone. People who were angry. People who had been abandoned by the systems that were supposed to protect them. They isolated them until there was no one left to speak to, and then they gave them something that looked like purpose. They didn't tell them to forget their trauma. They taught them how to use it. They took anger and called it discipline. They took grief and called it strength. They took loneliness and called it independence. They made people believe that the worst parts of themselves were actually the parts that made them special.” Abatis looked directly at Y/N. “That's how they made Talons. They didn't need to erase someone's mind. They only needed to convince the person that becoming a weapon was the only way their pain could mean something.”

Y/N swallowed. “And you?” Abatis looked down at her gloved hands. “Eventually.” The answer was quiet. “I wasn't born a Talon. I wasn't even supposed to become one. I was simply another girl who happened to attract the wrong kind of attention.” She looked toward the two-way mirror. “The Court was very good at recognizing potential. They knew exactly which wounds to touch. They knew which memories to bring back and which ones to bury. They knew when to give you kindness and when to take it away. They could make you grateful for the smallest act of compassion because they had spent months convincing you that nobody else would ever give it to you.” She paused. “And once you believed they were the only people who understood you, you belonged to them.”

Something twisted inside Y/N's chest. She didn't know why Abatis's words felt so personal. She had heard similar things before, though never spoken so plainly. The Court had always been presented as a secret society, a conspiracy hidden behind Gotham's walls, but perhaps that was only the surface of it. Maybe the real horror was not that they could control a city. Maybe it was that they understood people well enough to control themselves.

“And Bruce?” Y/N suddenly asked.

Abatis looked at her.

“Where does Bruce fit into your story?”

For the first time, Abatis went completely still. The silence lasted long enough for Y/N to realize that she had touched something she wasn't supposed to. Then Abatis slowly smiled. “That's the interesting part about Gotham,” she said. “Every version of the city seems to create a Bruce Wayne, but they don't always create the same man.”

Y/N frowned.

“In my Gotham, Bruce didn't grow up exactly the way yours did.” Abatis leaned back in her chair. “He didn't inherit the same empire. He didn't have the same safety net. He wasn't raised believing that money could solve problems simply because he had enough of it. His father still died. That part seems almost universal.” Her voice softened. “But his mother survived.”

Y/N felt a sudden pressure behind her eyes.

“Martha?”

Abatis nodded.

“Martha Wayne survived.”

The moment the name was spoken, something flashed through Y/N's mind. A woman standing in a modest kitchen. A young boy sitting at a table. A pair of hands gently fixing something on his coat. A woman's voice telling him that he needed to learn how to protect himself because nobody else was always going to be there to do it for him. The image disappeared almost immediately, leaving Y/N gasping.

Abatis watched her carefully. “You saw her.”

Y/N shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“You're remembering.”

“I said no!”

Her voice echoed through the laboratory. Abatis didn't flinch. She simply watched Y/N struggle to regain her breathing, as though she had expected the reaction. “Martha was different in my Gotham,” Abatis continued quietly. “She wasn't simply Bruce's mother. She was a survivor. She understood the city better than most people ever could because she had seen what lived underneath it.” Abatis looked down at the black-and-gold mask resting beside her. “And she had once been one of them. That’s why she fear for her grand daughter”

Y/N's stomach dropped.

“A Talon.”

Abatis nodded.

“Martha Wayne was a Talon.”

The words seemed impossible, yet somehow the fragments appearing in Y/N's mind made them feel horribly real. A woman dressed in black. A mask. A weapon. Bruce standing somewhere behind her. A life that didn't belong to the Bruce she knew. It was similar enough to be recognizable and different enough to feel like a nightmare.

“She left the Court,” Abatis continued. “At least, she tried to. People like to believe leaving means you're free. It doesn't. Not with the Court. They remember everything you've done for them. Every person you've killed. Every secret you've learned. Every name you've been given. You can leave their organization, but you don't necessarily leave what they made you into.” Her eyes returned to Y/N. “Martha knew that better than anyone.”

Y/N's voice was barely audible. “What happened to her?”

Abatis's expression became unreadable.

“She survived.”

That wasn't an answer.

Y/N knew it.

Abatis knew it.

But the woman didn't elaborate.

Instead, she continued speaking about the girl from her story. About Gotham. About the Court. About the way the city seemed to produce the same patterns no matter how different the people were. Bruce was still Batman. Gotham was still Gotham. The Court still existed. Talons still hunted in the shadows. The names changed, the circumstances changed, the people changed, but somehow the city always seemed to find a way to repeat its tragedies.

“And then there was me,” Abatis said.

Y/N looked at her.

“The Court found me when I was still young. They didn't immediately take me. That would have been too obvious. They watched me first. They watched who I trusted. They watched who I hated. They watched what made me afraid. They learned everything about me before I even realized anyone was paying attention.” Abatis's voice became almost distant, as though she were remembering something she had spent years trying not to remember. “They didn't kidnap me alive. When they realized how my faith could end, that’s when they realize my possibilities”

“A possibility for what?”

“To become useful.”

Y/N stared at her.

“The experiments came later.”

The room seemed to become colder.

“They wanted to understand why some people broke under pressure while others adapted. Why some minds collapsed when exposed to prolonged trauma while others became sharper. They believed there was a threshold, a point where the brain stopped treating pain as something to escape and began treating it as something to accommodate.” Abatis looked toward the machines surrounding them. “That was where I met the scientists. That was where I learned about BAR8.”

Y/N's breathing stopped.

Abatis noticed.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The same project.”

Y/N looked around the room.

“No.”

“The same project.”

“No. That was ten years ago.”

“For you.”

Y/N stared at her.

Abatis's voice lowered.

“Not for me.”

The words made Y/N's blood run cold.

Abatis stood and walked toward the two-way mirror. “They thought they were experimenting on one person at a time. They thought each subject existed separately. They were wrong. There were patterns between us. Neurological patterns. Similarities that shouldn't have existed. Responses that appeared in subjects who had never met each other. Memories that belonged to people who had never lived them.” She placed her palm against the glass. “Eventually, they realized the experiments weren't simply affecting the brain. They were changing what the brain could perceive.”

Y/N couldn't take her eyes off her.

“They called it an anomaly at first.”

“And what did you call it?”

“A door.”

Abatis turned toward her.

“They thought they were looking for something beyond the human mind. They were actually looking through it.”

Y/N's heart began pounding.

“The machines didn't create the visions,” Abatis said. “They only made them easier to see.”

“See what?”

“Other lives.”

Y/N stared.

“Other versions of Gotham.”

A pause.

“Other versions of us.”

The room fell silent.

Y/N finally understood why the memories never made sense. Why she could remember rooms she'd never entered, people she'd never met, conversations she couldn't place. They weren't memories in the traditional sense. They were fragments from somewhere else, bleeding through a connection that neither she nor the scientists fully understood.

“Then you're saying…” Y/N began.

Abatis looked at her.

“You're not imagining me.”

Y/N's throat tightened.

“You've been seeing me for years.”

“Why?”

“Because you were connected to me.”

“How?”

Abatis's expression softened.

“Because we are the same person.”

Y/N shook her head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You're not me.”

Abatis smiled sadly.

“I know.”

She reached up and slowly removed the black-and-gold mask.

Y/N stared.

The face beneath it was hers.

Older. More exhausted. Harder. There were subtle differences in the shape of her hair and the lines around her eyes, but there was no mistaking it. Y/N felt as though the room had suddenly tilted beneath her. She couldn't breathe properly. She couldn't look away. The woman sitting in front of her had her face, her eyes, her expressions. Even the slight movement of her mouth when she was annoyed was familiar.

“You're me,” Y/N whispered.

Abatis looked at her reflection in the glass.

“I'm what happened to you somewhere else.”

notes: i am such a fool to think, i can write this in just a span of one day. and little miss girly thought she cooked here. anyways, please forgive my grammar here and i took abatis inspiration from miranda's style in resident evil

Dick Grayson know he wasn’t a perfect person nor a perfect brother. But he did try, or so what he told himself at everynight. He admit how he tried to stay away from her sister, unlike jason who is so enamored with her. In his defense, he wasn’t just that pound with the idea of bruce having a daughter knowing his self porclaimed responsibility in gotham. So, when they send his sister abroad, he promised himself to take care of her when she came back. But alas, it seems like his sister didn’t like that idea. Or maybe it was just too late to get her favor.

The moment he witnessed how his sister who is slowly getting out of her shell after coming back abroad is being kidnapped by a groupp of armed individuals, whom he and the other suspected to be a part of the court of owls–he was horrified. Because the least thing he wants is to see his sister–dead. Just like the dead bodies that slowly appearing across the city.

“Bruce, we have to find her now!” He immediately demanded to the patriarch of the family, who is just intently watching the footage. Jason, Tim, and Damian looked at their father waiting for his decision.

“We have to plan this properly or else she will be compromised” Bruce replied while walking slowly to the other side of the computer. He began to type something in the keyboard.

Jason who is not satisfied with the answer, replied “Are you being serious righ now, Bruce? That is your daughter who is being kidnapped, not some random girl on the fucking street!”

“He’s right father, the more we wait the more she is in danger” Damian added while giving his father a scowl. Clearly, no one agreed with what Bruce wanted. The tension between them had been building for several minutes now, and it had reached the point where even Dick had stopped trying to mediate. Bruce remained standing in front of the main monitor, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable as he stared at the photograph of Y/N that had been left on the screen. 

He knew Damian was right. 

He knew Jason was right. 

Dick was right too. 

If the Court of Owls had been involved with Y/N somehow, then every second they spent trying to decide what to do was another second in which she remained unaware of the danger surrounding her. But there was something Bruce wasn't saying, something he had kept buried behind the same expression he wore whenever he didn't have an answer. He didn't know what would happen if they told her. He didn't know what she remembered, if she remembered anything at all, and more importantly, he didn't know what the happened her years ago.

 “She's not in immediate danger,” Bruce finally said, his voice low, although even he seemed to know how weak the statement sounded. Jason immediately gave him a disbelieving look. “You don't know that.”

 “I know the Court hasn't made a move against her. If those people are really court” Bruce reasoned to him.

“Yet,” Jason replied, his voice carrying an edge. Bruce's jaw tightened slightly. “That doesn't mean we rush in without knowing what we're dealing with.” 

Damian stepped forward, his arms folding across his chest as his expression hardened. “Then find out.” Bruce looked at him. “We are trying.” “No,” Damian replied. “You are trying to decide whether or not you are allowed to be afraid.” The words settled heavily in the cave, and for a moment nobody spoke. Dick slowly looked between the two of them, clearly wondering whether he should intervene before the argument became something worse.

 “Okay,” he muttered, “maybe let's not do the whole father-son psychological warfare thing right now.” Neither Bruce nor Damian looked at him. Damian kept his eyes fixed on Bruce. “She was sent away for ten years. We know now that something happened to her. We know that she returned different. We know that she has memories she cannot explain and that there may be people connected to her disappearance who are still alive, and yet you want to wait.” Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Tim's voice came from behind them.

 “Guys.” It was quiet, almost uncertain, and that alone was enough to make everyone turn. Tim was still sitting at the Batcomputer, but he wasn't looking at them. His eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him, his hands completely still above the keyboard. Dick noticed the expression on his face first. 

“What?”

 Tim didn't answer immediately. Jason pushed himself away from the console and walked over. “Tim?” Tim finally looked over his shoulder, his face noticeably paler than it had been a few moments earlier. “I just got something.” 

Bruce immediately stepped toward him. “Another police report?” 

“No.”

 “Gordon?” 

“No.” Tim shook his head slowly. “I don't know what it is.” That immediately caught Bruce's attention. He walked toward the workstation and looked over Tim's shoulder. 

“What do you mean you don't know?” 

Tim moved his chair slightly to the side, allowing Bruce to see the screen. There was a single file sitting in the center of the Batcomputer, completely isolated from the rest of the system. There was no sender, no recognizable file extension, no identifying information, nothing that could immediately tell them where it had come from. There was only one folder, and across it was a designation Tim didn't recognize: BAR8-ARS-G. Tim stared at it for several seconds before finally speaking. “It appeared about thirty seconds ago.” 

Jason frowned. “Appeared?” 

“I didn't download it.” 

“Then how did it get here?” 

“I don't know.” Tim pointed toward the system logs. “I checked. There wasn't an incoming connection. No email. No external device. No remote access attempt. Nothing.” Dick leaned over the workstation and studied the screen. “So you're telling me someone just put a file inside the Batcomputer?” 

Tim nodded. “Without connecting to it.” Jason looked at Bruce. “That's reassuring.” Bruce ignored the remark and kept his attention on Tim. “Can you trace it?” 

“I already tried.” 

“And?” 

“Nothing.” Tim clicked through the system logs, showing them the absence of any record. “There isn't even a timestamp.” Bruce's expression hardened. 

“That isn't possible.” 

“I know.” Tim stared at the folder. 

“---That's why I haven't opened it yet.” 

Damian approached the screen and looked at the strange designation. “What does the name mean?” Tim shook his head. “I'm not sure.” 

Bruce looked at him. “You think it's dangerous?” “I think somebody wanted us to find it.” The words immediately changed the atmosphere in the cave. Someone had deliberately sent them something. Not Gordon, not the police, and certainly not anyone they knew. Someone had found a way into the Batcomputer without leaving a trace and had left behind a file with a designation none of them recognized.

Jason crossed his arms. “So open it.” Dick glanced at him. “You say that like we haven't learned anything from horror movies.” 

“We don't have time for horror movie rules.” 

“We're literally in Gotham.” Jason paused. “Fair.” Bruce looked at Tim. “Make a copy first.” Tim nodded and isolated the file from the rest of the system, creating an offline copy before opening the original. For a moment, nothing happened. The screen remained black. Tim frowned and clicked again, then a loading symbol appeared, followed by another, and suddenly the screen filled with documents. Dozens of them appeared at once, then hundreds, each one loading faster than Tim could process them. Medical reports. Photographs. Financial records. Research notes. Blueprints. Shipping manifests. Personnel files. Security footage. The information kept appearing until Tim finally stopped scrolling. 

Dick stared at the screen. “What the hell is this?” Tim didn't answer. He was too busy looking through the files, his face slowly changing as he realized what he was seeing. 

“These aren't random.” Bruce stepped closer. “What are they?” Tim opened the first document. At the top of the page was a title: PROJECT BAR8-ARS-G. Beneath it was a classification warning, followed by words that made everyone in the room go silent: RESTRICTED — COURT OF OWLS INTERNAL ARCHIVE. Jason's expression immediately hardened.

 “You've got to be kidding me.” Tim stared at the words. “No.” Damian stepped closer. “The Court.” Tim nodded slowly. “This is theirs.” Bruce's eyes narrowed. “How do you know?” Tim opened another document, and a black-and-white photograph appeared on the screen. It showed an old laboratory, industrial and almost completely empty except for several metal chairs positioned in front of a glass wall. Each chair had restraints attached to the arms and legs, while wires hung from machines mounted along the walls and disappeared toward the chairs. 

The photograph looked old, but the purpose of the room was immediately obvious. Jason stared at it. “What am I looking at?” Tim's voice became quieter. “An experiment.” He clicked through another page, and the clinical language of the report appeared before them: SUBJECT RESPONSE TO NEURAL STIMULATION REMAINS WITHIN ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS. 

Another page followed. AUDITORY RESPONSE INCREASED FOLLOWING ELECTRICAL EXPOSURE. 

Another. SUBJECT REPORTS PERCEPTION OF UNKNOWN VOICE. 

Another. MEMORY RETENTION DECLINING. 

Dick stared at the screen, his expression becoming increasingly disturbed. “Why are they doing this?” Tim continued scrolling. “I don't know.” He opened another document, this one containing a long list of subjects, their ages, physical conditions, psychological evaluations, and experiment numbers. The numbers continued down the page, beginning with BAR8-01, BAR8-02, BAR8-03, and continuing far beyond what Tim expected. His eyes moved across the document before suddenly stopping. 

“Wait.” 

Bruce looked at him. “What?” Tim scrolled back toward the top and highlighted several dates. “These subjects disappeared around the same time.” Jason moved closer. “The missing kids?” Tim nodded. “They're the same people.” The realization seemed to hit all of them at once. 

The eighty-nine bodies found across Gotham weren't simply victims of some unknown killer. They had been part of something. Something organized. Something that had been operating years ago, hidden behind legitimate companies, medical terminology, and records that had apparently been buried so deeply that even they had never known where to look. Dick stared at the list. 

“Why would the Court take children?” Tim opened another file, and the answer was buried inside a medical report. NEURAL PLASTICITY. He read the paragraph silently before looking up. “They were looking for people whose brains could adapt.”

“Adapt to what?”  Bruce frowned. Tim hesitated and opened another report. “At first, I thought they were trying to create some kind of advanced neurological treatment.” He opened another document, then another, and the language gradually became stranger. 

“But the purpose changes in the later files.” 

Bruce looked at him. “How?”

Tim swallowed. “They stop talking about restoring damaged neural pathways.” He slowly looked up from the screen. “They start talking about creating new ones.” 

The cave fell silent. Tim opened another file, and this time an image appeared at the center of the screen. It showed a single chair inside a much smaller room. A girl was sitting in it, her wrists restrained, her head slightly lowered, several thin wires attached near both sides of her head. The image quality was poor, the photograph clearly taken years ago, but there was no mistaking the person sitting in that chair. Tim stopped breathing for a moment. Dick's face fell. Jason stared at the screen without saying a word. Damian stepped closer. Bruce didn't move. Nobody spoke because they all recognized her. 

Y/N. 

Ten years younger. Tim slowly opened the document attached to the photograph. The subject information appeared on the screen. SUBJECT: BAR8-YW. AGE: CLASSIFIED. STATUS: ACTIVE. Tim's voice was barely audible. “It's her.”

Bruce's eyes remained fixed on the photograph, and for the first time his carefully controlled expression seemed to crack. Tim continued scrolling, revealing page after page of neurological tests, psychological evaluations, memory studies, and observations about her responses to the experiments. “Neurological response… exceptional,” Tim read quietly. “Adaptation rate… eighty-seven point four percent. Memory retention… unstable.” Jason looked at him. “What does that mean?” Tim continued reading. “Subject reported auditory hallucinations. Movement inside walls. Voices without identifiable sources.” He paused, then opened another page. 

The report was badly corrupted, leaving only fragments visible: ...large wings..., ...eyes..., ...voice.... Then one sentence remained completely intact: SUBJECT REFERS TO ENTITY AS BARBATHOS. Jason stared at the screen. “Barbathos?” Damian's expression changed. “I know that name.” Everyone looked at him. Damian stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the report. “The Court has references to it in their older records. Something they believed existed beneath Gotham. They did not call it a demon.” 

“Then what did they call it?” Tim asked. Damian stared at the photograph of Y/N for a moment before answering. “A savior.” Tim slowly looked back at the medical report. “Then this wasn't about torture.” Jason looked at him. “What?” Tim pointed toward the brain scan attached to the report. “They weren't trying to hurt her.” Jason's expression hardened. “Tim, she's strapped to a chair.” “I know.” Tim's voice cracked slightly as he looked at the photograph again. “But look at the equipment. They were stimulating specific regions of her brain, trying to increase neural activity. Trying to force her brain to process something.” 

“Something?” Dick frowned.

 “Something the normal brain apparently can't perceive.” Bruce's expression became colder. “And Y/N could?” Tim nodded. “Apparently.” He scrolled through the remaining reports, each one revealing another piece of the experiment. They had monitored her responses to electrical stimulation, isolated her senses, induced chemical changes in her brain, recorded her dreams, documented her hallucinations, and repeatedly asked her to describe what she saw. The scientists had written about her as though she were not a person at all, but simply a machine whose responses could be measured and adjusted. 

And then, at the bottom of the final report, they found something that made Tim stop scrolling. NEURAL ADAPTATION: SUCCESSFUL. COGNITIVE STABILITY: COMPROMISED. MEMORY SUPPRESSION: RECOMMENDED. SUBJECT TO BE REMOVED FROM FACILITY. 

Tim stared at the words for several seconds. Bruce noticed. “Removed?” Tim nodded slowly. “There's no transfer record. No discharge information. Nothing about where she was sent.” He scrolled further, searching for anything that might explain what happened after the experiment, but there was only a handwritten note attached to the bottom of the page. That answer their question but open a new one.

EXPERIMENT SUBJECT  BAR8-YW AND BAR8-RN IS TO BE TERMINATED

Nobody spoke. The anonymous file suddenly felt heavier than it had when it first appeared. Someone had given them the Court's own records, deliberately revealing something that had remained hidden for ten years. Someone had shown them the photographs, the medical reports, the names of the victims, the purpose of the experiments, and most importantly, Y/N's involvement in it. 

Tim slowly looked toward Bruce. “I think whoever sent this wants us to find her.” Bruce's eyes remained on the screen. “Or wants the Court to know that we found her.” That possibility hung over them, and nobody was willing to dismiss it. Because the file wasn't simply evidence. It was a message. Someone had gone through extraordinary lengths to make sure the Bats received it, and whoever had sent it knew exactly what they would find inside. Tim looked back at the photograph of Y/N, at the girl sitting helplessly in the metal chair, at the wires attached to her temples, and at the scientists standing behind the glass and watching her like she was nothing more than a successful result on a laboratory report. But he noticed a figure at the corner of the photo, based on the body its a women. Unlike the others, she is wearing an almost identical mask as the plague doctors. Then he looked at Bruce again.  He rather prioritized the safety of his sister than to delve more on the experiment.

“Whatever happened to her ten years ago,” Tim said quietly, “the Court didn't just hurt her.” He paused, his eyes returning to the words on the screen. “They changed her.” Bruce said nothing. And somehow, that silence frightened Tim more than anything else he had found in the file. Because what could be more worse than dying, right?

notes: hellooo! it's been a long time hehehe I hope I would be able to finish this fanfic anytime soon. I am so happy when I saw how everyone enjoy the fic and those messages. thank you! Please forgive me for the grammatical errors and the formattings.

Before Y/N lost her consciousness, she saw the owl mask looking at her again. And everything feels so familiar on what happened before…

10 Years ago

The first thing she noticed was the light. It was Bright, Artificial, and Painfully white. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open slowly adjusting to the light surrounding her. The air smelled sterile something that you could smell in the hospital. Cold metal pressed against her wrists. Her vision cleared enough to reveal the restraints holding her to a chair. A large glass wall stood in front of her.

Beyond it, several figures watched. Men in suits.Peopl in white coats who seems to be a scientist .And one man wearing a mask— An owl.

“Subject BAR8-YW is conscious.” A voice echoed through the room.

“Good.” Another voice answered calmly.

“Where am I?” Y/N’s pulse quickened.

No one answered.Then the masked figure stepped forward.

“You should feel honored. Only special people are chosen to participate here” His voice came through a speaker. Calm. Almost polite.

“Let me go.” Her stomach twisted.

“That will not be possible.” The man tilted his head slightly. Behind him, a massive screen flickered to life. A bold letter appeared across the display.

Project BAR8-Ars-G

“You are about to participate in something extraordinary.” The masked man folded his hands behind his back.

“What is this place?” Y/N’s pulse hammered in her ears.

The man did not answer her question.

Instead, he gestured toward the scientists.

“Begin the preliminary evaluation.”

A sharp mechanical sound echoed from the walls as several machines activated. Metal arms extended from the chair that restrained her in a stiff position. Thin wires brushed against the sides of her neck.

“Stop—!” Y/N’s breathing quickened.

A cold liquid surged through another needle sliding into her arm. The world tilted. Her vision swam. Then the room faded into darkness. All she can feel is a hot sensation inside her veins slowly moving in her body.

And somewhere far away, someone calmly recorded the results.

“Subject BAR8-YW responding to sedation.”

“Vitals stable.”

“Neural activity elevated.”

“Excellent.” The masked man watched quietly. A darkness slowly crept in her eyes that she couldn’t see properly who is talking and what’s happening to her. All she knew is that, this people want her to die so bad.

When she woke up, she thought that it was only a dream that those people who are wearing owl masks is just a part of her dream but when she woke up again she saw a sterile white ceiling and bright white lights. The moment her eyes roamed around she noticed the lack of things inside of the room except for the fact that there is another person inside the room.

“Who are you?” Y/N asked as she slowly sitting in her bed.

The white haired man turned around and looked at her. His eyes—no, his face have some similarities with her brother,damian. But the way he looked at her is much more different than damian. This person’s eyes is full of contempt, like he holds a grudge to her.

“Respawn” He shortly answered.

“Where are we? Why I am here?” Y/N hurriedly asked, as panic slowly crept in her.

“I don’t know. But the only thing I know is that, no one will survive here” Respawn answer while looking directly in her eyes. Next thing she knew is that she was being debrief on what and the purpose of this madness. But one thing that caught her attention is the woman standing in the middle of it. Something that makes her feel the familiarity in her.

Then all of the children are guided in a big building, which she learned to be an experiment chamber. The experiment chamber looked older than the rest of the facility.

The walls were concrete rather than steel.

The lighting was dim and clinical, casting long shadows beneath the machines that lined the room. Thick cables disappeared into the ceiling. Monitoring screens flickered quietly.

Everything felt cold.

Deliberately cold.

When suddenly she was taken away from the other children, and she was guided in one of those chamber. There the guards put her in a bed and was forced to sit. Y/N struggled against the restraints the moment they secured her to the chair.

Metal cuffs locked around her wrists. Her ankles. Her chest. A restraint even held her forehead against the backrest. There would be no escaping this one.

The scientists moved around the room with practiced efficiency. Preparing instruments.

Checking monitors.

Recording information.

None of them spoke to her. None of them even looked at her.

As if she wasn’t a person.

As if she were already a specimen.

Then the room went silent.

The scientists immediately straightened.

Some stepped aside.

Others lowered their heads slightly.

The reaction was subtle.

But noticeable.

Someone important had arrived.

Y/N heard footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Unhurried.

A figure entered through the far doorway.

Abatis

At first, all Y/N noticed was the mask.

It resembled a bird of prey.

Or perhaps a plague doctor’s mask.

She could never decide which.

The surface was blackened metal with gold accents running along the edges. The elongated beak-like shape cast a shadow over the upper half of the face, completely hiding the wearer’s identity.

Years later, Y/N would still remember that mask. Not because it was frightening. But because of how everyone else reacted to it. The scientists suddenly became quieter.

More careful.

As though they feared making a mistake.

The figure stopped beside one of the monitors.

Y/N couldn’t see their face.

Only their silhouette.

Tall.

Slender.

Not physically imposing.

Yet somehow commanding the entire room without speaking.

The body shape suggested a woman.

At least Y/N thought so.

The voice confirmed it moments later.

“Status?”

The word was calm.

Refined.

Almost elegant.

Nothing about it sounded cruel.

Which somehow made it worse.

A scientist immediately stepped forward.

“Subject BAR8-YW has survived all previous integration phases.”

The masked woman looked toward Y/N.

Y/N felt her stomach tighten.

She couldn’t see the woman’s eyes. Yet somehow she knew she was being examined. Studied. Measured.

Like livestock.

Like laboratory material.

The sensation made her skin crawl.

“Compatibility?”

“Still uncertain.”

The scientist hesitated.

“However, neural resilience exceeds expectations.”

The masked woman hummed softly.

As if considering something.

Then she stepped closer. Y/N instinctively pulled against the restraints. The woman stopped directly beside the chair.

Close enough that Y/N could see tiny scratches etched into the gold detailing of the mask.

Signs of age.

Signs of repeated use.

For a brief moment, neither spoke.

Then the woman tilted her head slightly.

Observing.

Studying.

Y/N hated how interested she sounded when she finally spoke.

“Interesting.”

That single word made Y/N feel worse than any insult could have.

Because there was no emotion behind it.

No hatred.

No anger.

No sympathy.

Only curiosity.

The same curiosity someone might have toward a laboratory mouse.

The woman raised a gloved hand.

Not touching.

Simply hovering near Y/N’s face.

As though examining an object.

“Still conscious despite previous exposure.”

The scientist nodded eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Pain tolerance?”

“Above average.”

Another soft hum.

The woman looked pleased.

Not happy.

Satisfied.

Like a researcher whose experiment was progressing correctly.

Y/N wanted to scream at her.

Wanted to demand answers.

Wanted to know why she was here.

Why any of them were here.

Instead she managed:

“Who are you?”

The room fell silent.

Several scientists visibly froze.

The woman remained still.

Then unexpectedly—

She laughed.

Not loudly.

Not mockingly.

Just a small amused sound behind the mask.

As though Y/N had asked a particularly entertaining question.

“You know who am I more than my name, Y/N”

The response was immediate. Controlled. Final.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Y/N glared at her.

The woman merely looked back. Then her attention shifted toward the reinforced container resting beside the chair. The container holding the dark metal shards.

“Begin.”

Immediately the room moved again.

Scientists resumed their work.

Monitors activated.

Data collection began.

The woman stepped away from the chair.

Returning to observe from a distance.

Watching.

Always watching.

Years later, Y/N would forget many details about that day. The exact layout of the room. The faces of the scientists.

The number of machines.

The words written on the screens.

But she would never forget that woman.

The black-and-gold mask.

The calm voice.

The way she watched children suffer with the detached fascination of someone observing weather.

And even now, ten years later, when Y/N thought about her, she remembered only one thing with absolute certainty.

Out of everyone inside that facility—

The scientists.

The guards.

The Court.

The monsters hidden below.

That masked woman had frightened her the most. Abatis. Not because she seemed evil.

But because she seemed completely convinced that everything she was doing was right. The first thing Y/N noticed after waking from the experiment was the pain.

Not sharp.

Not sudden.

It was everywhere.

A deep ache buried inside her bones.

Every breath felt heavier than the last.

Every heartbeat seemed to echo through her entire body.

The experiment had left something behind. She couldn’t explain it. Only that her body no longer felt entirely her own. Then black.

The next thing she knew when she woke up is the feeling of something burning inside of her. Slowly destroying the inside of her. Then when her eyes looked across the room, Respawn sat against the wall, his arms resting on his knees.

He looked terrible.

Bruises.

Cuts.

Fresh stitches.

Yet the moment he noticed her moving, he stood.

“You awake?”

Y/N managed a weak nod.

Respawn looked relieved.

Only for a second.

Then the familiar guarded expression returned.

“You were unconscious for two days.”

Y/N stared.

“Two?”

Respawn nodded.

The silence that followed was broken by the sound they both dreaded most.

A siren.

Loud.

Violent.

Mechanical.

The lights inside the room immediately shifted from white to crimson.

Respawn cursed.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Both of them knew what it meant.

Another trial.

The guards came minutes later. This time there were more. Far more. Armed personnel. Scientists. Court members wearing owl masks. As if everyone wanted to witness what was about to happen. Y/N noticed something strange.

The remaining children were being gathered.

All of them. Not separated. Not assigned to different testing chambers.

Together.

That had never happened before. Not once.

And that terrified her more than anything. The arena looked like a ruined city.

Concrete towers.

Collapsed highways.

Abandoned buildings.

Twisted steel structures stretching into darkness.

Artificial rain poured from sprinklers hidden in the ceiling.

Creating a permanent storm.

Thunder boomed from concealed speakers.

The entire environment looked like Gotham after the end of the world. More than fifty children stood inside.

Or what remained of them.

Years of experimentation had changed everyone. Some had mechanical implants. Some bore horrific scars.

Others looked almost feral.

Every single one looked dangerous and desperate. Above them, observation decks stretched around the entire arena.

Hundreds of masked spectators watched from behind reinforced glass.

Scientists.

Investors.

Members of the Court.

Watching.

Waiting.

Enjoying the show.

Then the loudspeaker activated.

Abatis.

Even after all these years, Y/N remembered her voice perfectly. Calm.

Elegant.

Completely detached.

“Today marks the conclusion of Project BAR8.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

“The purpose of this trial is simple.”

The giant screens flickered.

Numbers appeared.

Subject counts.

Survival percentages.

Mortality rates.

Years of suffering reduced to statistics.

“You will fight until only the most viable candidates remain.”

A pause.

Then—

“Begin.”

Chaos erupted instantly.

There was no hesitation.

No countdown.

No warning.

One second there was silence.

The next there was violence.

A boy lunged forward with a sharpened piece of metal. Another tackled someone to the ground. Gunfire erupted from automated turrets hidden throughout the arena.

The trial had begun.

Y/N barely avoided the first attack. A blade passed close enough to cut several strands of her hair. Respawn immediately intercepted the attacker. The impact sounded like a car crash.

Both bodies slammed into a concrete wall.

The wall cracked.

The boy never got back up.

“Move!”

Respawn grabbed her arm.

Y/N ran.

Instinct took over.

Survival.

That was all this place had ever taught them.

Survive.

Or die.

The arena itself wanted them dead. Collapsed roads gave way beneath their feet. Buildings detonated without warning. Automated drones emerged from hidden compartments in the walls.

Shooting projectiles into the crowd.

Children screamed.

Blood painted the streets.

The number of survivors dropped rapidly.

Fifty became forty.

Forty became thirty.

Then twenty.

Hours seemed to pass.

Or perhaps only minutes.

Time no longer mattered.

Y/N and Respawn fought together. Like they always did. Back to back. Covering each other’s blind spots. Moving as if they’d done this their entire lives.

Maybe they had.

A modified subject charged toward them. The boy looked almost inhuman. Metal plating embedded into his skin. One arm replaced entirely with machinery.

Respawn met him head-on.

The impact shattered a nearby window. Y/N jumped in immediately. A pipe swung toward her face.

She ducked.

Countered.

The metal rod connected with the attacker’s knee. Something snapped and the boy screamed.

Respawn finished the fight.

The machine-enhanced subject crashed through a second-story railing. Falling into darkness below.

Neither sibling celebrated.

There wasn’t time.

Another enemy was already approaching.

Then another.

And another.

The further the trial continued, the worse Y/N felt.

Her vision blurred.

Her limbs felt heavier.

The experiment was affecting her.

Every movement hurt.

Every strike took more energy.

Respawn noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

A ridiculous question.

Neither of them was okay.

But Y/N nodded anyway.

“I’m fine.”

A lie.

Respawn knew it.

But they both kept fighting.

By the end, only six subjects remained.

The strongest.

The deadliest.

The survivors.

The arena had become a graveyard.

Bodies littered the ruined streets.

Broken weapons scattered everywhere.

The rain mixed with blood.

And still the Court watched.

Still they observed.

Still they took notes.

The final confrontation began near the center of the arena. A collapsed highway suspended above a massive pit. The remaining six met there.

Nobody spoke. They simply attacked. The fight was brutal, too brutal. Each of the children are desperate.

Every survivor understood the same truth. There would be no rescue. No freedom. No future. Only survival.

Y/N took a knife to her side. The blade slid between her ribs. Pain exploded through her body. She nearly fell. Respawn caught her before she could.Then immediately took a steel rod across the face.

Blood sprayed across the pavement. He retaliated instantly. Breaking the attacker’s jaw. The fight continued.

Relentless.

Merciless.

Unending.

One by one the others fell. Until only two remained.

Y/N.

Respawn.

And a massive older subject. One of the Court’s favorites. A monster created by years of experimentation. The final survivor lunged. Respawn intercepted him.

The impact shattered concrete beneath their feet. Both rolled across the broken highway. Trading blows.

Punches.

Kicks.

Knives.

Anything.

Everything.

Y/N tried helping.

The moment she moved, her injured side gave out.

She stumbled.

Too slow.

The survivor noticed.

He changed targets instantly.

Y/N barely saw him coming.

The metal pipe connected with her skull.

White exploded across her vision.

Then darkness.

Then pain.

So much pain.

She hit the ground hard.

Something cracked.

The world spun.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t stand.

Couldn’t think.

“Y/N!”

Respawn’s voice sounded distant.

Panicked.

Terrified.

The survivor raised the pipe again.

Respawn moved.

Faster than Y/N had ever seen.

The fight ended seconds later.

A broken neck.

A lifeless body.

Silence.

The final opponent was dead.

They had survived.

Except they hadn’t.

Respawn collapsed almost immediately.

His regeneration had slowed.

Too many injuries.

Too much damage.

Blood covered his entire body.

Y/N wasn’t any better.

She could barely remain conscious.

The loudspeaker activated.

Abatis spoke.

For the first time, there was disappointment in her voice.

“Unfortunate.”

Y/N looked upward.

Everything blurred.

“The surviving subjects have exceeded projected combat performance.”

A pause.

Then:

“However, their injuries are catastrophic.”

Scientists began reviewing data.

Medical scans appeared on the screens.

Broken bones.

Internal bleeding.

Organ damage.

Neurological trauma.

The verdict came quickly.

Coldly.

Clinically.

“Neither subject is expected to survive.”

Respawn glared upward.

Even now.

Even dying.

He still looked ready to fight.

Abatis remained unmoved.

“Dispose of them.”

The floor beneath them suddenly opened. Y/N felt herself falling. Respawn grabbed her immediately. Pulling her closer despite his own injuries. Together they disappeared into the darkness beneath the facility.

Not a prison.

Not a laboratory.

Not a testing chamber.

Something older.

Much older.

A forgotten place hidden beneath the Court’s foundations. The place where failed experiments were thrown when they were no longer useful.

A place the scientists simply called..

The Basement.

And somewhere within that darkness, something ancient waited.The next thing she knew is that the room had not been a room at all. It had been a corridor.Cold concrete. Metal walls.

The air reeked of antiseptic, dampness, and something sharp beneath it—something chemical, something wrong. The lights overhead flickered in uneven intervals, casting broken strips of white across the floor. Every step echoed in the narrow passage, though Y/N was not walking on her own. Someone was dragging her. Consciousness and awareness seems to slowly fade away from her.

Her feet barely touched the ground at first. Her arms hurt from being held too tightly, and the world around her spun in fragments of bright ceiling light and dark corners. She could hear herself breathing too fast, too shallow, but even that sounded far away, as if it belonged to someone else.

Beside her, another child stumbled— A boy.

He was smaller than the men dragging them, but not by much. His white hair caught the light as his head jerked forward from the force of being shoved. His face was pale, his mouth set in a line so tight it looked like it might split from holding back the pain. He did not cry. That was the first thing she remembered about him. Not that he was brave. Not that he was strong. Only that he did not cry.

That had made her stare at him in confusion, even then. Because she had wanted to cry. She had wanted to scream. But every sound in her chest had turned into something locked behind her ribs. One of the men said something. The words were muffled by the pounding in her ears, but she remembered the tone—its too cold. As if they were not speaking to children at all. As if they were speaking about discarded equipment.

“Move them below.”

The door at the end of the corridor opened with a slow metallic groan. Beyond it was a staircase descending into darkness. The basement. Not a storage room. Not a laboratory but Something worse.

A place beneath the facility where the air turned colder and the walls sweated with old moisture. The kind of place no one had any intention of visiting unless they planned not to return. The men shoved them down the stairs.

The floor had been cold. That was the first sensation she could recall. Cold concrete pressed against her cheek, rough enough to scrape the skin when she tried to move. The air smelled of damp metal and something chemical that burned faintly in her nose. She didn’t know where she was at first.

Her mind floated somewhere between consciousness and darkness, unable to hold onto anything for long. Every breath hurt. Her chest rose shallowly, each inhale weak and uneven as if the air itself had grown too heavy to pull inside.

Something warm ran along the side of her face. Blood. She didn’t remember when she had started bleeding. Only that the taste of iron lingered faintly in the back of her throat. The room above her flickered in dim yellow light. A single bulb. Buzzing. Then dimming. Then buzzing again. For a while, she thought she was alone.

Until she heard the movement.

A faint scrape.

Not far from her.

Her eyes struggled to open wider. The world blurred and swayed. And through that haze she saw him.

Respawn.

He was lying several feet away, half on his side, half collapsed against the floor like his body had simply given up holding itself upright. His white hair caught the weak light above them. His breathing was rough. Uneven.

She could hear it from where she lay. He was hurt badly. That much was clear even through the fog in her mind. One of his arms trembled weakly as he tried to push himself forward. Just a little. Just enough. His fingers dragged across the concrete slowly, leaving faint streaks where blood touched the floor.

“…hey.” His voice sounded distant—Hoarse. Like every word scraped painfully against his throat.

Y/N tried to answer. Her lips parted slightly. But the only sound that came out was a weak breath. The effort made her vision spin again.

Respawn noticed immediately. He shifted again, forcing his body to move closer even though the movement clearly hurt him.

“…stay awake.” The words came out strained, more uneven. But there was urgency behind them. He dragged himself another inch forward. Then another.

Until his hand finally reached hers. His fingers brushed against the back of her hand first. Warm. Real. He closed his hand weakly around her fingers. The contact felt small. Fragile. But it was enough to anchor her.

For a moment, the darkness pulling at her mind slowed. Y/N tried to move her hand. It twitched weakly under his grip. Respawn exhaled softly when he felt it.

“Good.” His voice shook. She tried to look at him properly. Her eyes struggled to focus on his face. He looked worse up close. Bruises darkened his skin. Blood had dried along the edge of his jaw. His breathing sounded tight, like something inside his chest had been damaged. But he was still awake.

Still holding onto her, as if trying to comfort her. Above them, footsteps moved somewhere beyond the basement door. Respawn heard them. His hand tightened slightly around hers. Y/N couldn’t see the door clearly from where she lay. But she could hear the muffled voices through the ceiling.

“…not necessary.”

“…dispose of them.”

The words drifted faintly through the floor. Respawn’s fingers tightened again. Just a little. Y/N tried to speak. But her throat burned. But this time something came out. A broken whisper.

“…Respawn…”

The sound of his name barely reached him. But he heard it. His head turned immediately toward her.

“…I’m here.” The words came out softer now. Closer. He dragged himself forward again, ignoring the way his body shook with the effort. Their shoulders nearly touched now. Y/N could barely see him anymore. Her vision had started dimming at the edges, darkness creeping inward slowly. Her body felt colder. Her fingers trembled weakly in his grasp.

“…don’t…” Her voice broke halfway through the word.

The effort exhausted what little strength she had left. Her eyes filled with tears without her realizing it. They slid slowly across the concrete beneath her cheek.

“…don’t… leave…” The whisper barely existed. More breath than sound. But Respawn heard it. For a moment he didn’t speak. His head lowered slightly as if gathering what little strength he still had. When he finally spoke again, his voice had changed.

Quieter. But sharper. The way a blade sounds when drawn slowly from its sheath.

“…listen.” Respawn spoke again

Y/N could barely keep her eyes open now. Her tears continued to fall silently against the floor. She could feel his hand still holding hers. Still refusing to let go.

“…destroy…” His voice trembled faintly.

“…kill… them…” Another breath. A painful one.

“…all.” The words came slowly.

As if each one cost him something. Y/N blinked weakly. She did not understand. Her mind was slipping too far away. But she heard him. Even through the fog closing in around her. Then he said one more word. Quieter than the rest. Almost gentle.

“…sister.”

Her breath caught faintly. He finally recognized her as his sister. The word echoed somewhere deep inside her chest. But before she could respond—

Something moved above them. A door opening. Light spilling down the stairs. Footsteps descending. Respawn’s grip tightened around her hand one final time. Then suddenly—His hand left hers.

The warmth disappeared. Y/N tried to move. Tried to lift her head. But her body refused. All she could do was lie there.

“…brother,don’t leave…” Crying silently. The whisper broke apart halfway through his name. Her vision blurred completely now. She could hear shouting. A sudden movement. The sound of something striking metal.

Then a deafening crack of noise. The room shook violently. And the world went dark. When both of them lost consciousness, a pair of eyes suddenly looked at the two bodies infront of him. He smell an enticing scent from a girl, a scent of familiarity as if this happened before.

As he slowly walks towards the body, his hands which has a long fingernails hold the girl’s jaw and forced to open her mouth. A gush of unknown substances comes from his mouth that falls directly into the girls mouth. The body suddenly convulsed as her eyes dilated the more substance slowly filling the body. Then everything went stopped, the body suddenly woke up gasping and erratic.

She immediately looked around and saw a body near her. It was cold—it wasn’t supposed to be cold, but it is. The white haired of respawn was starting to looked red due to the pool of blood around them. Before she was able to touch him, everything suddenly distorted then the surrounding changes. She found herself in a forest, with only sounds of bird and insect along with the drops of rain could be heard.

She decided to run, she doesn’t know where but she just started running up until she finally got out of the forest. From then, she can saw a big manor in a distanced. It was the Wayne Manor, she is finally back in Gotham.

The moment she came knocking in the door, fully drenched but still look decent. Her wounds that she remembered have suddenly disappeared and it doesn’t look like she experienced hell. As the door opened, she came face to face with an old man—Alfred.

“Young Miss? I didn’t know you would arrive today, then i should have been picked you up in the airport” Alfred confusedly told her. And let her in, guiding her towards the reception room.

“Hello, Alfred. It’s fine, is the other here?”

Bruce Wayne woke up gasping. For a few seconds, he couldn’t tell where he was.

His chest rose too fast, sweat cooling against the back of his neck while the remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs. The room was dark except for the faint glow of Gotham bleeding through the curtains, and yet his heart still refused to calm down. He sat up slowly, dragging a hand over his face.

A dream.

Just a dream.

But it didn’t feel like one. It had felt too real as if he really experienced those. Y/N had been there.

Not the Y/N who walked around Wayne Manor now with tired eyes and distant silence. This version of her had been younger somehow. Softer. Laughing in a way Bruce hadn’t heard in a long time.

And beside her—

A boy.

White hair.

Green eyes.

Rhys.

Bruce frowned deeply.

He didn’t know anyone named Rhys. Yet in the dream, the name had felt natural. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache. He could still remember the sound of it.

The feeling of standing beside two children and knowing, with complete certainty, that he loved them more than anything else in the world.

Bruce leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The dream replayed in fragments. A tiny apartment kitchen. Y/N laughing over coffee. The white-haired boy arguing with her.

The warmth of a normal morning.

Then there is…

Blood.

Rain.

White sheets.

Empty graves.

Bruce shut his eyes hard. When he finally stood and walked toward the window, Gotham looked the same as always. Wet streets. Flickering lights. Smoke curling between buildings. Somewhere far below, a siren wailed through the night. But something inside him still felt wrong.

Like he had lost something he couldn’t explain. Or remembered something he never lived through.

LATER THAT DAY.

The tension inside Wayne Manor had been building quietly for weeks. No screaming matches or no dramatic confrontations.

Honestly, Bruce almost wished there had been. At least anger was easier to understand. Instead, Y/N had simply… drifted more. She still spoke when spoken to. Still sat with them during meals sometimes. Still wandered through the manor like she belonged there.

But there was more distance now.

A strange emptiness between her and the rest of them that no one seemed able to cross. She spent most of her time locked inside her room, doing God knows what. According to Alfred, she is just usually staring at a canvas or infront of her old laptop. And when she did come out, it often looked like she was somewhere else entirely.

Bruce noticed it first. Then Dick. Then Jason, though he pretended not to. Tim noticed everything eventually. Damian said nothing about it at all, which somehow made it worse. Eventually, after several quiet arguments and one exhausting conversation with Alfred, Bruce made a decision.

They would hire a psychologist.

Jason hated the idea immediately.

“She’s not broken,” he snapped from where he leaned against the cave railing.

“No one said she was,” Dick answered.

“That’s what this feels like.”

Tim didn’t look up from the Batcomputer. “It feels like she needs help.”

Jason scoffed. “And spying on her with a therapist is supposed to help? God, we all know that she’s not the only one who needs a damn therapist in this manor”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly because that part had been Tim’s idea.

“You are going to put a listening device in the room?” Jason, asked while looking at Tim who is installing a small listening device in the corner of a room. In fact, he hoped that the spying thing is just a joke.

Tim finally looked up. “It’s precautionary.”

“That’s creepy.” Jason retorted

“It’s responsible.”

“It’s creepy and responsible.”

Dick rubbed his forehead. “Can we not do this right now?”

Bruce stayed quiet through most of the argument. Because the truth was, he didn’t like it either. But Y/N had become unpredictable in ways that frightened him.Not violent. Not dangerous. Just… distant.

Like parts of her were somewhere else, as if she wasn’t entirely here. And Bruce knew enough about trauma to recognize when someone was drowning quietly but he doesn’t know the cause. The psychologist arrived three days later.

Her name was Dr. Vale.

Calm voice. Soft eyes. The kind of person who knew how to sit in uncomfortable silence without trying to fill it immediately.

Bruce genuinely expected Y/N to refuse.

Instead, when he brought it up over breakfast, she only looked at him for a few seconds before nodding once.

“Okay.”

Jason blinked. “That’s it?”

Y/N shrugged faintly.

“I don’t really have a choice anyway. So, what’s the point of arguing?”

The words settled heavily over the table. Because none of them could honestly argue with her.

On the day of the session, everyone was sitting the cave. Waiting for it to be done. But the session had already stretched longer than Bruce expected.

Not because Y/N spoke a lot.

Quite the opposite.

Every answer felt carefully chosen, like someone walking barefoot through broken glass and trying not to bleed. From the cave, the audio hummed softly through the speakers while the family listened in tense silence.

Inside the sitting room, rain tapped faintly against the tall windows.

Dr. Vale sat calmly across from Y/N, one leg crossed neatly over the other, notebook resting untouched in her lap. She had learned quickly that writing too much down made Y/N retreat further into herself.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, knees slightly drawn inward, fingers absentmindedly twisting the sleeve of her sweater.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Dr. Vale asked gently, “You mentioned the dreams feel like an old memories.”

Y/N’s gaze remained lowered.

“Yes.”

“What kind of dreams?”

Another pause.

Outside the room, Jason shifted against the cave railing impatiently.

Tim silenced him with a look.

Inside, Y/N finally spoke.

“…small things.”

Dr. Vale nodded encouragingly. “Small things are usually the clearest.”

Y/N gave a faint humorless smile at that.

“Not for me.”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated again.

Bruce noticed she did that often now—like she was constantly deciding how much of herself it was safe to let other people see.

Then quietly, she said,

“I remember eating canola bars in a kitchen.”

The sentence caught everyone slightly off guard.

Even Dr. Vale blinked once.

“A kitchen?” she repeated softly.

Y/N nodded.

“It wasn’t a big kitchen,” she murmured, voice distant now, like she was no longer fully in the room. “The cabinets were old. One of them wouldn’t close properly unless you pushed it hard. Which is not the case in this manor”

Her brows furrowed slightly.

“And there was this annoying coffee machine that made too much noise every morning.”

Bruce felt something tighten strangely in his chest. The image sounded vivid. Too vivid, as if he himself experienced that.

Dr. Vale remained gentle. “And who were you with?”

Y/N’s fingers stilled against her sleeve.

“My brother.”

The answer came immediately that time. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just quiet certainty.

Dr. Vale nodded slowly. “What was he like?”

For the first time since the session started, something softer crossed Y/N’s face.

Not happiness.

But something dangerously close to it.

“He complained a lot,” she said quietly.

Jason snorted softly from the cave thinking it was Damian who is being mentioned, while Dick elbowed him immediately because he thought it was Jason.

Y/N continued anyway, unaware.

“But he always made coffee first before I woke up.” Her voice lowered slightly. “Even when he was angry.”

Jason looked at Tim, knowing that Tim sometimes is still awake in early morning. But when Tim joked to Damian about how sweet he is towards his sister, that’s when Damian looked at them with confusion. They realized something’s wrong. Because no one knows which brother.

Dr. Vale smiled faintly. “That sounds like a comforting memory.”

Y/N’s expression flickered strangely at the word comforting.

Like she wanted to agree but couldn’t fully bring herself to.

“There was another one,” she said softly.

Dr. Vale nodded. “Go on.”

Y/N looked toward the rain-streaked windows.

“I remember going on a field trip with him.”

Bruce straightened slightly outside the room, his back immediately straightened upon hearing that. Y/N continued slowly, piecing the memory together as she spoke.

“We were arguing that morning.” A tiny crease formed between her brows. “I forgot my notebook. He kept making fun of me for it.”

There it was again,that strange familiarity. Bruce felt cold without understanding why. He knew why.

“He kept stealing my snacks,” Y/N muttered softly. “And I remember…” Her voice faltered slightly. “I remember hugging someone before leaving.”

The cave had gone completely silent now.

Dr. Vale’s expression remained thoughtful. “That sounds like a normal memory from school.”

Y/N frowned faintly.

“It didn’t feel normal.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know.” She pressed her fingers against her temple lightly. “Everything about it feels too real.”

Dr. Vale nodded carefully.

“Well, memory can sometimes blend together with dreams. Especially memories tied to emotional attachment.”

Y/N looked unconvinced.

The therapist continued gently, “You mentioned a brother. Perhaps your mind is recalling moments with Damian during your high school years.”

At the mention of Damian’s name, Y/N immediately looked up.

“No.”

The answer came sharp enough that even Dr. Vale paused.

Outside, Damian frowned slightly.

Dr. Vale kept her tone calm. “No?”

Y/N shook her head slowly.

“I never went to Gotham University.”

Bruce’s stomach tightened instantly.

Dr. Vale blinked. “You… didn’t?”

“No.”

“Well, I thought you—”

“I know what you think, but I left this place few years ago.”

The room grew quieter.

Y/N’s breathing had subtly changed now. Uneven. Tighter. Dr. Vale chose her next words carefully.

“You said you went on a field trip with your brother,” she said gently, trying ti change the topic. “If not Damian… then which brother were you talking about?”

Silence. Complete silence.

Y/N froze, her eyes suddenly looked passed at Dr. Vale. Completely staring at the wall. Bruce watched through the camera feed as her expression changed almost imperceptibly. Not confusion. Not uncertainty.

Fear.

Raw and sudden. Like the question itself had opened a door she did not want to look through. Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her sleeve hard enough for her knuckles to pale. For several long seconds, she said nothing.

Then quietly:

“…I’m tired.”

Dr. Vale softened immediately. “We can stop.”

Y/N nodded once and stood too quickly.

The movement looked almost desperate.

As though staying any longer would force something terrible out of her.

She avoided looking at the therapist completely as she moved toward the door.

Outside in the cave, Jason frowned deeply.

“What the hell?! Does she have another brother?”

Tim was already replaying the audio. Again. And still nothing that helps him understand her. Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the frozen image of Y/N standing halfway out the door, shoulders tense.

Like someone trying very hard not to remember something.

Damian finally spoke from the corner of the cave.

“She doesn’t look like she’s lying.”

Everyone looked toward him.

Damian’s expression remained unreadable.

“She answered too quickly for it to be a lie.” He crossed his arms slowly. “Whatever she remembers… it’s either a random dream or mix real life experience” Bruce looked back toward the monitor. Toward his daughter.

After that first session, things changed slightly. Not dramatically. But enough for them to notice.

Y/N started leaving her room more often.

She still didn’t talk much, but she stopped isolating herself completely. Sometimes Bruce would find her sitting quietly in the library. Other times she wandered the manor late at night holding a cup of tea she rarely drank.

And then she began leaving the manor entirely. At first no one thought much of it. Until they realized she kept going to the same bookstore.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“She’s been there four times this week,” Tim muttered one afternoon while watching the tracker on his screen.

Jason leaned over his shoulder. “Maybe she just likes books.”

“She buys one every time,” Tim said. “But she’s always there for exactly forty-three minutes.”

Dick blinked. “You timed it?”

Tim didn’t answer. Which was answer enough. Bruce frowned slightly.

The pattern bothered him too.

Not because bookstores were dangerous.

But because routines could become dangerous.

Especially in Gotham.

THREE DAYS LATER

The tracker went dead. And Tim noticed immediately. He straightened in his chair so fast it nearly rolled backward.

“No.”

Jason looked up from the couch. “What?”

“Y/N’s phone.”

Dick immediately stood. “What happened?”

“The signal disappeared.”

Bruce entered the cave just in time to hear the last sentence.

Tim was already typing rapidly.

“Last location?” Bruce asked.

Tim pulled up the map.

“The bookstore.”

Jason swore quietly but enough to feel the stress.

Tim accessed the nearest CCTV feeds without hesitation. The footage loaded slowly. Static flickered across the screen before finally clearing.

Y/N stepped out of the bookstore carrying a paper bag and a book pressed against her chest.

She looked normal.

Calm.

Completely unaware.

Then a black van pulled up beside the curb.

Bruce’s stomach dropped instantly.

The side door opened.

Two men stepped out.

Y/N reacted immediately, taking a sharp step backward when one of them grabbed her arm.

She fought.

Bruce saw that instantly.

Her elbow slammed into one man’s chest hard enough to stagger him backward.

Jason muttered, “That’s my sister.”

But there were too many of them. One man grabbed her wrists while another pressed something over her mouth. Y/N struggled violently for several seconds. Then her movements weakened.

The men dragged her into the van. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle disappeared into traffic. Silence filled the cave.

Tim stared at the frozen footage, pale with fury.

Dick already had his gloves on.

Jason grabbed his helmet so hard Bruce thought it might crack. And Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the screen.

At the empty sidewalk where his daughter had stood seconds earlier. The fear that settled into his chest felt old.

Familiar.

The kind that never truly leaves after enough loss. That no amount of time will make it change.

“Find her,” Bruce said quietly.

Tim’s fingers moved faster across the keyboard.

“I will.”

Absolute Earth, June 16, XXXX

Bruce Wayne had learned long ago that ordinary days could still end in ruin. That was the oldest lie Gotham ever told. That if a morning started warm enough, if the coffee was still hot, if the sun broke through the cloud cover just long enough to touch the kitchen floor, then maybe the city would let the rest of the day stay small and human. It never did.

The apartment was quiet when he left that morning. Not silent. Never that. Gotham did not grant silence to anyone who lived honestly within it. There were always the sounds of pipes in the walls, someone arguing through a thin window, a delivery truck backing up in the street below, the distant siren of a police cruiser moving somewhere through the damp gray air. But the apartment itself was calm. Lived in. Warm in the way only a place filled with people you loved could be warm.

He had never learned how to love quietly. Not until the twins came to his life, born from a one night stand to a woman who died after giving birth to them. He was young and he knew he wasn’t ready to be a father. But they need him, someone who will care for them. Regardless if he wants them, no normal person would even considering abandoning a child especially if its their child. He doted on his children in ways that made people stare, in ways that made Rhys roll his eyes and Y/N laugh and tell him he was doing too much again. The two maybe twin but they have their differences. Rhys who have his mother’s appearance with whitr hair and green eyes, while Y/N almost identical to him in characteristic. With raven black hair, but still have her mother’s eye. He remembered everything as much as he can—what they liked, what they avoided, the exact tone of their voice when something was wrong even if they insisted it wasn’t. He checked on them more than necessary. Cooked more than he needed to. Stayed awake longer than he should have, just to hear the front door open and know they were home.

If there was one thing Bruce Wayne did right, it was that he loved them without restraint.

And that morning, June 16, began like any other.

The apartment was warm when he stepped out of his room. Not physically, Gotham rarely allowed that, but in the way it felt lived in. The faint smell of coffee. The sound of movement in the kitchen. A cabinet door closing too loudly. Someone muttering under their breath.

His home. His children. Bruce paused in the hallway for a moment, listening.

Y/N’s voice came first.

“I’m telling you, it was on the table last night.”

Rhys answered immediately, dry as ever. “And now it’s not. Which means you forgot it.”

“I didn’t forget it.”

“You forgot it.”

“I strategically relocated it.”

“That’s not—” Rhys stopped, exhaled. “That’s not how memory works.”

Bruce stepped into the kitchen.

Y/N stood near the counter, hair slightly messy, holding a mug like it personally offended her. Rhys leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching her with the patience of someone who had been through this argument too many times. They both looked up when Bruce entered.

Y/N smiled first.

Always first.

“Morning,Dad!” she said.

Bruce nodded, already moving toward them, his gaze scanning her face automatically. “You didn’t sleep.”

She frowned. “I did.”

“Not enough.”

“I slept enough.”

Rhys snorted. “He’s right.”

Y/N shot him a glare. “You’re not part of this conversation.”

“I live here. I’m always part of the conversation.”

Bruce reached past her without a word, adjusting the coffee filter she had somehow managed to misplace. His hand brushed her shoulder briefly—casual, familiar, grounding.

“You’re packing for your field trip?” he asked.

“Yepp,” Y/N said, then hesitated.

Bruce tilted his head slightly.

“Your journal.”

“It’s in my room.”

Rhys made a small, victorious sound.

Bruce sighed, but there was no real irritation in it. He reached for the granola bars in the cabinet—the ones she liked and set them beside her.

“You’ll take these.”

Y/N blinked. “You remembered.”

“You mentioned it yesterday.”

“I mentioned it once.” Bruce gave her a look.

She smiled, softer this time.

Rhys watched the exchange, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he masked it with a shrug.

“You do realize,” he said, “you treat her like she’s still twelve.”

Bruce didn’t look at him. “I treat both of you like you forget things.”

“I don’t forget things.”

“You forgot your jacket yesterday.”

Rhys opened his mouth, then closed it.

Y/N laughed.

Bruce let himself smile, just barely.

That was how their mornings went. Small arguments. Familiar rhythms. The kind of ordinary that felt permanent when you were inside it. He checked their bags before they left.

He always did.

“You have your phone?” he asked.

“Check!”

“Charged?”

“Check!”

“Both of you.”

“Dad,” Rhys said.

“Text me when you get there.”

“We always do.”

Bruce looked at them both, lingering longer than necessary.

“Still.”

Y/N stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation. Bruce held her instantly, one hand at the back of her head, steady, protective.

Rhys joined a second later, awkward but present, his shoulder pressing into Bruce’s side.

“You’re worrying too much,” Rhys muttered.

“Because I’m a father,” Bruce replied.

Y/N smiled against his chest.

“Relax,” she said softly. “We’ll be fine.”

Bruce exhaled slowly.

“I know,” he said.

But something in his chest tightened anyway.

4:23 PM

The call came just after noon. Bruce was in the middle of work, hands grease-stained, mind focused on something mechanical.

His phone rang once.

Then again.

Then again.

He ignored it the first time.

Didn’t ignore it the third. Especially, when it came from his mother.

The caller ID read: Mom.

He answered immediately.

“Ma?”

Her voice came through uneven, strained in a way he had never heard before.

“Bruce—”

He straightened instantly. “What happened?”

There was a pause.

Not silence, he could hear noise behind her. Voices. Movement. Something chaotic.

“I got a call,” she said. “From a Gotham Police. A responder.”

Bruce’s grip tightened around the phone.

“A responder for what?”

“The university bus,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly. “There was an accident. A police chase—Bruce, they said the bus was caught in it.”

Everything inside him went still.

“…the kids?”

Another pause.

Worse than anything.

“I don’t know where are they, they might be still trapped in the bus. But, the police, they’re asking for you,” she said. “You need to come there. Now.”

Bruce didn’t remember ending the call. He didn’t remember leaving. He only remembered moving. Everything feels blurred and fast that he can’t cope up whatever is happening.

4:48 PM NEAR VINCEFINKEL BRIDGE

Blue.Red.Blue.Red.Blue.Red

That was the color around the place where Bruce found himself. The light that comes to the police car, was completely reflecting in his eyes as he search for his children.

The bridge was in chaos. The school bus was still there but its tilted and in it is now in the cliff near the bridge. Lights too bright. Voices too loud. People moving too fast with the kind of urgency that only came when something irreversible had already happened.

Bruce pushed through it all without stopping. Someone tried to speak to him. But, He didn’t hear them. He reached the police line and saw his mother first who is talking with some police officers. She stood near in the middle of the crowd, coat still on, hands clenched tightly together. When she saw him, something in her expression broke—not fully, not yet, but enough.

Bruce crossed the distance in seconds.

“Where are they?”

She swallowed. “They’re… still near the bus. But I can’t go in, they won’t let me”

That was not an answer. Bruce didn’t wait for more. He immediately talked with the police to confirm that his children were there.

“Sir, you are not allowed to be in this area!” One of the police tries to hold him back as they saw him crossing the police line.

“I am one of the father of two children in the accident, please just let me see my children” Bruce tried to talk the police out.

But before the police stopped him again, a surge of reporters along with parents surged towards him. And Bruce took that opportunity to immediately went to the accident site.

When he was finally within the area of the bus, he saw other parents crying beside the bodies of their children which is covered by a white cloth. While some are comforting their children who still traumatized on what happened in the last couple of hours. He started walking around to check if they are there. Oh, how he hope they weren’t there. That for once the twins decided to not attend their school trip and just went to the local coffee shop, Y/N, usually asked him to go with. Bruce knew before he saw them. When he was near the front part of the bus, thats when he saw two bodies covered in white cloth. He almost missed them not until he saw one hand is left uncovered, the hand shows having a bracelet—a blue beads with a small seashell hanging in the middle. He would never not know who owns that bracelet. His daughter created that when they went on vacation two years ago.

He knew the moment he stepped near the body and felt the absence of something that should have been there. Bruce’s hands shook as he pulled the sheet back. Rhys was first. Covered in white.

No.

No.

He wasn’t supposed to be looked like that. His son is supposed to be looking at him annoyed because he disturbed his sleep like usual every morning.

But, Rhys lay still, his face pale, his features wrong in the way only death made them. Not dramatic. Not violent. Just… gone. Wrong. His white hair who he always check every morning was stained with red, his blood.

Bruce stared.

He didn’t breathe.

He can’t even move.

Didn’t understand how something so alive that morning could now be reduced to this unbearable stillness. His hand hovered before finally touching Rhys’s hair and then face.

Cold.

Bruce shut his eyes.

Then forced them open again.

Y/N. His little girl.

He turned to the second body. Slower this time. As if delaying it would change something.

It didn’t.

He pulled the sheet back. And the world ended quietly for him. She looked smaller. Compared to the last time he saw her that morning. When she was giving her usual morning energy that filled their small home.

That was the first thing his mind gave him.

Too small.

Too still.

Her one hand rested at her side, fingers slightly curled as if she had been trying to hold onto something. While the other is laying on the ground where her watch can be seen.

Bruce reached for it. Held it hoping that this time she would hold it tighter just like how she tries to assert her not so strong energy.

She didn’t. And, it was cold.

“…no,” he whispered.

The word came out broken.

There was no answer.

No movement.

No breath.

Only silence. When he tried to open her hand who is seems to holding something. He saw a button. his button the one who seems missing on his favorite shirt. Her daughter who loves to kept something unnecessary such as this small button.

Behind him, his mother covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stay standing.

Bruce didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

If he looked away, even for a second, it would become real in a way he couldn’t survive.

So he stayed.

Hands trembling.

Eyes fixed.

Heart breaking in a way that felt too quiet for something so violent. His children are dead, one of the main reason why he wants to make gotham safer for them is gone.

DAYS PASSED

The funeral came too fast. Everything did. One moment they were alive. The next, they were gone. And the world expected him to accept that.

The caskets were small. Too small. Bruce stood in front of them and felt something inside him hollow out completely.

His mother stood beside him, her hand gripping his arm tightly, as if anchoring him to the ground.

Rain fell steadily.

Of course it did.

It always did.

They were lowered into the ground one after the other. As fast as they arrived in his life, they were also fast to be taken from him.

Rhys.

Then Y/N.

Bruce watched both disappear beneath the earth. And something in him went with them.

He came back the next morning. He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t need to. The cemetery was quiet. Empty.

Still.

Bruce walked toward the graves slowly. Then stopped. Something was wrong. The dirt. It had been disturbed. His chest tightened. He moved faster.

Closer.

Then he saw it.

The graves which is supposed to be still freshly laid out are now disturbed. The graves is still open.

Empty.

For a moment, Bruce couldn’t process it. His mind refused. Then the truth forced itself in. Someone had taken them.His children.

Taken.

Bruce dropped to his knees, hands digging into the soil deeper. Nothing. still Nothing.

Just empty space where they should have been.

UNKNOWN LOCATION.

Y/N woke to white.

Blinding.

Artificial.

Wrong.

Her eyes opened slowly, vision struggling to adjust.

The air smelled sterile. Cold. Unfamiliar. Her body felt heavy. Weak. Like it didn’t belong to her.

She tried to move.

Pain flickered.

Her breath hitched.

A voice spoke somewhere nearby.

“She’s awake.”

Y/N’s heart started racing.

She turned her head slightly.

White walls.

No windows.

Machines.

Figures behind glass.

Fear crept in slowly.

Then all at once.

Her lips parted.

“…Rhys?”

notes: Please accept this chapter as a form of apology, everyone! Will this chapter affect the storyline? hmmm….maybe? I did enjoy writing this chapter. So I hope you will enjoy too! I apologize again for I can’t tag some of you anymore.

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

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

KNOCK!KNOCK!KNOCK!

Silence……

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

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely.

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

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

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

No response.

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

Jason glanced around the room briefly.

Too empty.

That was the first thing he noticed.

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

Bed.

Desk.

Books.

And the easel in the corner.

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

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

Y/N slowly turned a page in the book.

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N didn’t respond.

Jason ran a hand through his hair.

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

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

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

Silence.

“You barely ate dinner.”

Nothing.

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” she said again.

Jason studied her face carefully.

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

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

Jason stood there for a moment longer.

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

Because once—

A long time ago—

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

Wayne Manor, Years Ago

Jason had been fourteen.

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

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

A small giggle answered him.

Tiny hands clutched the back of his jacket.

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

She couldn’t have been older than three.

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

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

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

“Master Jason.”

Jason groaned quietly.

“Traitor,” he whispered to Y/N.

She burst into laughter.

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

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

Jason straightened up immediately.

“Training exercise.”

Alfred raised one eyebrow.

“For what purpose?”

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

“She’s learning stealth.”

Y/N clapped her hands happily.

“Steff!”

Jason blinked.

“…Close enough.”

Alfred sighed softly.

“I see.”

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

The toddler grabbed his tie immediately.

Jason followed them across the room.

“Hey, give her back.”

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

“I believe the young miss requires a nap.”

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

“Wake!” Y/N nodded vigorously.

“See?” Jason grinned proudly.

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

“She’s building stamina.” Jason shrugged.

Alfred gave him a long look.

“Master Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“You are fourteen.”

Jason crossed his arms defensively.

“So?”

“You are not raising the child.”

Jason hesitated.

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

Y/N reached toward him.

Jason immediately took her from Alfred’s arms.

“See? She likes me better.”

The toddler wrapped her arms around his neck and giggled.

“Very well.” Alfred sighed.

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

Jason yelped.

“Hey—!”

Her tiny voice rang with laughter.

Jason rubbed his head.

“…Alright. She’s violent.”

Alfred looked entirely unsurprised.

Jason adjusted her on his hip.

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

“Where are you taking her?” Alfred asked.

Jason shrugged.

“Field trip.”

“To where?”

Jason thought for a second.

“…The Batcave.”

Alfred closed his eyes briefly.

“That is absolutely not happening.”

Jason grinned.

“Too late.”

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

Later that evening…

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

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

“Bru?” Y/N looked up at him.

“Yeah. Him.” Jason nodded.

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

“You just say my name?” Jason blinked.

“Jay.” She nodded proudly.

Jason grinned so wide his face hurt.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly.

“That’s me.”

PRESENT, WAYNE MANOR

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

He looked at her quietly for a moment.

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

Y/N froze.

Her fingers tightened slightly against the book.

Jason watched her carefully.

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

Her eyes lowered.

“You followed me everywhere.”

Silence.

Jason smiled faintly.

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

Still nothing.

But something in her expression shifted—just slightly.

Jason noticed.

He stepped toward the door.

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

He opened the door.

Then paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason’s voice came from somewhere behind him.

“Did you just now figure that out?”

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

“Yeah. Violently.”

Tim ignored him and opened the next file.

Victim number twenty-three.

Female.

Seventeen years old.

Burn marks. Neural damage. Chemical traces.

Next file.

Victim number forty-one.

Same thing.

Next.

Same.

And again.

And again.

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

No, this was different.

This was dangerous.

Not even the bodies themselves looked right.

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

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

He expanded the search radius.Nothing.

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

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

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

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

Three nights.

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

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

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

“You’re going to collapse,” he said.

“Not now.”

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

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

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

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

He pulled up the body locations again.

The factory.

The swamp.

The old maintenance corridor under Burnside.

The flooded service tunnel near the border.

The abandoned warehouse.

The old train access shaft.

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

He zoomed in.

Then again.

And again.

Jason stopped talking when he saw the screen.

The markers were not scattered.

They were aligned.

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

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

Tim sat up straighter.

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

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

“What are you seeing?”

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

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

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

“How old?”

Tim adjusted the file and checked the source date.

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

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

“Can you trace where they begin?”

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

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

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

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

“Or built them,” Dick said.

“Or inherited them,” Bruce muttered.

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

Twelve to twenty.

Every single one.

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

Not one of them fit neatly into a single category.

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

Jason frowned. “Then what?”

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

“They were chosen because they were available.”

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

Planning.

A system.

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

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

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

“It’s not,” Tim said.

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

This was experimentation.

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

He stared at that detail for a long time.

Then he began searching for methods.

Not suspects.

Methods.

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

Most of it went nowhere.

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

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

“Fine,” he muttered. “Be obscure.”

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

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

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

Not a person.

A thing.

A bat.

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

Barbatos.

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

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

“Okay,” he murmured.

Jason looked over. “What?”

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

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

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

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

Jason read over his shoulder and made a face.

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

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

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

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

Damian’s expression had gone colder than usual.

“So not random criminals.”

“No.”

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

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

He let the sentence hang there.

Jason frowned.

“…or just a cult.”

Tim nodded once.

“Or both.”

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

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

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

Then he looked at Bruce.

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

Bruce’s voice was low.

“No.”

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

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

Jason let out a humorless breath.

“Great. Because Gotham really needed another nightmare.”

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

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

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

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

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

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