#adopted reader

The first time you walked through the grand, echoing entrance hall of Wayne Manor, your entire world telescoped down to the sensation of your worn-out sneakers sinking into a Persian rug that probably cost more than your entire childhood apartment building. You’d seen wealth on TV, in the glossy magazines you’d sometimes find in the trash, but this was different. This was a silence that felt expensive, a space so vast it seemed to swallow sound itself.

Bruce Wayne’s hand was a steady, warm pressure on your shoulder, a grounding point in the sensory overload. He’d been quiet on the car ride from the orphanage, his presence not overwhelming but… constant. Like a mountain. He’d knelt down to your eye level back at the institution, his voice low and devoid of the playboy charm you’d seen on newsstands. "It's going to be okay," he'd said, and for the first time in a long time, a part of you, a very small, hidden part, dared to believe it.

An elderly, kind-faced man named Alfred Pennyworth appeared as if from a dream, his back ramrod straight, his smile gentle around the eyes. "Welcome home, Master/Mistress Y/N" he said, his British accent crisp and soothing. You’d never been called "Master/Mistress" anything in your life. It felt like a title for someone in a storybook.

"Alfred will show you to your room," Bruce said, his voice pulling your attention back. "It's yours. Do whatever you like with it. If you don't like it, we'll change it."

You just nodded, words stuck in your throat like a bone.

Following Alfred up the grand, sweeping staircase, your fingers trailed along the polished mahogany banister. You half-expected him to swat your hand away for leaving smudges, but he merely continued, describing the history of a particular ugly vase with fondness. The hallway seemed to stretch for a mile, lined with doors and portraits of severe-looking people from another century.

Then Alfred stopped, turned a brass handle, and pushed a heavy oak door inward.

Your breath caught.

It wasn't just a room. It was a suite. The far wall was dominated by a large bay window, offering a view of the sprawling, manicured grounds and the dark, gothic silhouette of Gotham City in the distance. The afternoon sun streamed in, catching dust motes dancing in the air like gold leaf. In the center of the room stood a bed that looked like a cloud, a massive four-poster with a deep blue duvet and a small mountain of pillows.

But your eyes, wide and disbelieving, darted to the periphery. To the things that were just… there.

Against one wall was a desk, and on it sat a top-of-the-line laptop, its screen sleek and dark. Next to it, a brand-new smartphone, still in its box, the charger lying coiled beside it. You’d shared a single, cracked tablet with three other kids at the group home, fighting for thirty minutes of laggy internet.

In the corner, a closet with its doors open, revealing not empty hangers, but rows of clothes. Jeans, sweaters, shirts, a leather jacket. All in your size. You recognized the logos from store windows you’d never dared enter. They weren't garish or flashy, but simple, well-made, and devastatingly expensive.

Tentatively, you walked to the closet. You reached out and touched the sleeve of a deep green hoodie. The fabric was impossibly soft, the kind of soft you only felt in your dreams. You pulled your hand back, your own frayed, too-tight sweater cuff suddenly feeling like sandpaper against your skin.

You turned to Alfred, your voice a whisper. "Is this… all for me?"

"Indeed," Alfred said softly. "Master Bruce provided a list of general sizes and preferences. If anything is not to your liking, we can have it replaced by tomorrow."

Replaced. The concept was alien. Your entire life, you'd made do. You'd worn shoes until the soles flapped open, slept on mattresses stained with the histories of other forgotten children. You’d learned to want for nothing, because wanting was a pain that had no cure.

Your gaze fell on the bed again, and you noticed two more things. On the nightstand was a simple ceramic mug, steam gently rising from it. The rich, sweet scent of hot chocolate with marshmallows filled the air. And lying across the foot of the bed was a single, thick, wool blanket in a pattern of stars and constellations. It wasn't like the sterile, scratchy blankets you were used to. It looked heavy, warm, and deeply comforting.

Something broke inside you then. It wasn't the laptop or the phone, the symbols of a wealth you couldn't comprehend. It was the hot chocolate. It was the blanket. It was the quiet, unspoken understanding that someone had thought not just of your needs, but of your comfort. Of a small, secret wish for warmth and sweetness you hadn't voiced to a single soul.

A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on your cheek, then another. You didn't sob; you stood perfectly still in the center of that vast, beautiful room, and cried silent, cleansing tears. You cried for the child who’d gone to bed cold, for the child who’d been hungry, for the child who had learned to be invisible.

Alfred didn't move to hug you or shush you. He simply stood as a respectful sentinel, allowing you the dignity of your moment. "There are fresh towels in the ensuite bathroom," he said, his tone impossibly normal. "The water pressure in the shower is quite excellent. I shall leave you to settle in. Dinner will be at seven. We are having roast beef and Yorkshire pudding."

He gave a slight, formal nod and withdrew, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

You were alone. Truly, completely alone, for the first time in years, in a space that was yours. You walked to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress sighing under your negligible weight. You picked up the blanket and pulled it around your shoulders, the weight of it a profound solace. You sipped the hot chocolate, the sweetness blooming on your tongue, a taste of a kindness you had never known.

Looking out the window at the darkening sky, the first lights of Gotham beginning to glitter like stolen diamonds, you felt the hard, sharp edges of your past begin to soften, just a little. You were in a castle. You were wrapped in stars. And for the first time, the future wasn't a terrifying, gray expanse. It was a room full of quiet, impossible gifts, and the low, steady hum of a promise that you were, finally, safe.

The phone Bruce gave you was a sleek, black slate of obsidian and glass, cool and impossibly weighty in your palm. Bruce had simply produced it from his jacket pocket after dinner, sliding it across the polished surface of his study's desk as casually as another person might offer a stick of gum.

"Here," he'd said, his voice a low rumble. "So you can reach myself or Alfred. Or anyone. For anything."

You'd taken it, murmuring a thanks, thinking it was just the phone itself that was the gift. A staggering enough concept. But then he'd nodded at the screen. "Go on."

You pressed the side button. The screen glowed to life, not with a setup screen, but directly to a home screen displaying a dramatic, professional photo of the Gotham cityscape at night. Confused, you swiped up. No passcode was required. Your thumb, almost of its own volition, tapped the icon for the banking app that was already installed.

It opened instantly. No login. No security questions.

And you stared.

The screen displayed a single account summary. The account name read: Y/N TRUST.

And the balance.

Your brain short-circuited. It didn't compute. The numbers on the screen were a sequence you associated with national debt, with corporate buyouts, with the kind of money you saw scrolling in ticker tapes on financial news channels. It was $2,500,000. Two million, five hundred thousand dollars. The decimal point seemed to mock you, a tiny, black speck of punctuation holding up a universe of zeroes.

You looked up at Bruce, who was watching you with that quiet, unnervingly focused gaze of his, the fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows across his face. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You looked back down at the screen, half-expecting the numbers to have vanished, to have been a trick of the light or your own desperate imagination.

They were still there.

"This is… there's been a mistake," you finally managed to choke out, your voice thin and reedy. "This… this can't be right. This is too much."

Bruce leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "It's right," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It's for you. For whatever you need. Clothes, books, music, games. A car, when you're older. Tuition. Anything."

"Anything?" you repeated, the word feeling foreign and dangerous. With that amount of money, "anything" could mean buying a house. It could mean never working a day in your life. It could mean… anything.

He then reached into a drawer and produced a simple, black leather card holder. He opened it. Inside, nestled in their slots, were three credit cards. Your name was embossed on each one in sharp, silver lettering.

"These are linked to the account," he explained, as if he were explaining how to use a microwave. "The black one is for everyday purchases. The silver one has a higher limit for larger items. The platinum is… for emergencies." You didn't want to know what constituted an "emergency" in Bruce Wayne's world that required a separate platinum card.

You just stared at the little rectangle of plastic and metal in your hand. You'd never held a credit card before. You'd watched your parents count out wrinkled bills and handfuls of change at the grocery store, their faces tight with anxiety. You'd learned to gauge the price of everything, the weight of a single dollar. This card felt like it had no weight at all, and yet it was the heaviest thing you'd ever held.

The sheer, absurd magnitude of it all pressed down on you. The room, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the faint scent of old paper and rich leather, seemed to tilt. This wasn't just being given a warm bed and new clothes. This was being handed the keys to a kingdom you never knew existed. It was power. Pure, liquid, terrifying power.

Bruce saw the overwhelmed panic on your face. He stood, came around the desk, and knelt in front of your chair, putting himself at your eye level again, just as he had at the orphanage.

"Y/N," he said, his voice softer now, the Batman-gravel replaced by something that was just Bruce. "This isn't a test. There are no conditions. It's just… a tool. To make your life easier. To give you choices you never had before." He paused, his blue eyes serious. "I know this is a lot. But you don't have to be afraid of it. Alfred and I will help you. We're here. We're not going anywhere."

You looked from his earnest, steady face down to the phone, the insane string of numbers still glowing up from the screen, and then to the credit cards in your lap. The whiplash was total. From a life of calculated scarcity to this… this infinite, dizzying abundance.

Slowly, you closed your fingers around the phone, the glass warm from your grip. You weren't sure if you were holding a key to a new life or a live grenade. All you knew was that the ground beneath your feet had not just shifted; it had been replaced entirely with a foundation of solid gold, and you had no idea how to walk on it.

The the first time you had dinner with the family, you entered the dining room and it was a cathedral of polished silver and whispered history. A chandelier, a constellation of a thousand crystal teardrops, hung above a table so long it seemed to recede into the distance. You felt microscopic, dwarfed by the sheer scale of it all. Alfred had gently guided you to a specific chair, one of a matching set of twelve that looked like thrones.

You were sitting there, hands clenched in your lap, when the others began to filter in. It wasn't a grand, orchestrated entrance, but a casual, almost chaotic trickle that completely dismantled the formal atmosphere you'd been dreading.

First was Dick Grayson—Nightwing—who gave you a brilliant, easy-going smile that seemed to genuinely warm the room. "Hey, you must be Y/N. Great to finally meet you," he said, sliding into the chair next to you with a natural grace that spoke of a lifetime in the circus and on Gotham's rooftops. He didn't treat the chair like a precious antique, but like a piece of furniture, and the simple act was strangely comforting.

Then came Tim Drake, the current Robin, who offered a quieter, more analytical smile as he sat across from you. He had a tablet tucked under his arm, which he set beside his plate with a faint click. "Hey," he said, his eyes sharp and observant, but not unkind.

The last to arrive was Damian Wayne, the current Robin. He strode in with a posture that screamed arrogance, his gaze sweeping over you with a look of pure, unadulterated assessment. He didn't speak, merely taking a seat farther down the table with a dismissive sniff. You felt a prickle of anxiety under his scrutiny.

Bruce entered last, having shed his suit jacket. He took the seat at the head of the table, directly to your right. His presence was a calming anchor in the sudden, strange dynamic of the room.

And then Alfred began to serve.

It wasn't a procession of silent, stern-faced waiters. It was just Alfred, moving with an effortless efficiency, placing before you a plate that was a work of art. A medallion of seared beef, glistening with a red wine reduction, rested atop a cloud of garlic-whipped potatoes. Beside it were spears of asparagus so vibrant they looked Photoshopped, and a single, perfectly roasted cherry tomato. The aromas that rose from it—rich meat, earthy herbs, the sharp tang of the sauce—made your stomach clench with a hunger that was more than physical.

You stared at the array of silverware flanking your plate. There were three forks, two knives, and two spoons, all polished to a mirror shine. A silent panic began to rise in your throat. Which one was for what? You'd eaten most of your meals with a single, multi-purpose spork. This was a minefield of etiquette you had no map for.

You froze, your hands staying in your lap. You watched Dick effortlessly pick up the correct fork and begin cutting his meat. Tim was already taking a sip of water from the correct glass. Damian was watching you, you realized, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips.

Bruce noticed your paralysis. He didn't say a word. Instead, he slowly, deliberately, picked up his own fork—the outer left one—and used his knife to cut a piece of beef. He caught your eye for a brief second, his gaze steady, and then began to eat. It was a silent lesson, delivered with a grace that saved you from any humiliation.

Emboldened, you mimicked him. The first bite of the beef was a revelation. It was so tender it practically dissolved on your tongue, the sauce a complex symphony of deep, savory flavor. The potatoes were light and fluffy, the asparagus crisp and bright. It was, without question, the most delicious thing you had ever put in your mouth. A small, involuntary sound of pleasure escaped you, a soft sigh.

Dick grinned. "Alfred's cooking will ruin you for all other food. It's a known hazard of living here."

"It is adequate," Damian stated, though he was cleaning his own plate with a swift, precise efficiency that belied his dismissive tone.

Tim nodded in agreement with Dick. "He made tres leches cake for dessert. You'll need to be rolled out of here."

The conversation wasn't forced or overly focused on you. They bickered lightly about casework, using vague terms you knew were code for patrol and criminals. Dick teased Tim about a hacking program that had backfired. Tim retorted by bringing up a "acrobatic miscalculation" in Bludhaven. Even Damian interjected with a sharp critique of someone's "lax form." Bruce listened, a faint, almost invisible smile playing on his lips, adding a quiet, grounding word now and then.

You were on the periphery, but you didn't feel excluded. You were observing a family. A strange, chaotic, and deeply powerful family. You took a sip of water from the crystal goblet, the water itself tasting purer, colder.

Halfway through the meal, you reached for your roll, your elbow accidentally nudging the delicate, antique salt cellar. It teetered on the edge of the table, a priceless-looking piece of cut crystal about to shatter on the hardwood floor.

Your heart shot into your throat. In your old life, breaking something like this would have been a catastrophe. A screaming match. A punishment that lasted for weeks.

But before your panic could even fully form, a blur of motion shot out. Dick's hand, moving with that impossible acrobat's speed, snapped out and caught the cellar an inch from the floor. He didn't make a show of it. He simply placed it back in the center of the table, gave you a quick, reassuring wink, and went back to his story about a "weird night at the circus."

No yelling. No scolding. Not even a sharp word from Alfred, who was quietly refilling Bruce's water glass. The potential disaster was averted and instantly forgotten by everyone but you.

That was the moment you truly understood. The money, the phone, the clothes—they were just things. This, the casual display of superhuman reflexes to save a salt shaker, the easy acceptance of a new, awkward presence at their table, the silent protection from your own mistakes… this was the real spoiling. This was the wealth you had never dreamed of. It wasn't the credit card balance. It was the safety net, woven from batarangs and unwavering loyalty, that had just caught you without a single person at the table ever acknowledging the fall.

The car that dropped you off wasn't a flashy Lamborghini, but a sleek, black sedan so nondescript it was practically invisible. Bruce, in a masterstroke of understanding, knew that arriving in a vehicle worth more than the school's endowment would have been a different kind of sentence. "It's up to you what you tell them," he'd said that morning over a breakfast of blueberry pancakes Alfred had made just because you'd mentioned you liked them. "You can be a Wayne, or you can just be you. The paperwork is under whichever name you choose."

You'd chosen your own name. It felt like a tether to the person you'd been, a small act of defiance against the tidal wave of change.

Gotham Academy stood before you, a sprawling complex of gothic arches and manicured ivy that looked less like a school and more like a university for young aristocrats. The students flowing through the wrought-iron gates wore a uniform of crisp blazers, knee-high socks, and plaid skirts, or tailored trousers and striped ties. But you saw the subtle tells—the designer backpacks, the casually expensive watches, the way they carried themselves with an unshakable sense of belonging.

You, in your new, impossibly soft jeans and the simple but exquisitely cut sweater Alfred had laid out, felt like a ghost. You clutched the strap of your own high-end backpack, your palms sweating. The schedule in your hand felt like a map to a foreign country.

Your first class was Advanced European History. The classroom was all dark wood and portraits of dead philosophers. The teacher, a man with a meticulously trimmed beard named Dr. Cavendish, introduced you with a bland, "Class, we have a new student. Y/N. Please find a seat."

Every pair of eyes in the room was a laser of assessment. You slid into an empty desk near the back, the wooden chair groaning under your weight. The girl next to you, her blonde hair pulled into a perfect, effortless ponytail, gave you a slow, head-to-toe glance. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on your shoes—brand new, but you hadn't realized the brand was a quiet, devastatingly expensive one favored by European designers. Her eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.

Dr. Cavendish began his lecture on the geopolitical landscape of pre-World War I Europe. It was dense, complex, and assumed a base level of knowledge you simply didn't have. Your old school had been more concerned with keeping the lights on than teaching the intricacies of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A cold dread began to pool in your stomach. You were going to fail. Spectacularly.

Then Cavendish paused, adjusting his glasses. "Now, can anyone tell me the primary reason the Schlieffen Plan ultimately collapsed? Beyond the obvious logistical overextension?"

The room was silent. The ponytailed girl looked down at her manicured nails.

A memory, unbidden, surfaced. A late-night conversation with Bruce two days prior. You'd found him in the library, a massive historical atlas open on the table. He'd been tracing troop movements with his finger. He'd looked up, seen your curiosity, and spent the next hour not just telling you, but *showing* you, drawing parallels to modern tactical maneuvers you somehow understood intuitively. He'd explained the arrogance of the German high command, the critical failure in their assumptions about Belgian resistance and the speed of Russian mobilization. He'd made it feel like a story, a heist that went wrong.

Your hand, almost of its own volition, went up.

Dr. Cavendish looked surprised. "Yes? Y/N?"

You cleared your throat, your voice quieter than you intended. "It was the assumption of a slow Russian mobilization, sir. The plan relied on a six-week window to defeat France before turning east. But the Russians mobilized in ten days. It threw the entire German timetable into disarray, forcing von Moltke to divert troops from the crucial right flank, which weakened their advance through Belgium and… sealed the stalemate."

The silence in the room was different now. It wasn't the silence of ignorance, but of shock. The ponytailed girl was staring at you, her mouth slightly agape. Dr. Cavendish's eyes widened behind his glasses.

"That is… a remarkably nuanced understanding," he said, a note of genuine respect in his voice. "Exactly correct."

You sank back in your chair, your heart hammering against your ribs. You hadn't just recited a fact. You had articulated a complex, causal chain of events. Bruce hadn't just given you answers; he'd given you the framework to understand the question.

The rest of the day unfolded in a similar, surreal pattern. In Chemistry, when the teacher asked about catalytic converters, you found yourself explaining the surface reaction of platinum and rhodium, a factoid you'd absorbed when Bruce was tinkering with the Batmobile's emissions system in the cave. In English, a discussion on Gothic symbolism in Wuthering Heights felt eerily familiar after a week of living in Wayne Manor and listening to Alfred point out the architectural allegories in the gargoyles.

You weren't just keeping up. You were, in these strange, specific bursts, excelling.

At lunch, you carried your tray—laden with food that looked like it belonged in a restaurant—to an empty table by the window. You expected to eat alone. But within minutes, a boy with floppy brown hair and glasses sat down across from you.

"That was insane in Cavendish's class," he said, a friendly grin on his face. "No one ever gets his trick questions. I'm Lucas."

He was followed by a girl named Maya, who complimented your sweater. They asked where you were from, what you were into. The conversation was normal, easy. They didn't treat you like an oddity or a charity case. They treated you like a person who had interesting things to say.

Sitting there, with the autumn sun streaming through the stained-glass window, laughing at a stupid joke, you had a sudden, jarring realization. This wasn't just about the money or the clothes. Bruce Wayne hadn't just enrolled you in a school. He had, in the quiet, relentless way he did everything, given you the tools to belong there. He hadn't just handed you a new life; he had equipped you to conquer it. The greatest luxury wasn't the wealth itself, but the absolute confidence that you were, for the first time, prepared.

The easy laughter with Lucas and Maya died in your throat as a shadow fell over the table. Damian Wayne stood there, his Gotham Academy blazer worn with the severe crispness of a military uniform, his expression one of pure, unadulterated disdain. He didn't look at you. His focus was entirely on Lucas.

"Your presence is no longer required," Damian stated, his voice flat and carrying a tone of absolute finality. It wasn't a request. It was a decree.

Lucas, to his credit, didn't back down immediately. He blinked, a confused smile playing on his lips. "Uh, hey, Damian. We're just—"

"I am aware of what you are 'just' doing," Damian cut him off, his green eyes narrowing. "You are occupying a seat that is not yours. Move."

The air at the table went cold. Maya looked down at her tray, her face flushed. Lucas's smile vanished, replaced by a mix of indignation and fear. He knew who Damian was, of course. Everyone did. The blood son of Bruce Wayne. The rumors that swirled around him—that he was unnaturally strong, that he’d been trained by international assassins, that he’d once decapitated a vampire—made him less a classmate and more a force of nature to be avoided.

Lucas's courage visibly deflated. He muttered a quiet, "Yeah, okay, man. No problem," and gathered his tray, shooting you an apologetic, slightly bewildered look before retreating to another table. Maya quickly followed, not making eye contact.

Damian slid into the vacated seat with a fluid, predatory grace. He placed his own tray—his food arranged with geometric precision—on the table and finally deigned to look at you. His gaze was a physical weight.

"You were attracting attention," he said, as if diagnosing a disease. "Frivolous socializing with the student body is a strategic error. It creates vulnerabilities. It invites questions we are not prepared to answer."

You just stared at him, the grilled chicken on your tray suddenly looking like ash. The brief, glorious feeling of normalcy you'd been cultivating shattered into a million pieces. "He was just being nice," you managed, your voice tight.

"‘Nice’ is a meaningless social construct used by the weak to forge alliances of convenience," Damian retorted, spearing a green bean with his fork. "His family owns a chain of mediocre coffee shops. He has nothing to offer you. His proximity was an attempt to elevate his own status by association with the Wayne name."

The cold, brutal logic of it was like a slap. This wasn't the protective, if awkward, solidarity from the family dinner. This was a territorial claim, an assertion of control wrapped in the language of tactical superiority. He wasn't sitting with you to be friendly; he was sitting with you to establish a perimeter.

"You can't just… scare away anyone who talks to me," you whispered, a hot flush of anger and embarrassment creeping up your neck.

"I can, and I will," he said, taking a bite of his food and chewing with methodical precision. "It is my responsibility. Father is… indulgent. He believes in allowing you to find your own path. I believe in ensuring that path is not littered with distractions and potential threats." He looked at you, and for a fleeting second, you saw something else in his eyes—not just arrogance, but a fierce, twisted sense of duty. "You are part of this family now. That means you are my responsibility. And I do not fail my responsibilities."

He went back to his lunch as if the conversation was over. The entire cafeteria seemed to be giving your table a wide berth, conversations hushed. You were no longer the intriguing new student. You were Damian Wayne's project. His charge. His problem.

The rest of the lunch period passed in a suffocating silence. You picked at your food, the taste gone. The confidence Bruce had so carefully built in you felt fragile and small under Damian's scorching scrutiny. You had been given the world, but it seemed one of your new brothers had just drawn a very small, very heavily guarded circle around you, and you had no idea how to step outside of it.

The apology, if it could be called that, came two days later. You were in the library, trying to lose yourself in a book, when Damian appeared soundlessly beside your armchair.

"Your wardrobe, while adequate for basic camouflage, lacks strategic versatility for all social terrains of this institution," he stated, his hands clasped behind his back. He fixed you with that unnervingly direct gaze. "We are rectifying this deficiency. The car is waiting."

You stared at him, the words not quite computing. "We're... what?"

"Shopping," he said, as if announcing a tactical incursion. "This is a... conciliatory gesture." The words seemed foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue. "For my... excessive intervention during the midday sustenance period."

It was the closest you would ever get to an "I'm sorry" from Damian Wayne. Stunned, you simply nodded and followed him out to the same black sedan. The ride was silent. He spent the entire trip scrutinizing the city through tinted windows, his body coiled with a restless energy that felt entirely out of place for a trip to the mall.

But he didn't take you to a mall. The car pulled up to a discreet, unmarked building in the fashion district. Inside, it was not a store but a pristine, minimalist atelier. A woman with a severe black bob and a tape measure draped around her neck greeted Damian with a respectful nod. "Master Wayne. Everything is prepared."

For the next three hours, you were the subject of the most intense, analytical shopping experience of your life. Damian was not a shopper; he was a strategist.

"Fabric composition," he'd command, and the consultant would immediately list the blend. Damian would feel the material between his thumb and forefinger. "Acceptable. Durability and comfort are balanced."

He dismissed an entire rack of cashmere sweaters as "tactically unsound due to high maintenance." He approved of a specific brand of dark-wash jeans because "the reinforced stitching mirrors the Kevlar weave pattern in our standard-issue trousers."

He didn't ask you what you liked. He assessed what would work. He held up a charcoal gray hoodie. "This color is neutral, projecting neither aggression nor submission. The cut allows for a full range of upper-body motion." It was like being outfitted by a tiny, terrifying military general who was obsessed with fabric softness.

You were baffled, exhausted, and a little intimidated. But then, something shifted.

He picked up a long-sleeved shirt in a deep, forest green. He looked from the shirt to your face, his head tilted. "This hue complements your skin tone and eye color. It provides an aesthetic advantage in social interactions." He thrust it at the consultant. "We'll take this."

Later, he pointed to a pair of boots. "The sole has superior grip. The ankle support is adequate for most urban environments." It was still a tactical assessment, but the underlying intention—your safety, your stability—was suddenly, glaringly obvious.

The pinnacle of his bizarre, heartfelt apology came when he led you to a section with formal wear. He stopped before a display of tailored blazers. His usual confidence seemed to falter for a fraction of a second.

"Grayson informs me that the Winter Gala is a significant social event here," he said, not looking at you, his gaze fixed on a navy-blue blazer with subtle silver threading. "Appearing without appropriate armor... attire... would be a strategic disadvantage. It would invite scrutiny."

He had the consultant help you try it on. It fit perfectly, as everything that day had. As you looked at your reflection—the sharp, confident lines of the jacket transforming your silhouette—Damian came to stand beside you. He surveyed your reflection with a critical eye.

"It is... suitable," he pronounced. Then, his voice lowered, almost to a mumble. "You will not be... embarrassed. No one in this family will be embarrassed."

And in that moment, the bafflement evaporated. This wasn't just about clothes. This was Damian's language. He wasn't giving you a credit card and telling you to have fun. He was personally, meticulously, curating a set of tools for you to survive and dominate the world he found so frivolous and threatening. He was building your armor. He was ensuring you were equipped, that you were strong, that you belonged. His apology wasn't in the words he couldn't say. It was in the reinforced stitching, the grippy soles, and the forest-green shirt chosen to give you an "aesthetic advantage."

As you left the atelier, bags carried by a discreet assistant to the car, Damian looked at you, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

And for the first time, you thought you did. "Yes," you said, your voice quiet but sure. "I understand."

He gave a single, sharp nod of satisfaction. The mission was complete.

The morning of your birthday dawned, and for the first few moments of consciousness, it was just another day. The ingrained habit of years—to keep your head down, to expect nothing, to treat it as a date on a calendar that held no special power—was a hard one to break. You dressed and went down to breakfast, the Manor quiet and still.

You entered the dining room to find it empty. A flicker of that old, familiar resignation passed through you. Of course. They were busy people. It was a weekday. It made sense.

Then Alfred stepped in, a small, knowing smile on his face. "Good morning, Master/Mistress Y/N. A very happy birthday to you." He placed your usual plate of pancakes before you, but this time, the stack was crowned with a single, lit candle, its flame dancing cheerfully in the morning light. "A small tradition to start the day," he explained.

The simple gesture felt monumental. Someone had remembered. Someone had lit a candle.

"Thank you, Alfred," you whispered, your throat tight. You blew it out, making a silent wish that felt, for the first time, possible.

The day proceeded with a strange, quiet normalcy. Bruce was in his study, on a call. Tim was tinkering with something on his laptop. Damian was nowhere to be seen. The low-level anxiety that maybe the candle was it began to creep in. You pushed it down, telling yourself it was more than enough.

That evening, Alfred directed you to a part of the Manor you rarely visited—a grand solarium with a glass ceiling that now showed a tapestry of early evening stars. You pushed the door open and stopped dead.

The entire family was there. Dick, Tim, Cass, Stephanie, even a grumpy-looking Jason Todd leaning against a far column. A banner that read "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in bold, slightly lopsided letters was strung across the room. In the center was a table laden not with a perfectly sculpted, professional cake, but with a chaotic, clearly homemade one. It was lopsided, frosted in a riot of blue and green, and decorated with what looked like an attempt at a bat-symbol that had melted into a vaguely blob-like shape.

Bruce stood beside it, a rare, unguarded, almost sheepish smile on his face. "We, uh… we tried," he said, gesturing to the cake. "Alfred was under strict orders not to intervene."

"It was a tactical disaster," Damian announced, his arms crossed. He was wearing an apron dusted with flour. "Todd attempted to 'wing' the egg separation process. It was unacceptable."

"Hey, it adds character!" Jason retorted, but he was grinning.

It hit you then. Damian's flour-dusted apron. Jason's complaint. Bruce's sheepishness. They had all been in here. Together. Making this… this glorious, messy, terrible-looking cake. For you.

Dick came over and slung an arm around your shoulders. "Hope you like food coloring, kid. We might have gone overboard."

The presents weren't wrapped in perfect, store-bought paper. They were haphazard, taped together with a chaotic enthusiasm. Dick got you a set of high-grade, noise-canceling headphones. "For when the Cave gets too loud," he winked. Tim gave you a first-edition copy of a sci-fi novel you'd mentioned liking weeks ago. Cass handed you a small, beautifully carved wooden bird, her smile saying everything her words didn't.

Then Bruce stepped forward. He didn't hand you a box. He handed you a single, old-fashioned key.

"It's for the library," he said. "The *whole* library. There's a section behind the rolling ladder, third shelf from the top. There are some… specialized texts there. I thought you might be ready for them."

He was giving you access to the Batman's personal library. It was a gesture of trust so profound it left you breathless.

Finally, Damian approached. He looked intensely serious, holding a long, narrow box. "I deemed the traditional offerings of material goods to be lacking in practical value," he stated. He opened the box. Nestled inside on a bed of black velvet was a beautifully crafted, collapsible steel baton. "It is a non-lethal defensive tool. The balance is perfect. I will begin your training with it tomorrow at 0500. Do not be late."

It was the most Damian gift imaginable—a weapon, a training regimen, and an expectation, all wrapped into one. It was, you realized, his version of a hug.

You stood there, surrounded by the chaotic, loving, overwhelming evidence of your new life, the lopsided cake, the poorly wrapped gifts, the key to a world of secrets, and a collapsible baton. The candle at breakfast had been a promise. This was the fulfillment.

Your vision blurred with tears. You weren't crying for the child who had never had a birthday. You were crying for the person who now did, for the sheer, staggering, wonderful weight of being known, of being seen, of being included in this strange, magnificent, and fiercely loyal family.

"Thank you," you managed, your voice cracking. "Thank you, all of you."

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

Air rushed into you as you reawakened into your living nightmare. You were in the same chains, in the same room, with the same toys, and captured by the same insane maniac. You groaned as you turned your body to your unsored side, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that resonated through your skull. The Joker was nowhere to be seen, but his laughter echoed through the walls of the room, taunting you like a never-ending tape of pure dread.

You had to find a way out.

But the chains held fast, the room was locked form the outside, the window was barred, and the only light came from the flickering blub above you. You were trapped, surrounded by the same sickening toys that had been the silent witnesses to your horrors. You're only hope was that someone would find you.

You flinched at the idea of being found by the man Joker was so hard trying to convince to you that he was the one that truly killed your parents. The Joker was just trying to play with your mind, twist your thoughts into believing his delusions. But deep down, you knew it was true. Batman had always been there, holding you back while he watched the fire grow and grow. He just stood there, letting it happen.

You shake your head violently, trying to shake the thoughts out of your head. You couldn’t believe what the Joker was telling you. Batman wasn’t capable of that kind of cruelty, was he?

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open. You tensed, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The Joker's footsteps grew louder as he approached the room.

"Why good morning, my little Jokette," the Joker's chillingly cheerful voice called out as he entered the room, his purple hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head. He was dressed in his trademark purple suit, the green hair sticking out from underneath his hat. In his hand, he held a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of toast, the aroma of burnt bread filling the air.

You backed into the wall, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Your heart thudded against your chest like a drum, each beat a painful reminder of your fear and despair. The Joker's grin was wider than ever, a twisted smile that didn't reach his cold, dead eyes. "I thought we'd start the day with a nice chat," he said, setting the tray down on a dresser beside the bed. The toast looked like it had been burnt to a crisp, a mirror to the state of your soul.

"I-I don't want to talk," you murmured, your voice a tremulous whisper.

The Joker's smile grew even wider, a macabre mask of cheerfulness that didn't quite hide the madness within. "Oh, but we must," he said, his tone a sickening parody of kindness. "After all, we're family now. And family talks to each other."

You cringed at the thought, your stomach churning at the word 'family'. This monster was not your family. But you knew better than to argue with a madman, so you remained silent, eyes cast downward.

"Now, now, don't be like that," the Joker cooed, setting the tray down on the nightstand with a clank. "We're going to have a lovely little chat, just you and me. It's time to get to know your dear old daddy."

The words sent a bolt of anger through you, but you kept it buried deep, knowing better than to provoke the madman further. "My dad is dead," you murmured, your voice small and shaky.

"Oh, but not forgotten," the Joker said, his voice dripping with a fake sweetness that made your skin crawl. He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight making the springs groan in protest. "But fear not, for you have a new daddy now. One who truly cares for you, who'll give you all the love and attention you crave."

You stared at him, disgust curling your lip. "Get away from me," you spat, your voice surprisingly firm.

The Joker leaned closer, his grin never wavering. "Now, now," he cooed. "Is that any way to talk to your daddy?"

You flinched, the words striking you like a physical blow. The Joker was not your father, he was a monster, a twisted shadow of what a parent should be. It was Bruce. Bruce was the one who had been there for you, not the clown with the painted smile. Bruce, with his warm embraces. Bruce, whose arms had been your shelter when the world had turned to ash.

"You… you are not my dad," you spat out, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "My dad took me in when everyone else told him not to. He's kind, and he loves me. He's not a monster like you. My dad is Bruce Wayne, and he's out there looking for me right now."

The Joker's grin faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing before he burst into a fit of laughter so intense it seemed to shake the very walls of the room. "Oh, darling," he cooed, his voice thick with malice, "You really do believe in fairy tales, don't you? That rich boy is just playing daddy, who thinks because he didn't grow up with a mommy and daddy that he could be own for you. 

You felt your heart pound in your chest as you looked into the Joker's cold, unfeeling eyes. "He's my dad!" you exclaim, your voice a desperate plea for sanity in the madness that had become your reality. "Bruce Wayne is my dad, and he loves me! You're not my dad! You're a monster! I hate you! I fuckin' hate you!"

Without warning, the Joker's hand shot out like a serpent, his gloved pal connecting with your cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. The impact sent your head spinning, and for a moment, everything went white. The pain was sharp and stunning, stealing the breath from your lungs. As the stars cleared from your vision, you could feel the heat spread across your face, the opposite of the coldness in his eyes.

"Bruce Wayne," he snarled, his hand grabbing your face so hard that his long, sharp nails dug into your cheek. "Bruce fucking Wayne. That pathetic playboy with a savior complex. He's no father to you. I am your true family now, your true home.”

"No!" you screamed, the word a desperate, animalistic cry that echoed through the room, a declaration of your unyielding hope amidst the horror. The Joker's grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, his eyes wild with fury. "Let me go!"

You knew that Bruce Wayne, with his warm smile and gentle embrace, had been more of a father to you than the Joker ever could. You had seen the love in his eyes, felt the warmth of his heart.

The Joker's grip on your face tightened, his nails biting deeper, "You're mine," he hissed. "And as mine, you will love me as your daddy, or I will make you wish you never knew love at all."

"My dad will come for me," you blurted out, hoping to strike a nerve.

The Joker's eyes narrowed to slits, his grin widening in a terrifying display of rage. "Bruce will come for you, huh?" he repeated, his voice a mix of amusement and fury. "Well, let's just say he's been a bit… preoccupied. He doesn't know you're here. And even if he did," he paused, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I doubt he'd come. After all, why would he bother with a little fucker like you?"

His hand reared back and slapped you again, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room like a gunshot. The impact sent you reeling, your vision swimming with stars. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, and you felt a warm trickle run down your chin.

"You think he cares?" the Joker hissed. "You think he's out there, searching for you right now?" His laugh was a knife in the dark, slicing through the hope that had been growing in your chest. You could see the madness dancing in his eyes, a sickly green light that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.

But you wouldn't let him break you. "Yes," you murmured, your voice thick with defiance. "He does care. He's looking for me-"

"ENOUGH!" The Joker screamed, his hand coming up to cover your mouth, silencing your words. His grip was like a vice, his thumb pressing painfully into your cheek. His other hand moved to the side, and suddenly, there was cold metal against your temple.

You froze, your heart hammering in your chest as you felt the unmistakable weight of the gun. The Joker’s grin never left his face, his eyes glittering with a wild, crazed excitement. "Let's play a game," he whispered, his hot breath washing over you, the scent of chemicals and decay making you want to gag. "You're goin' to tell me who your real daddy is, and if you get it right, I wouldn't have to do anything drastic, darling." his smile was a grotesque parody of affection. "There is only one answer," he cooed, "So… who is your daddy?"

Tears ran down your face in fear, a silent river of despair carving paths through the grime that had accumulated since your abduction. The gun was cold and unforgiving against your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push away the pain, trying to cling to the warmth of the memories of Bruce. He was your dad, he was always patient, he never raised his voice, he was there for you when everyone else saw you as nothing but a burden.

"Who's your daddy?" Joker sings, "WHO!?" he shouts. You flinch, your body shaking with fear. Your eyes squeeze tighter, trying to block out the horror, but it's as futile as trying to hold back a tornado with a handkerchief. 

Your heart thunders in your chest, a caged animal desperate for escape, as the Joker's twisted smile widens, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Bruce Wayne, isn't it?" he says, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "The billionaire playboy who thinks nothing of the little guy?" He laughs, a sound that shatters the silence like a chainsaw through bone.

You flinch at the sound, your body trembling as the cold steel of the gun presses against your temple, the smell of gunpowder and oily metal making you want to gag. The room around you swims, your thoughts racing as you try to find a way out of this nightmare. You want to scream, to tell him that he’s wrong, that Bruce is so much more than that, but fear has stolen your voice, leaving you with only a whimper.

“Please,” you murmur, the word a mere breath against the Joker’s hand. Your voice is a mere shadow of itself, weak and trembling. The Joker's eyes light up, the flames of his madness reflected in the shiny surface of the gun. He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul as he whispers, "Please what, sweetie?"

The sob couldn't be held back anymore, a painful knot in your throat that you can't untangle. It bursts forth from your chest, raw and unfiltered, echoing off the cold, damp walls of the room. The Joker's grin widens, a grotesque mask of glee painted on his face. He loves this, the power he holds over you, the way your fear fuels his sick sense of humor. The gun digs into your skin, a stark reminder of the very real danger you're in.

"Please… don't hurt me," you finally manage to say, the words sticking to your dry lips. The Joker tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity. "Now, now," he croons, his voice a serpent slithering through the darkness. "Why would you say that? We're just having a little chat, aren't we?"

"Come on," the Joker coos, his voice a vile caress. "Just tell me who your daddy is, sweetheart. Who's the man you love more than anyone else?" His grip tightens around the gun, his fingers digging into your skin.

You swallow hard, your throat thick with fear. The room seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in, trying to squeeze the truth out of you.

"Just say it, and I pull the gun away," he coaxes, his voice a serpentine whisper that slithered into the darkest corners of your mind. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat echoing like a drum in the stifling silence that stretches between your racing thoughts. The Joker's question hangs in the air, a noose around your neck, tightening with every passing second.

"Bruce… Wayne," you murmur, the words sticking to the back of your throat like a mouthful of ashes.

Joker inhales sharply, his grip on the gun tightening even more. "Bruce Wayne," he repeats, his voice a mix of anger and disappointment. "Your billionaire benefactor, huh? I guess I should've known." He chuckles, but the humor is forced, a facade cracking to reveal the fury beneath.

With a sudden, explosive movement, the Joker pulls away and jerks the gun away from your forehead, suddenly fires shots into the ceiling. You scream, covering yourself with your arms as your body was shaking violently.

"Bruce Wayne!" the Joker screams, the words ripping from his throat with the fury of a thousand suns. His eyes are wild, the pupils dilated to the size of pebbles. The smile on his face is a twisted mockery of happiness, a grotesque dance of madness painted on a canvas of white paint and crimson lips. "Bruce Wayne is your daddy? Him? Bruce Wayne!" he repeats, his voice rising in pitch with each syllable until it reaches a crescendo of insane laughter.

You cower on the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks, your voice hoarse from the screams. "Dad! Help! Please!" you sob, needing Bruce more then ever. 

The Joker laughs hard and loud, his eyes shimmering with a wild, unbridled joy that sends shivers down your spine. "Oh, you're just like your daddy," he says, his voice a serrated knife slicing through your soul. "Always so dramatic, so full of fear. It's like watching a tragic play, and you're the star!"

You scream louder, a raw, desperate sound that echoes off the metal walls of the room. "Please! Daddy! Help me!" The words are a prayer, a plea for salvation in the face of the madness. The Joker's eyes narrow, his smile morphing into a snarl as he leans in closer.

"You think he'll come for you?" he hisses, his breath hot and rancid. "You think the great Bruce Wayne gives a damn about a little orphan girl? Do you?" he shakes you violently, "Do you?" You could only cry harder, the sobs racking your body as the Joker’s cruel words pierced your heart like a knife.

With a grin that could only be described as manic, the Joker unlocked the shackles around your wrists, and you felt a momentary rush of hope that quickly turned to horror as he dragged you towards the door. The metal cuffs fell to the floor with a clang, leaving your skin raw and bruised. You stumbled, trying to keep up with his erratic pace, your sneakers cold against the concrete floor.

"Come on, sweetheart," he crooned, his grip like a vice around your arm. "Let's go see if Daddy's really coming to save you."

With a desperate yank, you try to break free, but the Joker's strength is unyielding, his fingers digging into your flesh like hooks. The corridors of his hideout stretched before you, a labyrinth of twisted metal and flickering lights that seemed to pulse with the madness of the city itself.

You stumble and fall, the pain in your wrists forgotten as your knees hit the ground, the rough concrete scraping your skin. "No!" you scream, your voice hoarse and raw. "No, let me go!"

The Joker's laughter rings out again, echoing through the empty halls, a symphony of madness that seems to amplify the ache in your chest. His grip on your arm is ironclad, his nails digging into your flesh as he pulls you back to your feet with a sadistic grin.

He drags you through a doorway, and suddenly the world changes around you. The claustrophobic confines of the room are replaced with a vast, open space, the air thick with the scent of industrial decay. You're in a factory, the kind that's long been abandoned by any semblance of humanity. The ceiling soars high above, a cobweb-covered expanse that seems to stretch into infinity. The floor beneath you vibrates with a distant, malevolent energy, the echo of machinery long silenced by time and neglect.

You struggle, trying to dig your heels into the ground, but it's no use. Your heart races as he leads you to the edge of the second floor, and you realize with a cold horror that there's no railing at the end of the catwalk to prevent a plummet to the abyss below.

You look down into the cavernous expanse of the abandoned factory floor, your eyes widening in terror. The sight before you is a nightmare made real—massive cauldrons bubble and froth with an eerie green substance, the fumes rising up to caress your face. The air is thick with the scent of decay and chemical burn, making your stomach churn and your eyes water. The largest of the cauldrons sits directly beneath you, a churning maelstrom of toxic sludge that seems to pulse with a malevolent life of its own.

"You still think Brucey is going to save you?" The Joker's cackle pierces the air, "Look around, sweetheart. This isn't exactly Bruce Wayne's neighborhood watch."

You stare into the abyss below, the toxic stew churning and bubbling like a witch's cauldron. The very air seems to thicken with each of the Joker's taunts, turning your stomach with the foul odor of despair. You can almost feel the acidic brew reaching up to claim you, a tangible manifestation of the Joker's madness.

Joker inhales deeply taking, in taking in the chemicals scent with a twisted smile, "Ah, the sweet smell of despair. It's like fine wine to me, really," he says, his eyes never leaving yours, his smile growing wider, more grotesque. 

You look around desperately, trying to find a way out, your eyes searching the shadows for any sign of escape, but all you see are the Joker's goons. They stand at attention, their twisted mask's smiles matching their leader's.

With a sudden, jarring movement, the Joker pulls you up to be at eye level with him, his grip on your chin painful. "Look at me," he commands, his eyes boring into yours with a fierce intensity. His gaze is like a black hole, threatening to swallow you whole. You can't help but meet his stare, the horror of the situation weighing down on your soul.

"You still think that your old man is still coming?" he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. "You think he cares about little ole' you?"

You nod frantically, the tears streaming down your cheeks as the Joker's words cut deeper than any knife. "Yes," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper. "He'll come for me."

The Joker's smile falters for a brief moment, a flicker of doubt crossing his mad eyes. Then, with a chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he says, "Well, let's not keep him waiting, shall we?" He throws you forward, sending you landing the edge of the catwalk overlooking the factory.

"Bruce Wayne," the Joker calls out, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. "Your little girl is here. Will you save her?" His laughter echoes back, mocking and cruel.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to wake up, praying that this is all just a terrible nightmare, that you'll open them again to find yourself safe in your bed before the fire consumed everything. But when you open your eyes, the green chemicals through the grated floor are still there, a stark reminder that this is your new reality. 

The Joker crouches down to you, his smile wider than ever. "Where's daddy now?" he whispers, his breath hot and foul on your face. "Is he going to come running like a knight in shining armor?" His words cut through the cacophony of the bubbling cauldrons and the distant wail of sirens, a stark reminder of the horrors of reality.

"Please," you whisper, your voice hoarse and broken. "Please, I... I wanna go home."

The Joker's expression shifts from one of amusement to something darker, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "Home," he repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think Bruce Wayne is going to tuck you in at night? Wipe your nose when you're sad?" He reaches out, his hand closing around your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your air. "You're nothing to him, your worth as much to him as you are to batman."

You hate the way he says it, the way he compares Bruce to that... that creature of the night. But deep down, you know the Joker's words are a twisted knife, twisting the truth into a grotesque lie that cuts you to the bone. You force yourself to hold onto the belief that Bruce would come for you, that he had to.

The Joker's grip on your throat tightens, his thumb pressing against your windpipe. "Look at me," he hisses, his eyes burning into yours. "Look at me!"

You do, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but meet his gaze. His eyes are like two black holes, swirling with madness, threatening to pull you into his twisted world. His smile widens, revealing teeth stained with the same sickly green as the chemicals below. "You're just like your precious Bruce," he says, his voice a whisper that seems to fill the entire factory. "Living in your own little fantasy world. But unlike him, you can't hide what you really are." He leans close to your ear, "You're just a scared, helpless orphan. Who no one wants."

And with a sudden shove, he sends you over the edge. For a moment, you hang there, suspended in the air, the world spinning around you. You scream, the sound lost in the thunderous din of the factory. The Joker's laughter follows you down, a twisted lullaby as you plummet toward the bubbling green sea below. 

You should have stayed at home, you should have stayed at the school, you should have stayed in the car... you should have stayed with Bruce. 

Bruce... dad... where are you?

You suddenly gasp, landing in, not in the pot of green, but in the large arms of a man. 

He lands on the ground, quickly darting to hide behind one of the large cauldrons. And looking up, you expect  to see Bruce Wayne. But instead, it's a different masked figure that has caught you in his arms.

"You good, kid?" Red Hood's voice was rough, his eyes peering out from the red of his mask.

You nodded, your body trembling as the reality of the situation began to set in. You had seen the news reports, the fear that the crimson-clad figure inspired in the hearts of Gotham's citizens. But right now, as Joker shouted orders and his goons firing bullets at you two, you couldn't be any more grateful for the crimson-hooded savior. 

"Stay here and stay low," Red Hood whispered, setting you down gently behind the cauldron. 

With surprising grace, he leaped out hiding, his twin pistols materializing in his hands like a mirage. The Joker's laughter grew shrill as he took in the new threat, his goons pivoting to face the intrusion with a mix of shock and malicious excitement. The air was suddenly pierced by the deafening pops of gunfire as Red Hood opened fire, his movements a blur of precision and rage.

You watched from your hiding spot, your heart racing as the two forces clashed. The Joker's men fell one by one, cut down by the crimson figure's bullets, their lifeless bodies hitting the floor with a sickening thud. The Joker, unfazed by the chaos, laughs from the second floor.

"Looks like your daddy's got some competition," the Joker cackled, his laughter a symphony of chaos amidst the hailstorm of bullets. His eyes danced with a sadistic glee as he watched the crimson figure leap and dodge through the rain of lead, his movements a ballet of violence and rebellion.ed vigilante brought with him.

Red Hood didn't bother to look up, his focus on the task at hand as he dispatched the last of the Joker's thugs. "Only competition you have to be worried about is me, Joker," he called out, his voice a promise of retribution echoing through the factory. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fear, but the Joker's smile never wavered.

The clown prince of crime leaned over the edge of the catwalk, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "Oh, I'm not worried, little robin," he corrected, his voice dripping with venom. "Batman's little pet always had a penchant for the dramatic. But tell me, does he still get you to do his dirty work?" 

Without missing a beat, Red Hood fired a single shot, the bullet whipping through the air and burying itself in the Joker's arm. The impact spun him around, his laughter turning into a howl of pain..

The Joker's hand went into his pocket, and he pulled out a hand button with a smirk that was both eerie and triumphant. The smirk grew into a full-blown grin as he pressed it, the sound of explosions echoing through the factory. The floor trembled beneath them as the cauldrons of chemicals began to shake violently.

Explosions go off around you, the chemicals in the cauldrons erupting in a symphony of destruction, the Joker's laughter a constant backdrop to the chaos unfolding before your eyes. The heat was unbearable, the smoke blinding, the floor shaking beneath your feet as the factory starts to collapse in on itself.

You cover your face with your arm, trying to shield yourself from the flying debris, the shrapnel of metal and shards of glass. 

Red Hood however, had this focus on the Joker. He didn't flinch, not even when the explosion knocked him. "Get out of here, kid!" he shouted over the din of the chaos, his voice a lifeline in the sea of madness. He lunged at the Joker, knocking him to the ground, and the two began to grapple fiercely. 

You stumbled to your feet, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The remain goons fired at you as you dashed through the factory. Your legs burned as you sprinted, your lungs screaming for air, the taste of smoke and fear coating your mouth.

Suddenly, the world came crashing down around you. The explosions had weakened the structure of the factory, and with a deafening groan, metal beams fell from the ceiling. You tried to dodge, but it was like trying to outrun fate itself. The heavy steel slammed into the floor, trapping you in a cage of twisted metal, leaving you just enough room to breathe but not enough to move.

"You have been just out of my reach for too long," Red Hood growled through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the Joker's. His grip tightened on the maniacal clown's neck, the barrel of his gun pressing into the soft flesh beneath the Joker's chin. "This ends now." But his bullets had run out, giving Joker took the chance and kick Red off him, sending Red Hood off the edge of the crumbling catwalk.

You watched in horror as the Joker took his leave, disappearing into the smoke, his laughter echoing in your ears long after he was out of sight. The world was falling apart around you, the flaming wreckage of the factory groaning and shuddering with each explosion. The ground beneath your trapped form grew hotter, the sludge inching closer. Panic set in, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Red Hood, who was able to catch himself by edge, pulled himself up. But before he go after the clown, you cried out,   "Please! Help!"

Red Hood paused, looking down at you, then the Joker, and back at you. And with a groan of  frustration, he holstered his empty pistols and leaped back over and landed with a thud beside you. 

"Come on, kid," Red Hood said gruffly, "Let's get you out of here."

With surprising strength, he hefted the beam that had you pinned, his muscles straining against the weight. You watched in amazement as he pushed it aside with a grunt, the metal screeching against the concrete like nails on a chalkboard. 

"I got ya," he murmured, his voice a comforting rumble in the chaos as he lifted you, cradling you in his arms. You could feel the heat of the explosion's aftermath against your back, the smoke stinging your eyes, but his crimson mask remained unyielding, his gaze locked on the escape.

The factory had become a living hell, the flames licking the walls like a ravenous beast. The heat was unbearable, the smoke thick and suffocating. As the world around you crumbled, you could feel the panic rising in your chest like a noxious fume, threatening to consume you. 

You felt right back in that fire, that fire that took your parents, as the flames grew closer, the heat more intense than ever before. But Red Hood was not one to be deterred. With a determined look, he sprinted through the fiery maze, dodging falling debris and leaping over flaming pits. His movements were fluid and precise, as if he'd practiced this very escape a thousand times in his mind.

"Hold on," The words were a mere murmur against the roar of the fire, but you felt his arms tighten around you. With a swift, practiced motion, Red Hood pulled out a grappling hook from his utility belt. The metal bit into the concrete of the ceiling, the line retracting with a whiz. And then, with a mighty leap, you felt yourself being lifted off the ground, the world spinning around you as he swung through the air.

For a moment, you were weightless, the heat of the factory replaced by the cool kiss of the night outside. The sound of the flaming debris and the Joker's laughter grew distant as Red smashed through a window, the glass exploding in a shower of deadly glitter. The wind whipped around you, biting at your skin, but it was a sweet relief compared to the heat.

The ground rushed up to meet you, and you felt the jolt as Red Hood landed with a heavy thud. The impact sent shockwaves through your body, but his arms remained steadfast, a bastion of protection against the chaos.

"Hey, hey, kid." Red Hood's voice was gentle now, his eyes peering into yours with a mix of concern and urgency. Tears where still streaming down your face as fear was still in your body. The world around you was spinning out of control, the fire licking at the edges of your vision, the smoke thickening with each shallow breath you took. You could feel the panic rising in your chest, a heavy weight that made it difficult to breathe, to think, to do anything but cling to Reed Hood.

"Kid, you're okay," Red Hood assured, his voice gruff but reassuring. "Just try to breath, okay?" His crimson eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of injury. But the fear and shock in your gaze spoke volumes. You nodded weakly, trying to follow his instructions.

"Listen, okay?" He said, his voice serious, "Help will be coming, but I have to go. So just stay put and wait for help."

But you couldn't let go of him, your hands clutching the fabric of his crimson cloak like it was a lifeline in a storm. "No, please don't leave me!" You sobbed, your voice choking on the words. 

Robin was stunned for a moment, looking to the direction Joker had escaped from, wanting to go after the clown and put a stop to him. But your sob pulls him back to reality, the stark reminder of his duty to protect the innocent. He sighs heavily, the weight of his decision clear in his posture.

"Okay, okay, come here," he said, his tone softening as he cradled you closer. His eyes searched the distance for any sign of the Joker, but the clown had disappeared into the night, leaving only his madness behind. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured you, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the chaos. 

So of course, you had no trouble freeing your sister-in-arms from her predicament and then rushing into the ever-raging crowd of cannibals; thinning them out.

As you fought, though, you kept feeling as if there were eyes on you; like you were being watched. It was a bit unsettling, especially because you knew exactly whom it was that kept looking your way despite being faced with Adam himself.

'Mind your own business, dad...' You thought to yourself as you stabbed your spear through the body of yet another angel. Though, you'd been having to hold your own self back from glancing up at him this whole time, too. After all, this was the first time you two had reunited in many, many years. Could one have blamed you for being curious about what had become of the man that once raised you, even after all the horrible things he'd done?

Finally, you allowed yourself to spare a look at the roof nearby, where Adam and Alastor were engaged in a fight. For the first little while, you actually couldn't tell which of them would win between Adam's heavenly power and your dad's shadowy magic.

But as the fighting continued, the outcome started to get more apparent. Adam was strong, and unlike your dad, he wielded angelic weapons.

Several times during their fight, you also found yourself in slightly stickier situations due to being so distracted, only for an odd black tentacle-like thing to shoot up from the ground and block whatever attack a sinner might be preparing towards you. It was disorienting, as you were fairly certain those same tentacle-things had just been fighting on the side of those sinners just moments earlier.

Eventually, there was a huge blast of angelic power from the roof of the building and the once radio-static voice of your father now sounded completely normal as he cursed at Adam. It reminded you of the way he'd sounded while alive; almost making tears prick in your eyes.

For a split second, it almost felt like you'd been taken back to that time; when things were simpler and it was just you and your dad living happily in New Orleans. But of course, this was a very different situation. You were reminded of that once Adam called out.

"Jez, get the fuck up here!" He shouted from the roof. You gulped, feeling almost like a kid that had been called to the principle's office, but spread your wings and flew up to the top of the building anyway.

On the way, you caught a glimpse of one sinner in particular that looked familiar to you. With an 'X' over her eye and a big red bow in her long hair, she could almost have been the spitting image of Vaggie.

Could this have been where she ended up?

Could this be where you would end up, now that Adam seemed to be aware of who you were?

You pushed the thought out of your mind as you landed on the rooftop now, looking over at your boss and completely ignoring the sight of your dad laying against the nearby wall; as if he'd been slammed into it.

"Yes, sir?" You asked, appearing as calm and unbothered as you could have been when faced with your dad like this. Adam's eyes narrowed but then he put on a fake smile of his own.

"Great, now that everybody's here, Jez, meet the Radio Demon!" He exclaimed, pointing to Alastor, who's eyes were narrowed into a glare despite the supposed grin on his face. "Oh, wait, you've already fucking met!" You tensed when the angel's tone got more angry but kept your composure, nonetheless.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." You replied, careful not to even look at Alastor for fear of giving yourself away. Luckily, he said nothing either; likely still shocked from both seeing you after so long and being so injured by the first man.

"Oh, ya don't, do you?" Adam replied as he crossed his arms over his chest and wore an expression of disbelief. You shook your head but that didn't seemed to be enough for the leader of the exorcists. "Well, if you really don't know the asshole, then I'm sure you'll have no problem finishing him off for me." Your breath hitched.

Adam had to already know about your relation to Alastor, but how had he figured it out? You hadn't told anyone during the entire time you'd been dead, and yet the first time you saw him again, you'd been discovered for who you really were?

Then you thought back to when you'd been fighting earlier; how Alastor's powers had seemed to protect you from even the ones that were supposed to be on his own side. It seemed the man still hadn't been able to stop looking out for you; even after both of you had died. And because of that, he'd likely been even more distracted when fighting Adam, which the angel had caught on to.

Sometimes you really forgot the first man had a brain.

"Alright." You whispered finally, unsure of what else to do. You knew what would happen if you defied Adam; it was likely the same thing that had once happened to Vaggie! But as you turned to look at your dad now, still slumped against the wall, you already knew you wouldn't be able to go through with this.

He may have harmed and killed so many, but he was still your father. He'd still raised you; been loving and caring throughout your entire childhood. You couldn't help but view him as your dad, even after everything.

Plus, there was a deeper part of you that knew you two were one in the same. Just because you hadn't acted on your murderous tendencies in life didn't automatically make you better; especially when you'd gone on to kill so many sinners as an angel in death. It didn't matter if that was what heaven had commanded you to do; you were still a murderer in your own right.

So as you went to take a step towards your dad, angelic spear raised and ready, you already knew you wouldn't be able to go through with it. He seemed to realize it too, because as he pushed himself into a sitting position against the partially destroyed wall, there was a hint of pride in his eyes. He knew his own kid; knew that you'd sooner betray heaven than your only family.

"S-sir," you said, turning back to Adam now, "Are you sure you want me to be the one to-"

"Yes." The angel replied before you could even finish, "Now, get on with it! We have more little bitches to slaughter." So much for making up an excuse not to do this, you supposed.

As you turned back to Alastor, you attempted to keep your body from shaking. With fear, regret, or sadness? You weren't sure, but whatever it was, it was enough to stop you once you were within stabbing-distance of the Radio Demon.

"What's wrong?" Adam asked from behind you; his tone telling you he very much enjoyed the entertainment the situation was bringing, "Too scared to kill off your old man?"

So he did know. Your eyes narrowed, still facing away from the angel, but now that that revelation had come to pass, even when you'd suspected it already, you felt a bit of anger boil up inside you. He was doing this purely for entertainment; using you to make the extermination more fun for him. And you decided now that you weren't having it.

So, to everyone's surprise including your own, you turned around and hurled your spear directly at his face. No matter how murderous you'd felt in the past, you couldn't bring yourself to kill your own father, and it pissed you off that he would even try to make it happen.

"Do it yourself!" You shouted. He took a step to the side so the spear missed his head by a long shot but it had been enough to get your point across.

Adam's eyes narrowed and now you knew there was no going back.

..........

Technically, Alastor had never wanted kids to begin with. As entertaining as they were, he found them to be more responsibility than they were ultimately worth.

However, the people around him seemed to consider them a positive thing; almost a necessity, when it came to human life. There was so much emphasis on that picture perfect family everyone seemed to have; a wife, children, a beautiful home.

...To the point where it was considered odd not to have or want those things in some degree.

Alastor had always known his favorite 'pastimes' were considered unacceptable to the rest of society. That was why he'd gotten so good at hiding it; whether through his smile, his charm, or the rest of his meticulously planned out actions. He always took much care in making sure no one suspected him of being different or 'odd.'

Which was why it irked him once people began questioning his wants in life. "When are you going to settle down?" They would ask, "ever thought about having kids of your own?"

"It's odd to be so happy yet so alone at your age. Perhaps meeting a beautiful woman would do you some good."

Every comment increased his anger, having never felt the need for such aspects of life, but he knew it meant people had started to see him as odd; that he stood out from the persona he so desperately tried to make blend in with the rest of society.

He needed a way to reassure them all that he was 'normal' if he wanted to continue keeping the suspicion off of him. And since he could never bring himself to marry or be romantically involved with another, it had seemed he only had one other option.

Which was how he eventually found himself visiting the adoption agency just a few blocks from his home. Keeping up his cheerful and charming act had been more difficult than ever, considering he'd never wanted to be doing this, but it was necessary, and the very next day, he walked out with the first child he'd found there.

You.

He didn't know where you'd come from before he took you in and, frankly, he didn't care. You were just a way for him to keep the suspicion off himself; a means to continue his 'activities' uninterrupted.

And at first, he only did the bare minimum as your parent. You'd been five when he took you in, which he'd deemed was old enough to be left to your own devices most of the time. He provided you with food, water, clothing, and a space to live in, but that was it. For the first year since he took you in, the only 'fatherly affection' you ever received had come while you were out in public and he'd needed to make sure people questioned nothing. Beyond that, he was just a person that lived in your house.

Alastor wasn't sure when that dynamic had changed, nor what had made it do so. One day, he'd felt nothing other than basic responsibility towards you, and then the next, it had seemed your young self had him wrapped around your little finger.

He pulled back at first, not wanting to become attached to the kid he saw as nothing more than a tool to continue his murders, but in time, he came to accept it. Even if he hadn't wanted a child of his own at first, it had seemed that was what he'd gotten when he signed up to take care of you.

Somewhere down the line, you became his, and by then, there was no going back.

..........

"What the fuck did you say, you little bitch?!" Adam demanded as he stood up tall, seeming to grow in size now. He came towards you but you stood your ground between him and your dad despite the fear.

"I said I'm not doing it." You replied firmly. It was a miracle your voice wasn't shaking right now with how much fear you felt. "I'm not going to kill my dad for you."

"So you really are that cunt's kid," Adam hissed, "No wonder you were one of my best exorcists; being the child of a serial killer." Then something in his demeanor shifted. "Why the fuck do all my best people turn out to be traitors?" You knew he was referring to Vaggie, which made your blood boil even more.

"At least I'm not too much of a coward to kill a demon myself." You spat. A second later, there was a stinging on your cheek as Adam slapped you; making you fall to the ground with a cry.

"Don't act like you're any better than me!" Adam cried, clearly upset now, "You've killed just as many of these little vermin as I have."

"I have," you agreed, staring him down despite still laying on the ground, "But not anymore." You reached down into your right boot now, pulling out an angelic dagger you always had stashed on your person and launching it at your boss.

This time, it hit, landing in Adam's leg as he cried out in pain; golden blood dripping down his clothes. "You bitch." He spat before taking out his own weapon and slashing at your left eye with it. You screamed in pain, feeling your own blood run down your face. Had this happen to Vaggie too, when she'd fallen?

Wait, were you falling? Was that what this was?

In both your pain and confusion, you didn't notice the familiar black tentacles that rose from the ground now and started attacking Adam, despite Alastor's weakened state. The angel grunted in annoyance more than anything as he slashed through them with his angelic weapon before finally turning back to you.

Off to the side, Alastor seemed both more furious and more exhausted from the brief exchange.

"Someone like you doesn't belong in heaven." Adam spat as he stood over you now. You tried to get out of his way but between your pain and bleeding, it was no use. "You wanna be with your old man so bad? Fine, then enjoy hell, bitch!" And with that, he reached down, grabbing your wings between his hands and pulling so hard that you felt them rip right off your back.

The pain was immeasurable and you screamed in agony; blood now shooting out from the two holes in your back. You'd never thought you would be falling from heaven like this, but now that you were, it was as if everything you once had was being ripped from your hands.

You felt Adam preparing to stab you again and immediately rolled out of the way, crying out when the ground made contact with your now-exposed wounds. Behind you, Alastor was seething and your angel boss only seemed to revel in it more.

"I should have done away with all of you sinners a long time ago," he said finally as he grabbed you by the collar and lifted you from the ground, "starting with you, Jez. Then I'll kill your old man and every other demon here!"

"That's not my name!" You managed to shout, sounding strangled due to Adam's harsh grip on the collar of your clothes. It was something you'd been keeping in for a long time now, and since it seemed like you were about to fall from heaven, now felt like a good time to let it out.

Adam's eyes narrowed at that and then he tossed you to the side, causing you to collide with the very same wall your dad was currently leaning against. Luckily, you didn't hit Alastor but the impact of the wall against your head was enough to finally knock you out. You really weren't used to actually being injured as an exorcist and before today, hadn't even been aware demons could hurt angels at all.

Despite his own injuries, Alastor managed to stand and take a few steps over so that he was now between you and Adam, who scoffed.

"Really, you're gonna protect them now, old man?" He asked with a condescending tone, "Didn't I tell you radio's fucking dead?!" He slashed at Alastor, who managed to block the attack with a small shield that then immediately dispersed.

"Radio's not dead," Alastor replied as he let his shadow grow behind him, panting heavily, "but it is ending this broadcast!" And with that, both you and him melted away into the shadows where Adam couldn't reach.

The Angel in question let out a grunt of frustration before turning to join the rest of the battle. He'd have the chance to deal with you later, he decided. For now, you and your pathetic father had already taken too much of his time.

..........

Both you and Alastor reappeared inside his radio tower, which was in rough shape but otherwise unaffected by the battle outside. You were still unconscious and his shadow gently laid you on whatever soft things it could find; consisting of a small pile of pillows and fluff.

Your face and back were completely covered in your golden angelic blood but otherwise, you seemed relatively alright, which Alastor was thankful for.

Rage enveloped him once again as he thought back to how he'd not only lost the fight against Adam but also been forced to watch his own child be harmed by the first man after not seeing you for so many years. The fact that Adam had even laid a hand on his kid made his blood boil and he swore that if Charlie and the others didn't take care of Adam, he would.

Your dad's shadow provided some basic first aid to you as you slept, though it turned out to be rather fortunate that you weren't awake to witness the Radio Demon's temporary slip of composure. He resolved to have revenge on heaven for what had happened today, as soon as his own deal was broken, that was.

Finally, Alastor sunk into a seat near the radio tower's control panel before glancing back at you. He didn't even need to verbally ask his shadow what it was thinking; instead it seemed to just know as it gently plucked you from the ground and brought your now-bandaged body to him.

Feeling some of his anger melt away at the sight of you, he reached out and pulled you away from the shadow and into his arms, hugging you the way he had many times in life. 

The shadow melted away again as Alastor seemed to relax slightly. "There, there..." He whispered to you, who was still asleep, "It's going to be alright, darling. Nothing else will hurt you." And he meant that.

Alastor may not have been able to protect you from Adam before, but he would not fail again. He would do everything in his power to ensure this incident never repeated; especially now that you were here with him in hell, where he actually could protect you. 

He looked out the window to see the rest of the angels now flying off back to heaven since the battle seemed to have ended. They were leaving you behind as if it was nothing, but that wouldn't matter anymore. They weren't your family; they never had been. He was always your family, and he would never let harm come to you again.

No matter what.

……….

Part 3