#neglect

✿⁠ ⸺ Chapters Guide! ; Prologue ; Chapter I, Prt 1 ; Chapter I, Prt 2 ; Chapter I, Ptr 3 ; Chapter II ; Chapter III ; Chapter IV, Prt 1 ;

✿⁠ ⸺ Previous ; Next!

⸺ WARNINGS ⦂ Fem Reader ; BatFamily acting like idiots ; mention of sexual abuse ; detachment of a body part ; use of Y/N ; English is not my first language.

✿⁠ ⸺ MDNI !! I'm serious.

✿⁠ ⸺ Words Count ⦂ 7.109

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ This chapter was mainly translated by Google Translate, so if something doesn’t make sense, you know who to blame.

Edit: Sorry At the time of publishing this I didn't realize that there were a few parts in Spanish 😓

The orphanage caregivers tried to wake you up, but when you uncurled from your previous fetal position, they noticed the horrible bruises on your face and body, your clothes tattered beyond recognition. They were horrified to see your left leg swollen and covered in green, yellow, and purple splotches—especially purple.

After the initial shock, they quickly called the GCPD and an ambulance. Carefully, they attempted to lift you, but it seemed you were on the verge of regaining consciousness.

“Mom… Mom…?”

The carer carrying you felt his heart break at the sight of your lost gaze searching for your mother. Your voice was obviously hoarse, clear signs that you had strained it for hours with your screams and cries. How long had you been sitting there crying? How did they not notice?

Poor you, you looked so fragile, and you definitely weighed less than what was healthy for your age. He had seen many cases of neglect and abuse, but this was undoubtedly the worst he had witnessed in his years of service here. Your skin was several shades paler than it should have been, making you look almost dead. There were scars all over your body, from bites, tied joints, and carefully made incisions…

He didn’t want to know what hell you had been trapped in for so long.

With the sleep finally fading from your body, you had enough awareness to realize someone was carrying you to an unknown place, and you panicked. You struggled in their arms so energetically and forcefully that the carer had to juggle to keep from dropping you.

He understood your reluctance to be carried, and with help, he carefully set you down on the ground.

You didn’t want to go inside that house. What if your mom changed her mind and came to look for you, but couldn’t find you because you were inside? You’d lose your chance to be with her again…

Even with your aching body, you leaned against a wall to steady yourself and decided to stand firm like a post at the entrance of the building, waiting for your mom, who would come for you soon… or so you hoped.

Oh, what if she had come for you last night but didn’t pick you up because you were asleep?

Oh no…

Last night, you had been so overwhelmed that you couldn’t help but cry. All the events from just a few hours ago were fresh in your mind and soul, and you were starting to come to terms with what you had done.

All your siblings, the ones who had comforted you when your mother punished you, the ones you curled up with as they rocked you to sleep, who kept you company with their presence while you talked about crazy nonsense for hours, and with whom you had played and shared your life…

You killed them, all of them. You incinerated them to ashes, and your mother surely had to hear their screams in her head, powerless to stop it.

If you were your mother, you would have tried to kill yourself too.

Your powers were undoubtedly weaker than your mother’s; you didn’t have that psychic connection with your siblings. For her, the loss must have been so much worse. And because of you.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall; you couldn’t, you shouldn’t.

Your siblings were burned to the roots because of you. Your mother had to hear them, unable to stop their suffering, and you were the one crying?!

You couldn’t. You had no right to do so.

You tried as hard as you could to hold it all in. You attempted to distract yourself with your surroundings, but it only made it worse.

The outside world wasn’t what you had imagined. It was dark, gloomy, very cold; you were scared, and you were alone.

The illusion that had motivated you hours ago had died upon facing the reality of the world. It wasn’t the incredible place you had imagined in dreams and fantasized about with your siblings. You hated it. If you had known it was like this, you would have never wished to leave your home with Doodle.

It was all so overwhelming for you that physical and emotional exhaustion had inevitably caused you to fall deeply asleep.

Now you regretted having done it; you had lost the chance to be with your mother again. How little idiot you were.

The attendant noticed how your body tensed and started to shake; he knew your mind wasn't with them now, he recognized a panic attack when he saw one, but he didn't quite know what to do; he didn’t know what was causing it, but still…

"Hey" the man next to you touched your shoulder, trying to get your attention. "Do you like animals?"

The question caught your attention. Yes, you had heard about some, and the only ones you had seen in person were a few birds flying overhead while you and your brothers were sunbathing. Your siblings…

You tried to clear your mind and nodded shyly.

“I only know about birds,” you told him, and made a confused expression upon hearing your own battered voice.

“And what about cats?”

You frowned. “What’s a cat?”

The man made a surprised grimace for a second, then told you to wait there and disappeared into the building.

You took advantage of this brief moment alone to wipe away the snot that had started to appear and to dab at the small traces of tears. A few seconds later, the man returned with a fluffy orange ball in his arms.

You frowned and tilted your head in confusion at this.

He kept his distance from you but knelt down to your level and carefully placed the fluffy ball on the ground.

The “fluffy ball” began to take on another shape in your eyes as it stood up. You could then identify the form of its ears, paws, and tail. It was something new for you, but you wanted to get to know it.

“This is Garfield. Garfield, this is…” The man fell silent, realizing he didn’t know your name to introduce you.

“Y/N!” you quickly indicated, but upon realizing how high and hurried your tone was, you tried to correct yourself. “My name is Y/N…”

“That’s a nice name, Y/N. I’m Liam, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You slowly extended your hand toward the big cat, who initially backed away before you could touch it, so you withdrew your hand.

"Let it smell you first. Animals often sense threats through their sense of smell. This way, it will gain confidence by knowing what it’s up against," Liam said.

You processed his words for a moment and nodded, trying again, stopping your hand near Garfield but not touching him.

The animal gradually approached your hand and sniffed it. You watched as his pupils dilated considerably, and he let out a small meow before coming closer and purring. You pulled your hand back at his (to you) unfamiliar behavior, but that didn’t stop him. He sashayed over to your right leg and rubbed against it, seeking all the contact he could get.

You just tensed up, unsure of what this meant.

“Is he vibrating… is he going to explode?” you asked the adult, rigid with fear.

He just laughed at your expression and gently shook his head. “He’s purring; it means he really likes you and enjoys your presence,” he explained.

He? Enjoying your presence…?

“…Really?” Liam nodded slightly.

You smiled at Garfield, and your whole body relaxed to the sound of his purring. The carer helped you sit carefully on the steps, and then Garfield seized the moment to hop into your lap.

You took the leap to pet him. It felt like petting a cloud! (Not that you had ever petted a cloud before, but it should feel like this.) And it seemed Garfield really liked it because he kept pushing his head against your hand. He snuggled into your chest and let you hold him in your arms, though with Doodle between them, you had to juggle to hold both.

You definitely loved cats.

Time flew by with Garfield, but soon it was impossible not to notice the huge cars that had parked in front of you.

Two adult men got out of the black and white car—one had a friendly demeanor and brown skin, while the other had white hair with some orange highlights and was wearing glasses.

You heard the last man exhale a low, “My God…”

You weren’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Meanwhile, from the large white car, two other people dressed in light blue rushed over to you. They hesitated for several long seconds, exchanging a glance before trying to lift you.

You looked to the carer for any instructions or at least some information. He simply said, “They’re here to help,” before heading to a secluded spot with the men from the black-and-white car.

As for you, the helpers introduced themselves as healthcare workers and proceeded to explain each procedure and what it was for before doing anything. You were grateful for that; it helped calm you down and build trust. They even let you listen to your own heartbeat!

“Let him smell you first…”

“That way, he’ll gain confidence by knowing what he’s facing…”

Mr. Liam was very wise, you thought. He could have gotten along well with your brothers, the trees. No doubt, if Liam were a plant, he would be a great tree.

After a few minutes, the man with brown skin approached you to… take your saliva? Odd…

You saw him talk to the man in glasses once more before getting back in the car and driving away. You shrugged it off, downplaying the situation.

Time seemed to pass very slowly for you. The men in light blue and the man in glasses, who had now told you to call him Officer Gordon, asked you many questions. You could barely keep up with them to answer everything.

Even though you were just sitting there chatting, you felt very tired, as if you had been playing for hours. You wanted to take a break, you wanted to…

You just wanted to go home…

Alfred knew that Master Bruce was more irritable than ever.

It had only been a few days since a new crime lord had appeared in Gotham, one who was interested in taking Black Mask off the map and continuing his business under new rules. Now, gang wars, power grabs, and crime lords were nothing new for Batman to face regularly.

However, this individual had managed to evade every trap set by Batman, escaping numerous pursuits in such a specifically planned manner that Master Bruce had started to become paranoid about this new criminal.

Dick had been called in as backup to catch Red Hood, and Tim had been suspended from his duties as Red Robin until further notice after sneaking out last night to help Batman.

Red Hood had been showing clear signs of hatred specifically toward Timothy, which is why Nightwing and Batman decided to keep him out of patrols for his safety, but Tim had disobeyed that order last night.

And speaking of that… Batman had finally managed to decipher Poison Ivy's plans after she had been missing from Gotham for just over six years. But the mission had gone worse than expected, leaving the Batmobile with some damage. Alfred could almost feel Bruce’s migraine with just a quick glance.

Alfred wanted to help Master Bruce with everything he could regarding domestic matters and resources to lift some of the burden off him; he really wanted to.

But the moment he received a call from the GCPD announcing that Bruce Wayne's biological daughter was at one of the "Martha Wayne" orphanages, he knew that Master Bruce's day was going to be longer than expected.

He took the car keys and headed to the designated location. He didn’t bother to inform his master about his brief departure; Bruce Wayne would surely receive the same information from Commissioner Gordon in a few minutes.

Upon arriving at the location, Alfred didn’t need to ask about the child; she was the only little girl surrounded by so many adults at the entrance of the orphanage.

If he had any doubts about the legitimacy of this supposed child of Wayne, the moment he looked into her eyes, all uncertainty vanished in an instant.

She had exactly the same eyes as the late Mrs. Wayne, but the state the little girl was in certainly worried him.

She was practically covered in more bandages than clothing. There was a gauze on her cheek, her arms and legs were diligently wrapped, and he noted the cast on her left leg.

In speaking with the commissioner, he had been warned about the unfortunate conditions of the girl and her house arrest imposed by her mother. He could see it in her anxious behavior; although she tried to maintain her composure, the implicit fear in her actions revealed how scared she was to be in society, with so many people around her.

He assured the commissioner that everything would be fine and that they would take good care of the girl. The officer let them go after signing a few papers, just the essentials, agreeing that this child needed to rest.

Since the DNA tests came out… or was it DMA? Either way, from that moment on, people seemed relieved around you.

Everyone told you that you were Bruce Wayne’s daughter, as if his name had to resonate in your head in some way. When you asked who he was and if they knew him, many people began to sing his praises and talked about how lucky you were to be his daughter. They assured you that everything would be fine, that you would be in good hands.

To be honest, you had a vague understanding of the common family dynamics among humans. You knew that most children had a mother and a father. Even your own mother had some.

But you weren’t like most kids. Naturally, you thought your mother had created you like the rest of your siblings, even though she had once told you that you were made from an egg until you were old enough to come out of it. Your mother had said you were a gift.

But now, you were aware that your mother had lied to you about some things…

“… If you can do that, no one will be able to harm the plants or us. And we will stay together, forever…”

In many things...

Simultaneously, Alfred thought you had been quiet for longer than usual. Considering that you had been chatting enthusiastically with the orphanage staff and the paramedics about botany and the essential care needed for houseplants, he assumed you were a talkative person.

Alfred had dealt with four traumatized children before; he knew what words to say to comfort a child like you or at least coax you out of your shell.

Through the driver's mirror, he noticed the small, mostly destroyed Red Robin doll that was cradled in your arms. That doll had certainly seen better days.

“Maybe when we get to the mansion, we can do something for the young masked one,” Alfred began, glancing at you through the rearview mirror.

His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you followed his gaze to Doodle, realizing he was referring to him.

“Maybe…” you murmured. “Doodle didn’t have a good night.” You added, trying to justify his poor condition.

Alfred chose to ignore the latter part of your statement, not wanting to rub salt in the wound by asking you about your night; the authorities had probably exhausted you with questions already.

“Doodle?” he repeated the name, hoping you would continue talking about it. “That’s a very peculiar name for a doll. I must confess, it’s the first time I’ve heard it.”

He observed how your smile faltered. “Yeah… I named him that because it sounded funny…” It sounded as if you were trying to justify why your friend had an unusual name.

The butler immediately noticed how your tone began to drop on the last syllables, and you squeezed the doll even tighter against your chest.

Returning his gaze to the road, he continued speaking. “Uncommon things, like, for example, names, aren’t necessarily bad or strange. They’re special. They’re unique.”

Though you could no longer see his expression in the mirror, you had the feeling that Alfred wasn’t just referring to Doodle.

You wondered if Alfred was also an old tree.

After being approached by so many people who spoke wonders about your father, you hoped it would be him waiting to greet you upon entering the mansion.

But you were met only with an unsettling and cold silence. The mansion, though large and beautiful, felt tremendously lonely. Not in a peaceful way, but in the sense that something bad was happening.

Alfred seemed to sense your disappointment. “I’m sorry he couldn’t be here to meet you, but Master Bruce is very busy at the moment. Perhaps he can meet with you at dinner,” he tried to comfort you. You simply resigned yourself and nodded.

“In the meantime, how about we look for a room for you?”

But before you could move on to that, you heard the footsteps of at least three people. Your heart raced with excitement as you saw a well-dressed, handsome adult man descending the grand staircase. Somehow, you sensed it was your father.

He was better than you could have ever imagined! And the best part was that he had made time in his schedule to come and greet you! You!

Even though you could barely stand without Alfred's constant support, you tried to take a few steps toward him, reaching out to go into his arms. But he moved ahead of you, quickening his pace and slipping past you without stopping.

You froze for a few seconds, arms outstretched, waiting for a hug that never came. Disappointment washed over you, and with great effort, you turned to see Mr. Wayne talking to Alfred about something that had nothing to do with you, completely ignoring your presence.

After a brief exchange of words with Alfred, he turned and headed for the exit, giving you only a sidelong, critical glance before passing through the door.

You stared at the door for a moment before turning your confused and helpless gaze back to Alfred, who didn’t seem pleased with his master’s behavior.

“Miss Y/N, I apologize, but I need to step away for a moment. I must discuss a few things with Master Bruce.” The way he said Bruce sent chills down your spine. “I trust that Master Richard can show you the rooms on the first floor.”

Behind you, he looked toward the young man who was standing by the stairs, silently ordering him to accompany you.

“Of course, no problem at all,” Dick assured Alfred.

Once at your side, Dick gave you a somewhat tense smile.

“Hey there, little one! What’s your name?”

Even though he was addressing you, it felt like he wasn’t really paying attention, more focused on the other boy who was coming down the stairs with a scowl.

“Y/N…” you murmured so softly that you weren't sure he heard you. You were about to correct yourself when Dick interrupted with an enthusiastic, “What a beautiful name!”

Both of their attention turned to the third individual who had come down the stairs. A boy a few years older than you, who didn’t seem interested in being friendly, judging by the critical look he gave you.

You hugged Doodle tighter to your chest and nervously let out, “I’m Y/N.”

“I didn’t ask,” was his response.

A knot formed in your stomach as you watched the older boy nudge him lightly in reprimand. With a nervous laugh, he tried to justify it.

“Sorry, W/N, he’s a bit anxious to get outside; I promised to take him to the arcade today.”

Your ears buzzed with excitement at hearing the name of that wonderful place you had always fantasized about. Before you realized what you were saying, the words tumbled out of your mouth.

“Can I go with you?”

“Oh…” Dick looked at Tim, uncomfortable. “I don’t know, honey, wouldn’t you prefer to take it easy and, I don’t know, take a shower?” Dick left the comment hanging, but it made you realize your deplorable, ragged appearance.

Your cheeks heated with embarrassment, and you could only look away and nod, fearing that if you answered with your voice, it would break into tears from how embarrassed you felt.

Before leaving, Dick pointed out the darkened hallway where the old rooms of the mansion were supposed to be. He instructed you to choose one that you liked and make yourself comfortable.

On the other hand, Tim looked at you one last time, paying attention to Doodle before lifting his head and muttering a low “Hypocrite,” before he left and left you alone.

You stayed in your spot for at least 3 minutes, processing in your mind the number of significant events that had happened in such a short time.

“May I know what you intend, sir?” Alfred confronted Bruce once they were a considerable distance from the mansion. “I understand that Miss Y/N’s presence might not be comforting to you right now, but nothing can justify your inconsiderate behavior towards that girl,” he shot back. “I had thought I raised you better than that…”

Bruce sighed and ran a hand over his face, revealing the exasperation he had been holding back since he learned that the butler had returned home.

“What did you expect from me, Alfred? My son came back from the dead and is already a confirmed killer, and things are going from bad to worse with Tim. What makes you think I have time for another child?”

The news that Jason had somehow returned from the dead, with more thirst for revenge than ever, had robbed Bruce of sleep. And lately, he had lashed out at Tim, throwing in Bruce's face how quickly he had replaced him.

Even though he had strictly forbidden Tim from being Red Robin for a while, he disobeyed and snuck into the mission Bruce was on last night, and not only that, he was discovered by that same girl, and Gotham was nearly populated by half-human, half-plant beings.

He put the mission at risk and also jeopardized his safety. To top it all off, although they captured Ivy, the explosion caused several pieces of glass to fly out and severely damage the Batmobile. If it hadn’t been for Dick, who arrived at the last minute in the Batplane, they would have had significant problems figuring out how to get the Batmobile back to the cave.

The argument they had upon arriving was tense, to say the least. Without Dick, it would have probably spiraled out of control.

To be honest, he couldn’t sleep either, and Alfred knew that, so right now the migraine was killing him. But things came to a head when Jim Gordon called Bruce Wayne to inform him that… his daughter? was at one of the oldest orphanages in Gotham, lost.

At first, he firmly believed it was a mistake; he was in a deep state of denial. It was impossible for him to have biological children. He was aware that his "Brucie" persona was reckless, but that didn't mean Bruce would take it to the extreme of not using protection in his sex life, especially when he had to keep up appearances.

But Gordon handed him the DNA test results, and there was no way to refute that. It was his DNA; there was no doubt. When he looked at the other half of the DNA results, he had to read it one, two, even three times to convince himself that the name Pamela Isley was indeed on the other part of the report.

This couldn't be happening. He had never been with Ivy in either of his identities—there was no way...

At least, not one he could remember.

Batman quickly glanced at the photo of the little girl, recognizing her as the one who had been with Ivy the previous night. More than anything, he focused on finding her date of birth or an approximate age. She was just over five years old. That must have been why Ivy had disappeared from his radar for so long.

At that time, Ivy had been out of Arkham, but she showed no signs of being pregnant...

Unless...

Batman typed and sifted through the security footage from Arkham six years ago. As he suspected, it was during a breakout when Ivy had managed to drug him and then...

God...

As if dealing with Talia hadn't been enough, a few months later Ivy had repeated the act, and he couldn't remember anything, leaving him unsure of how deeply Ivy had abused him and in what way.

This time, it wasn't Batman who needed a break, but Bruce Wayne—the man behind the mask who had been victimized—and he couldn't recall any of it...

Maybe, just this once, ignorance of the events felt like a blessing.

And now the fruit of that cursed day was on its way to his home, likely crossing the threshold of that door with Alfred. He didn't want this—why did he have to have her?

Should he celebrate his mistake as Batman? With the potential risk that Isley might know about his secret identities?

“I wasn’t expecting anything, sir. You know that. But that little girl was waiting to be welcomed by a father when she walked through that door.”

"She has no notion of most of the things around her, remember?" In that last sentence, Bruce said, "She doesn't have the slightest idea of what a father is, Alfred." He hurried to refute Bruce, aware that he was losing his composure and starting to act irrationally. "I just…" he brought a hand to his face. "Ivy… She… I… God."

Bruce felt his legs fail him, and he thought he was going to fall, but of course, Alfred would not allow that.

The aforementioned individual thought it was time to go to a more private place to talk. Carefully, he placed his young companion in the back seat of the car and headed toward one of the alternate entrances to the Batcave.

By the time night fell, Alfred understood that Bruce wouldn't want to know anything about you for a long time, much to his regret. Although he understood where that feeling came from, he couldn't help but feel sorry for you. You were caught in the crossfire of two adults.

But they could not ignore the fact that you needed an identity, yet Bruce showed no signs of wanting to acknowledge you as his daughter anytime soon. But it didn't matter; he would do it when he was ready, but until that moment, you had the surname Pennyworth at the end of your name.

Days passed. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months for you.

Despite the long time, you still couldn't define what life was like with your new family… The line between family and strangers was too blurry for you. There were situations where you were left wondering if you had done something wrong on the day you met them. Did you perhaps stain the carpet with your dirt? Or maybe without realizing it, did you make some expression or action that annoyed them? … Or perhaps they found out about your eye?

On the day you met your family, you justified them thinking they had a bad day. It's nothing! Your mother also has bad days sometimes, where you learned the hard way that it was better to leave her alone. Maybe this was the same.

The next day you tried again to approach your father. You were fortunate that he came down the stairs to go to the living room (it remained impossible for you to stand for long periods, and even more so to go up the stairs, so you only stayed on the ground floor all day).

When you got close enough to him, you gently tugged at the sleeve of his shirt a few times, trying to get his attention. He, in the meantime, tensed when he saw it was you and took a few steps back, but still, you tried not to let it affect you.

"Hello," you greeted, trying to sound as best as possible.

"Hello…" but your father didn't seem to notice. "Is there something you need?"

You bit your lip, realizing that maybe you should have thought of an excuse before bothering him. How silly.

Timidly, you held Doodle up in front of you. “Do you like to play?” You offered him a smile.

“No,” was his reply, as blunt as Tim's, and it made you feel anxious.

"Ah… that's okay. Mom didn't like to play either," you said, trying to reassure him, but he didn’t seem worried at all…

Before you could think of anything else to keep him there, he was already turning to leave.

“Dad…!” He stopped in his tracks, and you feared you’d said something inappropriate.

Bruce glanced around before kneeling down to your level.

“Listen, I know this afternoon you’ll be going with Alfred to get your things…” You nodded enthusiastically, and before you could start rambling about how excited you were, he raised his hand as a signal for silence. “So there are some rules you need to know.” You nodded. “The first is that you can’t tell anyone I’m your father, okay?”

"Listen to me well, little killer. If you tell anyone that I'm your mother, and I swear to God I'll know if you do, feeding you to the worms will be the lightest thing that happens to you."

Your smile faded, and unknowingly, a crack formed in your heart, but you nodded anyway. Bruce continued.

“Outside the house, refer to me as Mr. Wayne. Do you understand?” You didn’t nod, but you didn’t shake your head either. You just looked at him with sad eyes. “Do you understand?” Not very convinced, you nodded. “Then say it.”

“... Mr. Wayne.”

“Again.”

“Mr. Wayne.”

“Once more.”

“Mr. Wayne!” you exclaimed, annoyed, and Bruce realized he had pushed you too far. After a few moments of silent assessment, he seemed satisfied with your response.

He turned and walked away. This time, you didn’t try to stop him. You headed straight to your room, completely forgetting that you had gone out because you hadn’t eaten anything in a few days, but strangely, you had lost your appetite.

Whenever you were in your room, you couldn't help but marvel at how big it was and dreamed of decorating it. But this time, you couldn't; your mind was elsewhere. You kept replaying everything you had done since you entered the mansion, but you didn't think you had done anything wrong…

You looked at Doodle in your arms before rage took over and you hurled him with all your might to the other side of the room.

“It’s your fault! Because of you, my dad doesn’t love me!” Before you could stop yourself, thick tears started to form in your eyes. “You told him something, didn’t you…? You’re the only one who knows…” Your voice broke, and you collapsed backward onto your bed, suppressing the part of you that knew Doodle was just a toy.

You didn’t see Dick or Tim again for several weeks.

Tim only left his room when he went to a place called school, and when he came back and you tried to play with him, he didn’t respond or would just say, “Stay away from me.”

You told yourself many times that he might just be having a bad day, but seriously? Is he going to have so many bad days in a row?

You started to think there was something wrong with you, but you didn’t understand what.

Alfred encouraged you to keep trying by doing things like bringing him food in the living room or to his room, and you did! But when you asked him what he was doing or if you could join him, Tim would just give you a nasty look, and that was enough to make you retreat back to Alfred.

You had been told that Dick didn’t live in Gotham, which is why you didn’t see him very often, but when he was around, it seemed like he was here for everyone else except you.

He spent a lot of time with Bruce; sometimes, they even went out with Tim to places where they didn’t bother to invite you. They showed up at parties and other events. Sometimes, you heard Dick giving words of encouragement to Tim, and you would daydream about him saying those same things to you, about having what they had. You wished you could go places and do things with Dick, that he would tell you the same things he told Tim, that he would hug you and pamper you like he did with everyone else.

But you couldn’t get him to remember your name. In all your encounters, you noticed he got nervous when he spoke to you and called you W/N. That made you realize that your family didn’t talk about you at all.

Months after your arrival, you met Jason. Alfred said he had a fragile relationship with Bruce at the moment; apparently, they had a big argument in the past but were trying to work things out.

Alfred always talked a little about each family member so you could try to get closer to them, and you really tried. When you found out that Jason liked to read novels, you first asked your dad if he could teach you to read. He dismissed you, saying he already had activities planned with Tim for the week, and by the amused look Tim shot him, you knew it was a lie.

Resigning yourself, you asked Alfred if he could teach you to read. You didn’t like burdening him with requests; you knew firsthand how exhausting his daily work was. You helped him every day with shopping and cleaning, but he assured you it wasn’t a burden, and he gladly taught you to read.

You read the first pages of the books that Alfred told you to read; the truth is that you didn't manage to understand much. The language was complicated for someone your age, and it confused you a lot, but when you met Jason, perhaps you could ask him to read them together!

But your first encounter was disastrous. From behind, you tried to get his attention by pulling his hand, but with just a touch, Jason gave you a very strong elbow to the head, causing your eye to detach from its place and roll away from you, but close enough to Jason for him to notice.

"What…?!"

You bent down to blindly search for your eye.

"Don't worry, sometimes it pops out of the socket, but it can go back in…!" It was fortunate for you that you were too busy looking for your eye to see the disgusted look on Jason's face.

"Ew, that's so gross."

"…I can’t control it," you murmured under your breath, sure he couldn’t hear you.

By the time your eye returned to its place, Jason was no longer in the library.

After meeting Jason, you met Barbara.

She wasn't your father's daughter or anything, but she seemed to be part of the family even more than you. You tried to console yourself by saying that she had known them much longer than you; don't worry, the time will come when you'll be as close to them as Babs!

Maybe the first encounters with your siblings had a few hiccups, but with Barbara, it could be different; she was a girl! You loved spending time with Alfred, but to tell the truth, you also missed some femininity in your environment.

When you met her, she was working in the living room on a computer.

Alfred had shown you an old photo of Barbara, where she was with Dick during their college days. So it caught your attention when you saw her in a very strange chair for you.

You stood by her side for a few seconds, waiting for her to get used to your presence and for another incident like the one with Jason to happen.

"Hi, I'm Y/N."

She turned to you for a second, nodded in your direction as a greeting before continuing with her work. "I'm Barbara."

"I know, Alfred told me a bit about you! What do you do?" With nothing but childlike curiosity, you tried to look at the computer screen, but Barbara didn't let you, nor did she give you any excuses about it.

You tried not to feel hurt by this, convincing yourself in your head that it was nothing personal against you…

“Can I ask why you're in that chair?”

Barbara turned to you with a cold expression. “No.”

A knot formed in your stomach, and your palms began to sweat. “Then… can I help you with what you're doing?” You wanted to grasp at anything that might lead to at least a small conversation with her.

Barbara sighed and rubbed her temples. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

Your heart sank, and you unconsciously muttered, “No…?”

“Well, that’s not my problem. Find someone else.” She turned back to the computer, ending the conversation.

“Yes, ma’am…” You turned away and walked heavily toward the kitchen, where Alfred would surely be.

On your way, you overheard Barbara speaking to someone on the other end of the line.

“Was it her?… Yeah, I met her.” She sighed. “Is she always like this?”

She was probably talking to someone in your family. You wanted them to talk about you, but not like this…

Not long after, you met Stephanie. By now, you had gotten used to being rejected and sidelined, so you weren’t surprised when she turned down your offers to do something together, like going to the park or the garden. She’d rather spend time with your siblings than with you.

You genuinely wanted to hang out with them, and even Alfred scolded them in front of you for constantly excluding you. That same day, they had to let you join them in the recreation room. They gave you a controller (which was disconnected) and tried to convince you that you were playing along, but you noticed the characters on the screen moving without you pressing any buttons.

It didn’t go unnoticed how the previously lively atmosphere of teasing faded when they agreed to let you join. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the screen, and only the sounds of the video game filled the air. Even though it was your first time seeing a video game and the closest you’d ever been to one, the experience was uncomfortable, to say the least.

It was clear to you that they didn’t want you there. You wanted to spend time with them, but you didn’t want to force them to include you; you wished they would want to on their own…

After about 15 minutes of being there, you set the controller down on the table and excused yourself before leaving.

You heard Steph speak as you exited the room.

“Seriously, what the hell? She gets all hysterical and makes a scene just to leave? That girl needs help.”

You gathered all your strength to avoid turning around and shouting at them. That would only prove Steph's point, and you refused to give her that satisfaction.

Eventually, you found yourself alone with Doodle most of the time. Of course, you had Alfred (without him, you probably would have died of boredom). Most of the time, you helped him with household chores, but there were things you couldn’t assist with because of your age, so Alfred offered alternatives like practicing your reading, writing, or drawing.

Once, he suggested watching TV, but when you turned it on, the first thing you saw was a news report about your mother and a successful heist at a lab. She looked just as you remembered her—beautiful and bold—and she looked good… She looked happy… And without you.

At that moment, all those months of suppressing your feelings and thoughts about her came rushing out, and you swore you were falling apart in tears. Did she not miss you at all? Really?

Alfred had to gently pull you away from the TV; you had been crying in front of it for at least thirty minutes. He stayed by your side until you fell asleep, and even in your dreams, you mumbled things about your mother. He decided it was best for you to stay away from screens until you were older.

That brought you to your current situation: writing and drawing in your journal. You thought it was a good opportunity to express some things that had happened regarding your family—things you didn’t dare to share with Alfred, or even with Doodle. Things about your mother, your disconnect from nature, the excitement and nerves that came with your first day of school.

You recounted how you had asked Dick if he could accompany you on your first day, but he said it wasn’t a big deal and that you would be fine. He ruffled your hair and walked away. You wanted to believe him, really, but lately, you didn’t trust your family as much. Not their words, nor their actions.

When the day finally came, nerves got the best of you, and you secretly brought Doodle in your backpack as a form of support. Surprisingly, many kids tried to interact with you. Kids your age, who also liked to play and talk, unlike most of your family. You felt like a fish in water, even though you didn’t understand most of what was being said in class.

It seemed like luck was finally smiling on you…

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ First of all, I want to start by thanking everyone for their likes, reblogs, and comments. I never thought this story would receive so much support and popularity in such a short time! Really, thank you so much, especially to those who left comments about the story and reblogged it <333

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Now, on the other hand, I had a lot of plans for this chapter, but the ideas came crashing in like an avalanche. So, to make something of quality while also including all the content I originally planned, I'm going to have to split it into 3 parts. It might take me a little while to upload a new chapter since it's exam season where I am, and classes finish at the end of this month. There are a lot of exams in a short amount of time, and I need to focus on that, but I’ll do my best to get the next chapter up as soon as possible!

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ By the way, I mentioned in a previous post that I'm working on a materialist. I might upload the chapter guide for this story along with ideas for some other ones I have in mind but won't be working on just yet. So if anyone wants to be tagged in it, please let me know in the comments!

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Speaking of that, there’s also a taglist to be notified about new chapters, so if anyone wants to be added, just let me know! But please be clear about which of the two taglists you want to be added to; if you write to me without specifying, I’ll add you to both lists. That’s all

There wasn’t anything unusual about your family.

Not at first.

Evenings were predictable in the way most people took for granted—dinner at the table, the quiet hum of the television afterward, your parents talking over each other about things you didn’t fully understand. Work. Bills. Neighbors. Small things that filled the space without ever weighing it down.

Your father laughed easily back then. Loud, unrestrained like whatever joke he’d just made was the funniest thing in the world, even if it wasn’t. Your mother would roll her eyes, but she always smiled after. It felt routine. Stable.

Safe.

Sometimes, the Graysons were part of that routine.

Mark would sit beside you on the floor, cross-legged and restless, talking about whatever had caught his attention that week. A new game. A comic. Something small and important in the way it only was at that age. Debbie would help your mom in the kitchen without needing to be asked, warm and familiar in a way that made your home feel a little fuller.

Nolan was quieter.

He stood out without trying to—taller, stiller, watching more than he spoke. When he did talk, it was brief, measured. Polite. He wasn’t cold, not exactly. Just… distant. Like he was present, but not entirely there.

It never bothered you.

None of it did.

Because everything felt the way it was supposed to.

--

The first crack was easy to miss.

It wasn’t loud. Not at first.

Just a shift.

Your parents started talking less around you. Conversations that used to happen at the table moved behind closed doors. The television stayed on longer. The house felt quieter, but not in a peaceful way more like something was being held in place, stretched thin.

You remember the first time voices carried through the walls.

Not shouting. Not yet.

Sharp. Quick. Cut off too soon.

The next morning everything went back to normal.

Or at least, it tried to.

---

It didn’t stay that way.

Arguments came more often after that. Louder. Harder to ignore.

Words you didn’t understand were said with tones you did.

Accusations. Deflections. Silence that followed like something heavy settling in the air.

You stopped asking questions.

It was easier not to.

---

The day everything broke didn’t feel important at first.

No yelling. No slammed doors.

Just tension--thick, suffocating, sitting in every corner of the house.

Your father didn’t look at you much that day.

Your mother didn’t look at him at all.

---

You don’t remember exactly what was said.

Only pieces.

A name that wasn’t your mothers.

A voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before.

Something bitter, sharp, final.

And then

He left.

Just like that.

No long goodbye. No explanation that made sense. Just absence, sudden and complete, like something had been pulled out from the cente of everything and left it hollow.

---

The house didn’t feel the same after that.

It was quieter, but not the same kind of quiet as before.

This one lingered.

Your mother changed in ways that were harder to name.

At first, it was small.

She stopped smiling as much. Stopped talking unless she had to. The warmth she used to carry so easily felt… distant. Like it had been packed away somewhere you couldn’t reach.

Then came the frustration.

Short answers. Sharper tones. A patience that wore thinner with every passing day.

You didn’t understand why.

You only knew it was getting harder to breathe in a place that used to feel safe.

---

By the time things really started falling apart

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the memories and the silence that now inhabited that room. Every corner of that space reminded him of his daughter's presence, a presence that had been fragile and ephemeral, like smoke disappearing between fingers. He looked at the diplomas and trophies on the shelves, those small proofs of her effort and dedication. He caressed them with the same reverence he used when going through old photographs, searching for something, anything, that would tell him he had done enough, that he had been a good father.

But he only saw the same emptiness in her eyes that he had known since childhood. She resembled him more than he would have imagined. In her dull gaze, in her absent smile, he recognized the same pain that had accompanied him after his parents' death. He realized, almost bitterly, that this darkness was an inheritance, a shadow he had left in her without realizing it.

Bruce ran his fingers over an old photo from her first birthday after losing his mother. That day, Alfred had secretly taken her to Metropolis in a desperate attempt to give her some happiness. But even at the amusement park, where laughter and noise were contagious, her face remained a vacant mask. She wasn’t really smiling, as if something inside her knew she would never have the normalcy that other children enjoyed.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce rested his head on the pillow that had been hers, wanting to cling to the scent of his daughter. But there was no trace of her aroma left. Alfred, in an act of rigor that Bruce couldn’t understand, had eliminated any trace of her, perhaps trying to close a wound that Bruce was unwilling to let heal. He had reproached Alfred for hours and hours for erasing that last vestige of his daughter. But Alfred’s look, serious and filled with silence, told him what he already knew: maybe he didn’t deserve to keep those memories because he had failed to protect the person he loved most.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the pain of each thought that emerged from that dark room. Everything reminded him that, somehow, he was responsible for his daughter's disappearance, as if his own shadows had consumed her. In his mind, images of what he could have done differently began to surface, a parade of possibilities where he was a better father, more attentive and less blind to her suffering.

Suddenly, Titus and Alfred the Cat entered together through the door, coming in silently, as if they understood the weight of that moment. Titus approached Bruce, resting his massive head on his knee, while Alfred the Cat jumped onto Bruce's lap, purring softly. Bruce petted the dog and the cat, finding in them the only comfort that seemed left to him. His voice trembled when, in an almost delirious tone, he confessed to them:

"Maybe I’m the real killer here. What kind of father lets his daughter get lost in the dark? What kind of monster was I that I never saw her pain? If she’s dead… if my little girl has left this world… then I am the only one responsible."

He paused, breathing heavily, as the words he wanted to suppress escaped his lips in a bitter and disturbing whisper. "Sometimes I wish I had… had stopped her mother. If she hadn’t been… if I had raised her from the beginning… I could have saved her from so much pain."

The words, though spoken in a barely audible murmur, weighed heavily in the room. He caressed the pillow, almost pleading for the past to change, for every mistake to be undone. The cat purred softly, as if understanding the pain Bruce was trying to stifle deep in his chest. Titus looked at him with eyes full of loyalty, without judging him, but not offering the redemption he desperately sought.

"I would give anything for a second chance," he whispered, his voice broken. "I would give my life to undo every moment that made her drift away. I would give anything to see her smile again, even if it were just once… even if it were just to tell her how sorry I am."

The house was silent, and in that instant, Bruce understood that there were no words, no time, no strength that could change the past. He was trapped in an abyss of guilt, with only shadows and memories now haunting him, reflecting his own empty and broken face.

Finally, he could no longer contain himself. Feeling the emptiness in his chest, tears began to fall onto the pillow, soaking it with his pain, as if the weight of his own guilt slid out in every sob he tried to stifle. His face was buried in the memory of his daughter, lost in the pain that tormented him with an intensity he could no longer bear.

It was then that Damian entered, dressed as Robin, with his katana stained with a dark red liquid that could be nothing other than blood, with a sharp and direct arrogance, breaking the silent mourning of Bruce. Coldly, he looked at his father and pronounced, almost with disdain, "No matter how much you cry like a whore, Y/N won’t come back."

Bruce looked up, surprised and hurt, but before he could respond, Damian continued with the same hardness. "While everyone was out in a gang like a bunch of lowlifes and came back empty-handed, I found something you didn’t even bother to look for while lying here like a cheap whore." Damian looked at him with a mix of disappointment and reproach, as if he couldn’t understand how his father had let so many signs slip by.

"Did you know? I had a relationship with Ivy, that old woman who had the indecency to date my little sister while being an old hag. Plus, she worked as a waitress in some bar wearing little clothes to survive. Like some common bitch. And the last time, she was seen in the subway, with a strange man with psychiatric crazy vibes... surely another one that slipped away while you were lying here." Damian’s words were blows to Bruce, each revelation a testament to how much he had let slip away.

Damian continued, each phrase laden with resentment and questions. "Why did she have to work? Why did she, the daughter of the renowned multimillionaire Bruce Wayne, the masked hero of Gotham, have to depend on a miserable paycheck that didn’t even cover the end of the month? And the subway, father, did she really have to take the subway like any unknown person in this city?"

Bruce looked down, unable to respond. Each of those questions was a dagger reminding him how far he had been from understanding his own daughter. He had ignored, or perhaps never wanted to see, the sacrifices she made to survive, the paths she took in search of something he had never given her. Now, with Damian's words filling the silence, Bruce realized he had condemned his daughter to the same fate he was trying to combat on the streets.

Damian watched him, his gaze cold and critical, as the room filled with a tense silence. For the first time, Bruce understood that perhaps he was never the hero he thought he was, and that in his attempt to protect everyone, he had failed to protect the one who needed him the most.

Bruce felt anger bubbling inside him, intensifying with each word that left Damian's lips. "How dare you come in here and say that? You weren’t a brother to her, you weren’t there when she needed you the most," he shot back, his voice echoing in the room like dark thunder. The image of his daughter intertwined with his rage, each contained tear now fueling his fury.

Damian frowned, unrestrained. "That's how I show my affection; you should be used to it," he retorted disdainfully, recalling that moment when he arrived at the mansion, he had stabbed Y/N with his katana. "I did what I had to do, and I don’t have to accept your reproaches. Everyone failed Y/N, even you."

"Don’t try to blame others for your own failures!" Bruce shouted, frustration filling every corner of his being. "You weren’t there, Damian. You can’t always hide behind your arrogance."

Damian crossed his arms, his defiant attitude unbreakable. "And what if I wasn't? At least I didn’t hide behind a mask of sadness. Better stop reproaching me and listen to what I have for you." He stepped closer, pulling out a half-open old cardboard box. "I brought you a gift."

Bruce looked at him suspiciously. "What is it now?"

"I went looking for Selina, but she slipped away like a scared kitten," Damian said, mocking the situation. "A waste of time, but I found Ivy in Arkham. She said little about Y/N, which annoyed me, so… well, here you go." He opened the box slowly, revealing Poison Ivy's head, the fresh blood still dripping from the edges.

Her face, once beautiful, was now serene, with pale skin and a touch of green that evoked her connection to nature. Her normally vibrant red hair now fell messily around her face, while her eyes, closed forever, seemed almost at peace, as if she had found a breath in the chaos she once inhabited.

Bruce felt as if the world had stopped. There was no horror in his gaze, only an emptiness where anger and sadness collided. "What have you done?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, but resignation permeated every word. The life of his daughter, the decisions he had made and what that meant now overwhelmed him.

Damian shrugged. "She was a monster, just like all of us. What matters is that now you have something tangible, something you can show."

"What kind of family are we?" Bruce let slip, feeling defeated. "This family is a failure."

"Oh, so it turns out we’ve been a family all this time?" Damian replied, scornful, but his tone was less certain.

Bruce closed his eyes, feeling the discomfort of the situation. "Take me to the apartment where she lived," he said, his voice enigmatic and cold. It was a request that resonated with the gravity of what he had lost, an echo of what he had failed to protect. As Damian looked at him with surprise and a hint of concern, Bruce knew that the truth he would face in that place was beyond any form of redemption. The darkness that had invaded his life was about to be confronted, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for what he would find.

As Bruce and Damian prepared to leave, Titus and Alfred the Cat watched them from a distance. The dog remained alert, his ears perked, as if he could sense the tension looming in the air. His instinct told him that something grave was about to happen. Alfred, with his wise and sharp gaze, seemed to share the same unease, his eyes fixed on the men who were heading toward the dark fate they had chosen.

As Bruce and Damian headed for the door, Titus stepped forward, his expression a mix of concern and determination. It was as if he were trying to convey a silent message, a call to reason that his owners could not hear amid their emotional turmoil. Alfred the Cat, with his elegant stride, approached Bruce and rubbed his head against his leg, seeking comfort for the hero who seemed on the brink of losing himself even further in the darkness.

Turning around, Bruce felt a pang in his heart. He looked at his animals, those innocent beings who had always been there to offer him companionship, and realized that they were aware of what was about to come. In a world where violence and betrayal lurked around every corner, their departure was the beginning of something much darker.

With one last look, Bruce found himself in Titus's eyes, reflecting a mix of loyalty and worry. It was as if the dog knew that the decision they were making would not only affect them but would also drag others into a chaos from which they could not escape.

Damian, impatient, had already crossed the threshold, but Bruce paused for one more moment. "I’m sorry," he murmured, although he was not sure to whom he was really addressing: whether to the animals who looked at him with eyes full of wisdom or to himself for the path he had chosen.

However, it was already too late to turn back. With one last glance at the room where it all began, and at the animals who looked at him with concern, Bruce stepped into the dark world that awaited them, unaware that soon, everything would get worse. The air was charged with ominous anticipation, and the feeling that tragedy loomed over them like a shadow, deep and inevitable.

You lay on the bed, your body still heavy from the forced encounter, thoughts fluttering in your mind like butterflies trapped in a net. The room was enveloped in an unsettling gloom, the air thick with a tension that could not be ignored. Beside you, he breathed with a calm that contrasted with the whirlwind inside you. There was no name, no face to remember; it was just him, the one who had kidnapped you and made you his own, a figure who had taken your life and distorted it at will.

As you stared at the ceiling, the silence became a mirror of your thoughts. Rage and hatred toward your family surged within you, feelings that had once seemed so distant. They didn’t understand you, they hadn’t been there to protect you, and now, in this strange intimacy, you found yourself wishing to be with him more than with them. Confusion engulfed you; on one hand, there was a part of you longing for affection and acceptance, while on the other, there was a strange pleasure in the situation, a desire to escape the life that had caused you so much suffering.

Despite everything, you missed your mother. Her laughter, her hugs, the way she always knew how to calm your fears. But that maternal figure was slowly fading from your memory, drowned by the anguish of betrayal and loneliness. You found yourself trapped between the desire to remember the good and the hatred toward the past that had brought you here.

As the room remained silent, a dark and almost self-destructive impulse took hold of you. With trembling movements, you picked up a sharp object and pressed it against your skin, feeling a sting that was both physical and emotional. In that moment, you thought about the irony of your situation: you had lost control of your life, and in seeking an escape, you chose to hurt yourself.

The duality of your feelings was heartbreaking. On one hand, you yearned for freedom, to reclaim your identity and the love that had been taken from you. On the other, there was a part of you that felt alive in this new relationship, a twisted connection that kept you captive. The internal struggle manifested in every thought and every action, revealing the complexity of your situation.

You remembered moments from his life, the wounds he carried, and the pain he had faced. Had Bruce ever been so lost, so filled with sadness that he had to do the unthinkable to feel something? The idea that the man you admired could also have been vulnerable struck you like a revelation. You wondered if he had ever cried in solitude, questioning his place in the world, if he had ever felt so trapped in his own life.

As you touched your stomach, an old pain resurfaced. There, beneath the skin, was a scar, a reminder of the time Damian had hurt you with his katana, an act that had been both an attack and a cry of desperation. The brush of your fingers over the wound, although healed, still brought memories of suffering and betrayal, a deep connection intertwined with the pain you felt now. The scar was a metaphor for your life: a wound that would never fully heal, a reminder that pain is part of your existence.

Tears fell more forcefully as you thought about how your family’s decisions, rivalries, and chaos had influenced your life. Bruce, with his constant struggle against the shadows of his past, was a reflection of what you could have been: strong, determined, but also broken and lost. In that moment, you felt just like him, entangled in a cycle of suffering and confusion.

You allowed yourself to cry, feeling that perhaps in that vulnerability there was some freedom. It was a relief, an act of resistance in the midst of the oppression that surrounded you. As the outside world faded away, the pain of the scar became a reminder that, despite everything, there was still a part of you yearning to break free, wanting to escape this darkness. And amid that sadness, one thought grew stronger: perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to find your path again.

The man let go of your cheek and, with a casual gesture, lit a cigarette, the smoke dancing in the air like shadows in the dim light of the room. His eyes, fixed on you, had a dangerous intensity. "Do you see this?" he said, exhaling the smoke slowly. "Now you are stained, like Gotham. You’ve been in the mud, and it’s your duty to clean yourself up. This is just the beginning."

He looked at you with a twisted smile, an expression that mixed amusement and dominance. "You have to understand that you can’t escape from what you are. The city is a reflection of yourself. And like Gotham, you too need to be purified." With a sudden movement, he offered you the cigarette. "Smoke. It will help you forget the tears."

You hesitated, but his eyes challenged you, a clear message that there was no room for denial. With a mix of fear and despair, you brought the cigarette to your lips, feeling its bitterness touch your tongue. "Don’t make me repeat myself," he said, his voice a cold whisper. "I want you to feel the poison, just like the city does. You are part of it now, and you must accept your role."

The pressure of his words overwhelmed you, each syllable a reminder of your distorted reality. "But why me?" you stammered, feeling desperation twisting inside you. "Why do I have to be part of this?"

"Because there is no choice," he replied with disdain. "There never was. Every day, every decision you made has led you here. Weakness is not an option. Look around you; Gotham has no place for the weak. If you want to survive, you need to get your hands dirty. And believe me, there is a lot of blood to clean up."

Your heart raced as you inhaled the smoke, the burning filling your lungs and leaving a feeling of emptiness. "What do you want from me?" you asked, feeling the power he had over you strangling you.

"I just want you to accept your new place. I want you to understand that in this world, death and destruction are inevitable. There is no redemption for the stained, but you can try to fix it… in your own way."

He trapped you in a dark cycle of thoughts, where each of his words echoed in your mind like a terrifying echo. You knew he was playing with you, manipulating your emotions. "If you don’t clean yourself, you will suffer the consequences. And if you cry for her again, I promise you will pay for it," he said, tightening his grip on your arm.

As the smoke dissipated into the air, the feeling of being trapped became more palpable. You found yourself between acceptance and internal struggle, but deep down, you knew you had to find a way out. However, the darkness around you grew more intense, and each of his words was another chain binding you to this fate you had not chosen.

The air thickened as he exhaled smoke, the room filling with a gray fog that seemed to reflect the chaos in your mind. He looked at you with an intensity that overflowed with obsession, a strange mix of affection and dominance that enveloped you. Despite the tears running down your face, you felt no sadness or fear. You had passed the stage of terror; now you felt strangely alive, almost liberated in your pain.

"My dear," he said in a soft yet authoritative voice, "you must not see this as a punishment. It is a purification. Gotham needs someone who understands its pain, and you are the chosen one." He leaned closer to you, his hot breath on your skin. "You are like a spark in this darkness, and together we can illuminate it. You just have to let the poison flow through you. With each tear, you are cleansing the city."

As he held you, the contact between the two of you was electric, and a part of you began to understand his madness, the way he had woven his dreams of greatness and purification through your own desires for belonging. "Did you know my mother was in Arkham?" he continued, as if sharing a special secret. "She was stained too. In her mind, she fought demons that no one else could see, just like you now. And look where she ended up: trapped in her own memories, in her own shadows."

The revelation hit you. A fragment of pain resurfaced, intertwining with the new knowledge. "What… what happened to her?" you asked, your voice trembling. It wasn’t sadness you felt; it was curiosity to know that story that had remained hidden.

"She got lost in the darkness of Gotham, just like everyone else," he said with contempt. "But that doesn’t have to be your destiny. You are stronger. My mother let herself be consumed by her madness, but you… you can take control. Let me guide you."

You fell silent, contemplating his words. The tears continued to fall, but now they were just a part of you, a manifestation of the internal struggle. You knew you were trapped in a dangerous game, but there was something in his promise of power and control that began to seduce you.

"So cry if you need to," he said, caressing your cheek with a touch that was both gentle and threatening. "But don’t let those tears weaken you. Every time you feel the urge to cry for her, remember what you are. Remember that the city needs someone like you to cleanse it of the filth."

"How can I do that?" you asked, feeling the echo of his words resonate in your mind. "How can I clean something so deeply rooted in darkness?"

"With determination," he answered firmly, his eyes shining with a mix of fervor and madness. "You must learn to see the beauty in chaos. There is power in pain. With every action you take, with every decision you make, you will be purifying Gotham of its own decay. And I will be by your side, guiding you. Together, we will be unstoppable."

As you absorbed his words, a strange sense of purpose began to take shape within you. Although his love was perverse, there was something in his vision that resonated with you, as if you were destined to fulfill that role. As the smoke from the cigarette faded into the air, so too did your fears, leaving only a cold and clear determination: you were going to take control of your destiny, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.

"No! I don’t want you to go!" shouted little Y/n, clinging to her mother's handbag with the desperation of someone who knows something important is about to slip away.

Her mother, a blonde woman with a tired gaze, let out a sigh of impatience. Y/n couldn't quite remember her face, but she knew it hardened at the tug on her bag, and without thinking, she pushed the girl, causing her to fall to the ground with a dull thud. Y/n looked up from below, her big eyes reflecting a mix of fear and pain.

"Stop being silly, Y/n," her mother murmured, struggling to hide the tremor in her voice. She leaned down, trying to smile, but the coldness in her eyes betrayed her. "You know I have to do this... for both of us. Everything I do is for you, even if you don’t understand it now."

The girl nodded slowly, but inside, she felt the truth—that repeated phrase was just a curtain. She knew there was something broken in her mother, something she was too young to fully comprehend but sensed in every harsh gesture, in every bitter word that hung in the air. Something that made her feel alone, even when they were together.

Her mother straightened up, adjusting the bag as if it weighed tons. She raised a hand in a mechanical farewell, and without another word, she left through the door without looking back.

Days passed in a haze of silence and dry tears. Y/n had no idea how much time had passed since her mother left, leaving the echo of her footsteps as the only reminder of her presence. Hugging herself, she spent the nights waiting for some familiar sound that never came.

When she finally opened her eyes, she realized her surroundings had completely changed. She was no longer at home; she was sitting in a cold, unfamiliar room, with gray walls and flickering lights dimly overhead. In the distance, she could hear whispering voices.

"How is it possible that someone left such a small child alone?" It was the firm, serious voice of a man. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she distinguished a police badge on the man's uniform. It read Commissioner Gordon.

Next to him, a red-haired woman spoke in a low voice. "Dad, you can't be sure. Maybe it was just a lie. You know how her mother was: a history of psychiatric hospitals and drugs at home. How do we know she didn't make up the story about Wayne?"

"Barbara, we have evidence that doesn't lie," Gordon replied coldly, his tone tinged with disdain. "We know the paternity test is real."

The girl felt the world sway around her. She listened to every word and felt each comment like a dagger sinking deeper into her chest. Those adults, figures of authority and trust, spoke of her mother as if she were little more than a mistake, something despicable that had left scars on her life. Sitting there, hidden behind a wall and hugging her knees, tears returned to her eyes, a mix of sadness and a terrifying understanding of what it meant to be alone in the world.

"Do you really think someone like that should have had a child in her care?" Barbara said from her wheelchair, her tone full of contempt. "She was probably just looking for easy money, manipulating everyone she could."

Commissioner Gordon frowned, clearly uncomfortable. "Barbara, that's not fair! Even if she didn’t lead the best life, she was still a citizen like anyone else, and she had the right to rebuild her life. No one is perfect."

From her corner, Y/n tried to cover her ears, but Barbara's words were impossible to ignore.

"I can't believe it, Dad. How could anyone in their right mind have left a child in the hands of that woman?" Barbara said with a cold, almost poisoned voice. "Someone who clearly had drug addiction problems and who was in and out of psychiatric hospitals. I bet she didn’t even know who the real father was."

Each word made Y/n's chest tighten even more. Her mind screamed silently: Stop! Please stop saying that about her! Her small hands trembled as she remembered the moments she had spent with her mother. Her mother, who although had those dark days and her brusque manner, had fed her, tucked her in, and cared for her as best as she could. Despite her mistakes, she had been her mother, and that was all Y/n could understand.

But Barbara’s words kept filling the room, like a storm of resentment. "I don't know how Bruce can even be involved in something like this. That woman was a burden to everyone. I can't imagine anyone worse as a mother."

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to block it out. It's not true. She’s not bad. She took care of me. We didn’t have much, but she always tried to be there for me. But no matter how hard her thoughts tried to silence the pain, Barbara's words left deep scars, increasingly difficult to heal.

As Y/n remained there, her tears already dry, her thoughts twisted in her mind like threatening shadows. She heard the echoes of Barbara's cruel words and Gordon's, and a silent resentment grew in her chest, almost like a slow poison. She tried to remember the good moments with her mother, but the dark thoughts seemed to drown them out. She was good, she was good... No, you can't say that about her... But those same thoughts tangled with hate and confusion, and the pain grew stronger.

Suddenly, everything turned white. The walls, the voices, the cold metal chair beneath her legs... everything disappeared into a blinding void that enveloped every corner of her mind. And then, there was only her, standing in that white abyss, with a strange weight on her shoulders and in her hands.

She looked down and saw a white armor, shining as if made of shards of moon and shadow. It covered her body completely, with firm, polished plates that fit like a second skin, protecting every part of her. The gauntlets were solid, with sharp and detailed edges, and in her hands, she wielded two katanas whose blades reflected that void like deadly mirrors.

The design of the armor was imposing and terrifying. The helmet resembled a bat, with long pointed ears extending upward, and a dark V-shaped visor that barely revealed her eyes. The lines that ran across her chest and arms formed the silhouette of folded wings, as if that bat awaited to unfold at any moment. The chest was engraved with fine black details, resembling veins radiating dark power. In the center, a small emblem in the shape of a black teardrop contrasted with the radiant white of the armor, like a mark of pain and sacrifice.

In the dim light of the void where she stood, Y/n felt the weight of the katanas in her hands as if they were extensions of her own being. In that moment, the white armor fit her like a comforting embrace, a reminder of the power she now possessed. She looked at herself in a non-existent reflection, feeling that every part of her being was ready to act, to reclaim what she had lost.

With a tremor of emotion and a palpable obsession, she held them to her chest, hugging them tightly. Words flowed from her lips, laden with a burning, almost manic desire: "Soon you will be mine... I will go home. I will be my little girl again."

The echo of her voice resonated in the white void, vibrating with the intensity of her longing. In her mind, an image formed of a home, a place where shadows no longer lurked and where her mother, though imperfect, would be able to embrace her once more. The idea of being together again, of transforming her pain into power, filled her with a fierce determination.

"I will come back for you," she whispered, her voice choked with a mix of tears and a crazed smile. "Nothing will stop me. I promise." The choked laughter turned into a murmur of echoes, resonating in the abyss like a sinister promise, as the world around her began to fade again, leaving her alone with her obsession and her new identity.

In the silence, whispers began to rise, soft at first, but increasingly insistent. One word repeated, muted yet burning, like a spark in the shadows.

K

e

r

o

s

e

n

e

The word reverberated in the void, growing more intense, like a kind of dark mantra. And when Y/n could barely bear the weight of those voices, one final phrase emerged, chilling and final:

"Death is the ultimate prize."

You walked through the halls of the old apartment block, your white armor shining in the dim light, like a bat defying the embrace of the night. The echoes of your heels resonated, a dark song reverberating in the solitude of the worn walls.

Your figure, sculpted in gleaming metal, was a silhouette of elegance and mystery, as you hummed a forgotten melody, slipping between the shadows like a whisper of the forbidden. Each step was a heartbeat in the silence, a chilling reminder that there is still life in abandonment.

The portraits on the walls watched you, empty eyes that seemed to come alive, as you moved with the grace of a specter, a macabre dance of light and shadow at dusk.

The doors, worn and creaking, whispered secrets of past stories, and you, guardian of those forgotten tales, advanced fearlessly, seeking what was left behind.

You were an enigma, a reflection of the lost, a shadow walking, dressed in white, in a world clinging to its demons, where the past and present intertwine in a lethal embrace, and the night waits, eager for your return.

You paused before the door of one of the apartments, its frayed wood opening like an abyss, a dark invitation that defied logic. The silence became thick, almost palpable, and the echo of your humming faded, leaving a void that swallowed the darkness.

The threshold awaited you, a portal to the unknown, and a cold breeze, laden with whispers, caressed your skin like a lost lover. Inside, the shadows seemed to come alive, a palace of echoes and laments, where time had woven a web.

Your heart raced, a mix of adrenaline and challenge, as you gently pushed the door. It creaked in protest, like an old ghost, and when it opened, revealed an abandoned world, furniture covered in dust, with withered memories.

The remnants of a past life crowded every corner, and a scent of decay floated in the air, but something more, a glimpse of presence, urged you to enter, to explore the hidden. You peered in, and the dimness embraced you, as if the apartment claimed you as its own.

Each step on the creaky floor was an act of daring, and the walls seemed to murmur forgotten secrets, stories of betrayed loves and lost souls. In the center of the room, a dark, diffuse, and shadowy figure formed among the shadows, like an echo of your own existence, a reflection of what could have been.

You stood still, breath held in the abyss of the moment, the half-open door, a threshold to your destiny, and the silence, now laden with promises, stripped you of fears, leaving only the certainty that in that space, you faced the echoes of your own darkness.

As you advanced, your eyes fixed on a dusty, worn wooden box resting on the small dining table. Something about it drew you in, as if it held a dark secret. You approached and, with trembling hands, opened it. Inside, horror was revealed: the head of Poison Ivy, the green hair still vibrant, a gaze frozen in time. You didn’t cry, but a slight tremor coursed through your body, a mixture of surprise and disdain for the brutality that had taken place in that space.

"Normally you enter through the window," you murmur to the air, with an ironic smile on your lips, as if addressing a presence you hoped would appear.

And then, as if the night itself had responded to your call, Batman emerged from the shadows, his dark figure silhouetted against the dim light coming through the window. The air became tense in an instant.

"Who are you?" he asked, his grave voice resonating with a mix of distrust and anger. "What are you doing in the apartment of Bruce Wayne's daughter?"

You laughed, a laugh that echoed in the empty room, filled with irony and knowledge.

"His daughter?" you mocked, your eyes shining with a mix of challenge and amusement. "So Y/n is your daughter. Isn’t it curious how things intertwine in this city?"

The silence grew heavy, and you felt his gaze intensify, evaluating every word you had spoken. He knew you had crossed a line, but the revelation had ignited a spark of playfulness in you.

"How do you know who I am?" The question slipped from his lips, but there was no fear, just an unsettling curiosity.

"Gotham has its secrets, Bruce. And I, like you, am part of this darkness. The identity of a hero or heroine is just a game of shadows, and in this game, you and I know how to move between the lines."

You stood firm, the tension between you palpable, as the echo of laughter still resonated in the air. Batman's figure, always imposing and enigmatic, seemed to waver at the revelation that in this dark labyrinth, he was not the only player.

The tension intensified, and Batman took a step forward, approaching you with an intense gaze.

"How do you know about my daughter?" he inquired, his voice brusque, each word laden with frustration. You remained firm, crossing your arms, letting the silence settle between you.

"Oh, Gotham speaks, even in whispers. The city has a way of revealing what heroes prefer to hide," you replied disdainfully. "Your life, your secrets, are more exposed than you think." He frowned, anger crackling in his eyes.

"What do you know about Y/N?" he demanded, his voice low and threatening, as if waiting for you to throw down a challenge.

"I know you didn't want her. That you left her in the shadows while you dedicated yourself to your personal crusade," you replied, irony dancing in your tone. "That girl grew up without a father, and you, the great hero of Gotham, preferred to be a myth."

Rage etched itself on his face, but there was something more, a hidden pain surfacing behind the armor of his anger.

"It's not that simple, and you have no idea what I've done for her," he retorted, his voice tense, each word like a blow.

"Really?" you asked, flashing a mocking smile. "What have you done? Cut off her partner's head, the only person I love, just to extract invalid information? What a great father."

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, as the air vibrated with unspoken emotions.

"You are not one to judge me," he declared, his voice tense. "You know nothing of what I've sacrificed."

"Maybe not, but I know enough about the void you've left," you replied, undeterred. "And I know Ivy was there for her. You, the hero, vanished while others took on the role of father."

The anger shone in his eyes, but there was also a spark of recognition. He observed you, assessing the courage that led you to challenge him.

"And who are you to come and point fingers? A lost anti-heroine in her own struggle?" he shot back, his voice laden with contempt.

"I am what Gotham needs," you replied, confident. "A reminder that even heroes like you can fail."

The discussion turned into a power struggle, both of you clinging to your truths, while Poison Ivy's head remained a sinister reminder of the choices you both had made.

Suddenly, Batman's fury exploded like lightning in the darkness. Without warning, he seized you by the neck, lifting you with surprising strength. The air became scarce, and the pressure on your throat made you feel vulnerable, although the mockery never left your expression.

"Where is Y/N?" he demanded, his voice charged with rage and desperation. The shadows moved around him, intensifying his figure, which seemed more monster than hero at that moment.

Despite the iron grip, you kept your gaze fixed on him, challenging him, feeling the adrenaline pulse through your veins.

"Are you that worried about her whereabouts?" you replied, a mocking smile barely hiding your disdain. "Maybe she's hanging from a hook in a slaughterhouse, who knows? That would be an ironic twist for a girl who grew up in the shadow of a hero, don’t you think?"

His eyes narrowed, anger and helplessness battling within him. You leaned in closer, feeling the pressure on your neck, but that only fueled your defiance.

"Don't laugh about this!" he roared, tightening his grip slightly. The fury in his voice was palpable, but something deeper kept him on edge.

"Me? Laughing? You, the great Batman, scared for your daughter's life?" you shot back, never breaking eye contact.

The tension was becoming unbearable, but there was something fascinating about the game you were playing. He was caught between rage and fear, and you, in your shadowy game, fed off his anguish.

"Do you know something? You're losing yourself in your own legend," you continued, while he held you in the air. "I'm sure you once dreamed that she would have died in that alley with her mother."

In that instant, something in his expression changed. The anger slowly faded, giving way to a deep concern, though he still held you firmly.

"I warn you," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours. "If you lie to me, I won't show mercy."

You laughed again, though the risk was imminent, as your heart raced.

"And what will you do?" you challenged, your voice trembling but resolute. "Threaten me with your dark past? I'm here because I know the truth, and I do not fear your shadows."

Bruce's patience evaporated like smoke in the heavy air of that apartment. With a sudden movement, he hurled you towards the table, the impact resonating with a crash that reverberated through the walls. Your katanas slipped to the floor, leaving you defenseless. The furniture creaked under your weight, but adrenaline kept you alert, your instincts sharp.

You quickly rose, shaking your head to clear the confusion, while the anger on his face transformed into determination.

"I don't have time for your games, Kerosene," he shouted, stepping forward, ready to fight. "If you know Y/N, tell me!"

You steadied yourself, smiling defiantly as you positioned yourself, preparing for combat.

"Do you really think you'll throw away the only one who can help you?" you replied, feeling the pulse of challenge coursing through your veins. "I'm offering you a chance to know the truth, and you choose to fight. Very typical of you."

With a swift movement, he lunged at you, throwing a direct punch. You dodged, making an agile turn, but the atmosphere became a whirlwind of force and speed.

You charged at him, hitting him in the side, feeling how his tense muscles responded to your attack. It was not just a physical fight; it was a clash of wills, an explosion of repressed emotions.

"You’re an idiot if you think you can scare me!" you yelled at him while he tried to immobilize you. You twisted and managed to sidestep him, landing a blow to his jaw that made him stagger.

Bruce quickly regained his footing, his eyes blazing with fury. He advanced again, his movements precise and calculated, while you played with speed and agility.

"Stop!" he roared, his voice echoing in the enclosed space. "I just want to know where my daughter is."

"And I just want you to stop living in your hero fantasy," you replied, with a defiant laugh as you dodged another attack. "The truth hurts you, Bruce, and you prefer the fight over facing it."

The exchange of blows continued, the sound of fists colliding and the creaking of breaking furniture filling the air. The room became a battlefield, with the table as the central stage of your struggle.

Bruce, with a mix of skill and strength, cornered you against the wall, but instead of giving up, you seized the closeness. With an agile movement, you pushed him back, making him lose his balance.

"Are you going to keep this up? Destroying what’s left of this city?" you said, breathing heavily but not yielding. "Or are you going to listen to what’s really at stake?"

His eyes were now inches from yours, the fury and frustration of his search fueling the spark of the battle. Both of you were willing to fight, but deep down, you knew there was something deeper at play than just physical strength.

The battle continued, becoming increasingly intense and violent, like a whirlwind of unleashed fury. You launched at him, landing a blow that hit his chest, but Bruce responded with a punch that made you stagger; the force behind his blow was terrifying. The rage emanating from him was palpable, and with each attack, both of you took the struggle to a new level.

The apartment walls vibrated with the thud of bodies colliding and furniture being dragged. The sound of shattering glass echoed in the air as you crashed into a table, breaking it into pieces.

You got back up, a piece of wood in hand, and threw it at him. Bruce dodged it, but the fragment smashed against a lamp, exploding into a million shards. The light flickered before going out, plunging the place into an unsettling darkness.

Both of you moved like shadows through the chaos, and sweat and blood began to mix, the air filled with a metallic smell that only intensified the battle. Bruce landed a punch on your jaw, and you tasted blood in your mouth. You didn’t stop; with a cry of defiance, you responded with a series of rapid blows, each one stronger than the last.

You darted to his side, using your agility to hit him in the ribs. The impact made him stagger, but before you could capitalize on the opportunity, Bruce spun around and kneed you in the abdomen. The air escaped your lungs, and the sharp pain made you fall to your knees. However, you didn’t give up.

With renewed determination, you got up and threw a direct punch to his face, hearing the crack of his skin upon impact. Blood spurted from his lip, and the fact that you had hurt him only fueled his fury. With superhuman strength, he pushed you back, slamming you against a shelf, which gave way and collapsed on you. Books and personal items scattered across the floor, covering the place in even greater chaos.

But there was no time to stop. You rose amongst the debris, feeling the adrenaline pumping through your veins. With a leap, you charged at him again, landing a blow that left a mark on his face. Rage and pain intertwined in the air, and both of you were on the brink of madness.

The room had turned into a battlefield, with blood staining the floor and walls. The apartment’s decor, once a refuge, lay in tatters, as if Gotham itself had decided to yield to the brutality of your confrontation.

Bruce, with his determined gaze locked on you, lunged at you again. Both of you were exhausted, but the fight was a necessity, an uncontrollable impulse that kept you standing. His fists and your movements were a wild dance, and amidst the chaos, both of you knew that the outcome of this battle would not only define the present but also seal your fate.

You charged at him, landing a direct blow to his stomach, and when he bent forward, you took the chance to hit him in the face once more. Blood spilled from his nose, but he countered with a knee strike, and the impact resonated in your bones.

The fight continued with increasing ferocity, the room transforming into a wreckage. Every blow exchanged resonated like thunder, but it was the moment when Bruce landed a punch to your side that made you fall to your knees again, gasping for air. The pain was intense, but there was no time to lament; rage and frustration drove him to push onward.

Seeing the opportunity, Bruce lunged at you, and with a rough movement, he lifted you off the ground, holding you by the neck and raising you into the air. You struggled, feeling the pressure increase, the air escaping your lungs. The room blurred around you as you began to lose control.

"Tell me where Y/N is!" he shouted, his voice echoing in your mind like a refrain of desperation and fury.

You were on the brink of passing out, your eyes clouding, but amidst the confusion, you managed to maintain lucidity, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. Bruce's hands were like a yoke around your throat, and the feeling of suffocation intensified with every passing second.

The pressure was unbearable, and you fought to free your neck, to breathe, but it felt like trying to break chains of steel. Your hands struck his arm, but he wouldn’t relent, becoming more focused, more desperate.

Finally, with a titanic effort, you managed to reach your helmet, and in a twist, you pushed him back, but the pressure of his grip was too much. It was then that, in a last-ditch attempt to free yourself, the helmet slipped off your head, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

The light of the apartment filtered back into your vision, and it was at that moment that Bruce, seeing your face, stopped dead in his tracks, the expression of his fury transforming into horror.

The face before him was not just an adversary; it was a reflection of his own daughter. The reality crashed against him like lightning.

"...Y/N?"

A/N ──── I WANT TO EMPHASIZE THAT YES, WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN THE DOCTOR AND Y/N IS REAL. And yes, it's necessary; you'll understand why by the end. Furthermore, Ivy's death has always been planned. In the next chapter, a female character will appear who, I warn you, will be a victim of the Waynes, and the scene will be a bit graphic and very grotesque.

I want to add that this chapter is very, very, veeeery weak because I’m very tired, not very inspired, and dealing with other things. I’ll try to do better for the next one and bring you a chapter of better quality.

And a warning for those on the taglist: if you’re already on it, please don’t ask me again and again to add your name because I end up getting confused and repeating names.

Also, there are some that I can’t add for reasons I don’t understand.

If you requested to be on the taglist before and you're not, please ask me here or send me a message; I don’t bite.

Feel free to ask me anything if you’d like.

Take a bath!

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