#orphan reader

Bruce Wayne, dressed in a casual yet elegant suit, stepped out of his sleek black car, which purred softly as it came to a stop. Before him stood the orphanage, its ivy-covered bricks telling a story of neglect that starkly contrasted with his polished vehicle. He took a deep breath, his heart weighed down by the enormity of his decision. The cool air, tinged with the faint scent of charred wood from the fire that had devastated the nearby apartments, stirred painful memories. The image of the girl’s tear-stained face lingered in his mind, pushing him to move forward as he approached the building, filled with a sense of compassion and resolve.

As he walked up the familiar, well-worn steps, the door of the orphanage creaked open, unveiling a warm and inviting interior that contrasted sharply with the cold exterior he had just left behind. The joyful sounds of children’s laughter and chatter filled the air, creating a vibrant atmosphere that felt like a heartbeat amid the heavy silence he had endured since that fateful night. He gently closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing down the corridor. Approaching a kind grey-haired woman at a desk, he shared the reason for his visit, his smile reflecting a mixture of hope and nostalgia. In response, she offered him a warm and encouraging smile, guiding him toward Ms. Jenkins' office with genuine warmth, as though she understood the weight of his journey.

With a mischievous grin stretching across your face, you dashed down the dimly lit hallway of the orphanage, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the worn wooden floors. Your heart raced wildly in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and exhilaration coursing through you. In your grasp, you held tightly to a small purse, its fabric cool against your fingers, a prize you’d deftly snatched from Ms. Jenkins’ cluttered office, a thrill of rebellion sparking within you with each step.

A stern voice echoed behind you, but you refused to look back. You knew it was her, the one who had been pursuing you for what felt like an eternity. The click-clack of her heels grew louder, yet you were faster, driven by anger and an urgent need to break free from this place. You charged through the cafeteria, skillfully dodging tables and chairs as the other children stared at you in wide-eyed disbelief, their spoonfuls of oatmeal suspended in mid-air. The smell of burnt toast from the kitchen enveloped you, momentarily overpowering the usual stench of the orphanage.

You jumped onto the first table, the metal screeching under your weight. You kicked a plastic tray off the edge, and its contents splattered on the floor with a loud crash. The laughter of younger kids encouraged you as you moved from table to table, creating chaos. Trays clattered and food was scattered everywhere. You felt a rush of excitement, a feeling you hadn’t experienced since the fire took everything from you.

Ms. Jenkins’ shrill voice closed in, making it clear she was far from amused. The rapid clicking of her heels echoed as two imposing male staff members charged behind her. You could practically feel the heat of their breath on your neck. But as you approached the last table, you seized your moment. You took a determined running start and propelled yourself off the edge, targeting the exit of the cafeteria. The open floor loomed ahead, and freedom was within reach just as Ms. Jenkins and the two staff members rounded the corner, their eyes wide with shock and fury.

With a swift and powerful kick, you launched the last tray into the air, sending its colorful contents flying like a delicious, chaotic storm. As the food scattered across the floor, the three adults—each one heavyset and awkward—lost their footing on the slick surface, their arms windmilling wildly in a desperate attempt to regain balance. The burly men collided with one another, their bodies thudding together, which sent Ms. Jenkins toppling to the ground with a surprised yelp.

The delightful chaos sparked a wave of laughter and squeals from the circle of children nearby, their eyes wide and gleaming with a mix of delight and mischief. The entire scene unfolded like a scene from a live-action cartoon, a perfect blend of slapstick humor and unexpected absurdity, and you couldn't suppress a giggle at the hilarity of it all.

For a brief moment, everything around you seemed to come to a halt, as if time itself had decided to pause. The chaos of the chase morphed into an unexpected dance of slips and stumbles, each mishap adding a touch of humor to the frantic scene. With a surge of adrenaline, you seized the opportunity presented by their misfortunes and sprinted through the cafeteria's exit door. The cool breeze that greeted you felt refreshing against your skin, whispering promises of freedom and escape.

But as your sneakers touched the polished tiles of the hallway, a sudden collision interrupted your joyful laughter. You ran headlong into a wall of muscle and affluence—none other than Bruce Wayne himself. The impact knocked you back onto the floor, sending your purse skidding away from your grasp. Disorientation set in as you blinked up at him, his eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected encounter. Yet, amidst the initial shock, you noticed his expression soften as he recognized you.

“Hey, are you okay?” he inquires, his hand outstretched in an offer to help you up.

But you were quicker than he anticipated, weren’t you? The adrenaline coursing through your veins transformed you into a blur of motion, nimble and swift like a fox darting through a forest. You seized the purse from the cold, unforgiving floor and bolted toward the door, your heart pounding in your chest. The metal handle glinted in the dim light, tantalizingly close, as if it held the promise of liberation just beyond its threshold.

Freedom was merely a push away, an intoxicating invitation to the vibrant world outside that had been beckoning you for far too long. The smooth, cool surface of the handle felt like the key to a cage in which you had been trapped, yearning for escape and the sweet taste of the open air that awaited you.

Just as you were about to dash away, a hand—firm yet gentle—wrapped around your arm, bringing your frantic movement to an abrupt halt. Startled, you looked up to see Bruce Wayne's familiar face, his expression a mix of concern and determination as he kept you from making your escape.

"What are you running from?" he inquired, his voice steady and calm, cutting through the tension in the air. His grip tightened just enough to convey importance, not enough to inflict pain, but enough to signal that he wouldn’t relent easily.

"Let me go, dipshit!" you snarled, attempting to pull away from him, your eyes blazing with defiance. The purse was still in your hand, and you swung it around, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.

Bruce's grip didn’t waver. His eyes searched yours for something beyond your hidden anger and fear. “I won’t let you get hurt,” he said, his voice firm yet kind.

Ms. Jenkins and the two male staff members stumbled into the hallway, their faces flushed with exertion and embarrassment from their fall. "There you are!" she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched from the effort of chasing you. She straightened her skirt, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the scene before her: you, holding her purse, and Bruce Wayne, standing as an unexpected obstacle to her authority.

"Mr. Wayne!" she exclaims her voice a mix of surprise and urgency as her eyes flicker nervously between the designer purse you hold in your hand and the calm, unwavering determination etched on Bruce's face. "I sincerely apologize for this disturbance," she continues, her tone softening slightly as she takes a breath to steady herself. "This girl is quite a handful," she adds, casting a wary glance in your direction as if trying to gauge the situation. With a swift motion, she tilts her head toward the staff members nearby, her fierce expression conveying a clear message for them to take action and intervene.

In an instant, the two burly men grab your arms tightly and pull you behind Ms. Jenkins, wrenching the purse from your grip and spilling its contents on the floor. You struggle to break free and run for the exit, but their hold on you is unyielding.

Ms. Jenkins bends down, her nose in the air as she rummages through her purse, her eyes narrowed in accusation. She picks up a lipstick, then a set of keys, before her hand closes around a small, tattered photo of a family, its edges burned. The sight sends a jolt through her, and her expression softens for a moment as she looks at you, recognizing the pain. But quickly, her face hardens again.

"You know why you can't have this back," she says, her voice low and measured. She holds up the photo, the flimsy paper almost transparent from your constant touch. "You've caused enough trouble today, young lady."

Anger surges in your cheeks as her words pierce through you. That photo was the final fragment of your old life—the one before everything turned to ash and despair. It captured a moment of joy, with you, your mom, and your dad all smiling, the happiness you've yearned for since that fateful night. You wrench against the staff's grip, desperation flooding your voice. “It’s mine! Give it back!” you cry out, but Ms. Jenkins only tucks the photograph into her pocket, a painful reminder of the fire's merciless destruction.

"You'll only get it back when you learn to behave," she says, her voice icy and dismissive. Each word feels like a dagger to your heart, twisting deeper with every syllable. "Take her to detention for the night," she commands the staff, who nod and move to drag you away. You kick and scream, desperation clawing at your throat, but their grip is like iron, unbreakable. Their faces are as hard and unyielding as the prison bars that seem to loom closer with each step, leaving you feeling utterly powerless and frightened.

As you are taken away, you catch a glimpse of Bruce’s face, his brow furrowed and eyes filled with concern. For a moment, you see a flicker of anger aimed not at you, but at Ms. Jenkins. That brief comfort vanishes, replaced by dread as you leave the only person who has shown you kindness since the fire.

Ms. Jenkins looks at Bruce as the two staff members take you to detention. She straightens her skirt and smooths her hair, regaining her usual authoritative stance. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she says, her voice overly sweet. "We have rules for a reason. She's a troublemaker, that one."

Bruce nods, his eyes fixed on you as you turn the corner. He can feel the anger radiating from you—a fierce intensity that he knows well, one that drives his nightly battles as Batman. He fully understands the pain of loss and the unwavering need for justice that comes from witnessing the suffering of the innocent.

Ms. Jenkins clears her throat, regaining his attention. "Not that you're not welcome here, Mr. Wayne, but is there something specific you were looking for?"

He nods, his eyes still lingering on the spot where you had disappeared. "Yes," he clears his throat, "I am looking to adopt."

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. Ms. Jenkins’ eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, she is speechless. Then she smiles broadly, clasping her hands. "How wonderful!" she exclaims. "We’re thrilled to have people like you offer homes to our children. They need someone like you to give them a chance at a better life."

Bruce nods, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm interested in her," he says, pointing down the hallway where you were taken.

Ms. Jenkins' smile weakens as she glances back, expecting to find someone there, but finds the hallway empty, save for the distant echoes of your protests. "Who?" she inquires, her tone a bit less pleasant than before.

Bruce maintains his steady gaze on her and responds with clarity, "I’m referring to the girl you just sent to detention—the one you were chasing."

Ms. Jenkins' smile fades into a strained grimace before she quickly recovers. "Ah, her. She's quite a handful, I'm afraid. She's still adjusting to the loss of her parents in the fire, you see. It's been quite a challenge for us to manage her grief and behavior. Would you be interested in another child?" she suggests, her voice saturated with insincere kindness.

But Bruce's mind is made up. With a firm expression on his face, he shakes his head and declares, "No," his voice is steady and resolute. "It's her."

Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "Mr. Wayne, I must advise against that. She's a very… troubled child. She's been through a lot, and it's affected her in ways we're still trying to understand. She's prone to outbursts, theft, and violence. We've had to restrain her more than once."

Bruce's jaw clenches, but his gaze remains unwavering. "I understand she's been through a traumatic experience, and she needs guidance. I believe I can provide that for her."

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” she says, her voice suddenly cold as ice, “but she’s not even on the list of children available for adoption.”

Bruce's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you mean she's not on the list?" he demanded, his voice firm with confusion and determination.

Ms. Jenkins' smile shifts into a smug smirk. "Exactly, Mr. Wayne. She is not suitable for adoption at this time."

But Bruce isn't one to be deterred. He reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a sleek black checkbook. "Twenty thousand," he says, his voice steady, "she's on the list."

Ms. Jenkins' eyes widen at the sight of the checkbook, and for a moment, a greedy expression crosses her face before she quickly regains her composure, adopting a professional demeanor. "Mr. Wayne, I appreciate your generosity, but it's not that simple. The welfare of the children here must be our top priority."

Bruce's hand hovers over the checkbook, the pen ready to sign. "Fifty thousand," he says simply, the words slicing through the tension like a knife.

Ms. Jenkins glances around the empty hallway, seemingly wary of being caught. The distant laughter from the cafeteria fades away. She licks her lips, and her greed is evident. "Why don’t you and I talk more in my office?" she whispers conspiratorially, nodding toward her door, its nameplate glinting in the fluorescent lights.

"Thank you, but I would like that picture back," Bruce says firmly, holding out his hand with his palm up, expecting the family photo.

Ms. Jenkins hesitates, her eyes flicking from the checkbook. "Mr. Wayne, I must insist that the photo stays with us for now," she says, her voice a delicate balance of greed and authority.

Bruce's eyes narrowed, a steely glint reflecting his determination, as he slowly tucked the checkbook back into his pocket. "First, the picture," he repeated, his voice a low, menacing rumble that reverberated off the walls and sent an uneasy silence down the hallway.

Ms. Jenkins lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her emotions. With a subtle, trembling hand, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws a worn photo, its edges frayed with time. She places it gently into Bruce's outstretched palm, the paper warm from her touch. To you, it feels like a lifeline—a precious remnant of a past that has been shattered beyond recognition.

As Bruce gazes down at the image, the fierce anger that once burned in his eyes begins to dissolve, giving way to a profound sadness that reverberates in the depths of your own heart. It’s a shared grief, one that has lingered like a haunting shadow since the day of the fire. Carefully, Bruce tucks the photo into his pocket, the corners peeking out like a fragile promise, a glimmer of hope amidst the overwhelming darkness.

“Thank you, please lead the way,” he says, his tone firm and a winning smile on his lips.

Ms. Jenkins nods, her arrogance fading as she realizes she must comply with Bruce. She turns and walks down the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor.

Bruce trails behind, his eyes fixated on the very spot where you were forcibly taken from him. The memory lingers in the air like a haunting specter, as he can almost hear the anguished echo of your cries—each one a desperate plea that pierced through the silence. He recalls the raw urgency in your voice as you begged for the one thing that could provide even a flicker of solace in this cold, heartless world. A tight knot of anger and determination forms in his chest. He vows, with unyielding resolve, that he will never allow anyone to strip that comfort away from you again.

The Key

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

"Mr. Wayne," the principal says, rising from his desk. His tone is strained, his smile forced. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Bruce nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours. He assesses the situation, reading the story in the stains on your shirt and the defiance in your stance. "What happened?" he asks, his voice calm despite the storm brewing in his chest. "I was told there was a fight."

The principal clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Yes, Mr. Wayne, it appears your…daughter was involved in an altercation with one of our students during lunch. It was quite the scene, I'm afraid."

Bruce's eyes narrow, and you can see the muscles in his jaw tighten. He turns to you, his gaze searching. "Is that true?"

You tilt your head away, biting your tongue before saying with gritted teeth, "Yes." You don't dare look at him, knowing the disappointment you'll find there.

"What was it about?" he asks, his voice tight.

You hesitate, the words sticking in your throat. You don't want to admit what really happened, how much Harper's words had hurt, or how much you've missed Dick and deep down how much you're happy with Bruce. But you know you can't lie to Bruce. "Someone was being mean," you mumble finally, not meeting his gaze.

Bruce's expression hardens, but his eyes don't leave yours. "Mean about what?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the lecture that's sure to come. "They were making fun of Dick," you reply, the words feeling heavy on your tongue.

Bruce's expression shifts from anger to something closer to confusion. "Dick?" he repeats, his voice softer than you expected. "Why Dick?"

"Well, Mr. Wayne, that was something else I wanted to bring up," the principal says, his tone shifting from cautious to stern. "There was another incident earlier today, during class, that involved your eldest protégé, Mr. Grayson."

Bruce's eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to you with a mix of surprise and concern. "Dick was here?"

You bite your lip, the memory of Dick's surprise visit at the window playing out in your head. "He…uh, he just came to check on me," you say, hoping to keep the details to a minimum.

The principal's eyes narrow, the silence stretching between you like a tightrope. "Mr. Grayson," she says, her tone stern, "was climbing through the classroom window. During class. In the middle of a lesson. For what reason, is beyond me, but it's certainly not appropriate behavior."

Bruce's gaze snaps to the principal, his jaw setting in a firm line. "I'll talk to him about this," he says, his voice like the crack of a whip.

"I expect nothing less," the principal says, his own voice firm. "But for now, you daughter I'm afraid we're going to have to deal with the consequences of your actions." He gestures to the stained uniform, the bruises already starting to form on your knuckles.

Bruce nods, "I understand," he says, his voice low. "But first, can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"What happened? What is there to say?" the principal starts, his voice strained with the weight of the situation. "Your daughter," he gestures to you, "started a fight. Leading to our student, to have a broken nose and a trip to the emergency room."

Bruce's gaze doesn't waver from you. You can feel his confusion, his concern, his need to understand why you would do such a thing. You know he's trying to piece together the puzzle of your actions, trying to find the reason behind the rage that had clearly consumed you.

"I'll handle this," he says finally, his voice firm as he turns to the principal. "Thank you for calling me in."

"Uh, Mr. Wayne," she starts, her hand reaching out to stop him as he makes for the door and you as you followed him, "It's not as simple as that. Your daughter has caused a serious disruption to our school. I'm afraid it's not safe for our students for her to return to the grounds."

Bruce stops, his hand on the doorknob. He looks back at the principal, his eyes cold and hard. "What are you suggesting?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

The principal clears her throat. "Well, Mr. Wayne, given the seriousness of the incident, and the disruption it has caused, we are expelling your daughter."

"What?" Bruce says, his voice a low rumble, a storm cloud of anger forming on the horizon.

The principal's continuous saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but your daughter's behavior is unacceptable, and we can't risk having her back on the premises," echoes in your ears like a never-ending record. You stand there, dumbfounded, your mind racing with thoughts of what just transpired.

Bruce's jaw clenches so hard you can almost hear his teeth grinding. He turns to you, his eyes a mix of anger and disappointment, but you know it's not directed at you, at least, you don't think it is. "Let's go," he says, his voice tight with restraint. You follow him out of the office, the principal's protests fading behind you as you walk through the empty hallways. The silence between you and Bruce is deafening, the echo of your footsteps bouncing off the marble walls. You can feel the weight of his gaze, but you refuse to meet it.

Once outside, the cool air hits you like a slap in the face, waking you up from the haze of anger and embarrassment. Bruce doesn't say a word as he opens the car door for you, his movements stiff and precise. You get in, the leather seats cold against your back.

Bruce pulls out into the streets and begins the drive home. Sit there, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. The engine hums underneath you, a silent beast waiting for its master's command, but Bruce is lost in his thoughts, the tension in the air so thick it's almost suffocating.

Finally, you break the silence. "I'm… I'm sorry, okay." The words feel like they're being torn out of you, but you need him to know that you didn't mean for it to go this far. You didn't mean to disappoint him, not again.

"What for?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, eyes still forward.

You fidget in your seat, unsure of how to explain the jumble of emotions knotting your stomach. You didn't really know what you were sorry for. The first punch you threw was like a declaration of war, and you'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant protecting Dick or Bruce. And getting kicked out of school? It was just another box to check off in the 'things you never wanted to do but ended up doing' list. But you knew that's not what Bruce needed to hear. So, you force the words out, hoping they'll be enough to smooth the waters.

"For fighting, I guess." You mumble, staring down at your lap.

Bruce looks at you in the mirror, his gaze piercing. "Why did you do it?"

You shrug, hoping it'll be enough to deflect his question. "They were just being jerks," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "They said some stuff, and I snapped."

Bruce's eyes are on you, his gaze unwavering. "What kind of stuff?" he asks, his voice still calm, but there's a storm brewing in his eyes.

You shrugged again, trying to play it off like it's no big deal, but you know he's not buying it. "Just normal bitchy stuff," you mumble, hoping that'll be the end of it.

Bruce's gaze doesn't waver. "I know you enough to know that you don't just 'snap' like that," he says, his voice still calm but with an edge of steel. "What did they say?"

You signed annoyed, "They talked about you and Dick, okay?" you slightly snap, "I didn't like what they were saying so I got mad." The words come out in a rush, like a dam bursting. You can feel your cheeks flushing with the admission, but you keep your eyes on him, daring him to judge you.

Bruce's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. "They talked about Dick and me?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. You nod, looking away, not sure if you should have said anything.

"And what did they say?" he asks, his tone even.

"It's not important," you reply, your voice tight.

But Bruce isn't one to let things go. "What did they say?" he repeats, his voice a low growl.

You take a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. "They said…that Dick was just a useless street kid, and that you had picked me up off the streets," you admit, feeling the sting of the insults all over again.

Bruce's eyes flash with anger, but he doesn't respond immediately. He just sits there, his jaw clenched tightly. You can see the muscles in his neck tense as he processes the information, his grip on the steering wheel becoming almost painful to watch.

Finally, he says, "And you lashed out because they made fun of Dick and… me?" His voice is a low rumble, the kind of sound that makes you feel like you're standing in the presence of something much bigger than yourself.

You nod, crossing your arms and looking away, feeling the heat of his gaze. "Yeah, well, I'm not going to let anyone talk shit about the people who take up with my shit." you reply, your voice filled with more bravado than you actually feel.

Bruce turns to look back at the road, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth before he mask of stern seriousness slides back into place. He's proud of you, not because you fought, but because you stood up for family, for Dick, and for him. It's something he didn't expect, something that makes him feel a little less like he's failing you. You didn't just fight because you were being picked on, you fought because they were attacking what you holds dear. It's a fierce loyalty, one that resonates with his own.

But that doesn't change the fact that you've been expelled.

Bruce sighs heavily, his eyes still on the school. "I'm not going to lie to you," he says, "I'm disappointed."

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of his words like a brick on your chest. "But what did you want me to do?" you ask, your voice rising slightly. "Let them talk shit about Dick and you? Just sit there and take it?"

Bruce sighs, his eyes never leaving the road. "If it meant you not getting in a fight," he says, "Yes." He glances to you, his eyes searching yours.

You look at him, surprised by his response. "But it's not right, what they said," you protest, your voice shaking with emotion. "They can't just say things like that."

"You're right, it's not right," he says, his voice low. "But you can't control what people say. You can only control how you react to it." He pauses, his gaze on you. "And sometimes, the best reaction is no reaction at all."

You look out the window, watching the world go by in a blur of colors and shapes. You know he's right, but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

"I still don't see why I was in the wrong," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bruce's grip on the steering wheel relaxes a fraction. "You weren't wrong for feeling protective," he says, his voice measured. "But there are consequences to our actions, and now we need to deal with them."

You cross your arms over your chest, the sting of Harper's words still fresh. "What consequences?" you challenge. "They were the ones being cruel."

Bruce's eyes stay on the road ahead, his voice calm but firm. "The consequences of your actions, not theirs." He glances at you briefly. "Violence isn't the answer, no matter how much you believe you're standing up for someone."

You fume in your seat, the injustice of it all burning in your chest. "But she deserved it!" You can't help but protest, feeling the heat of your own indignation rising again.

"Maybe she did," Bruce concedes, his eyes still on the road, "but that doesn't mean you had to be the one to give it to her."

You huff in frustration, crossing your arms tighter. "But someone had to!" You argue, your voice rising in pitch. "Someone had to tell her to shut up!"

Bruce's eyes flash in the mirror, meeting yours. "But why you?" He asks, his voice firm. "You're not responsible for everyone's cruel words. You can't control them, but you can control your own."

You clench your fists, the anger bubbling up again. "But it's not fair!" You insist, feeling the heat of your own conviction. "Why can't you see that I was standing up for you!"

Bruce's eyes meet yours in the mirror, his expression unreadable, as he comes to a stop,"I don't need to stand up for me," he says, his voice even. "She's a powerless bully who's not worth the bruises on your knuckles."

"But she talked about Dick!" you shout back, your voice cracking. "You don't get it!"

Bruce sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I do get it," he says, his voice softer. "But there are better ways to deal with it."

But you're beyond listening. You don't care about his words of wisdom or his disappointment. You're too filled with the fire of anger and injustice. Without another word, you unbuckle your seatbelt and throw open the car door. "I don't fucking care!" you shout, your voice hoarse with emotion. "You're worth the bruises, damn it!"

Bruce slams on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. "What are you doing?" he calls out.

But you're already out of the car, slamming the door behind you. The cool air outside feels like a slap in the face, jolting you out of your anger-fueled haze. You start to run, not sure where you're going, just needing to get away from the tension that's suffocating you. You don't look back as the tires squeal and the car pulls away. You just run.

Why are you running? Stop, go back. But your legs don't listen. They carry you down the sidewalk, your sneakers pounding against the concrete like a drumline of defiance.

He's mad. He's anger. Is it at me? I disappointed him. That's what he said. But I had to do it. For Dick, for Bruce. But why? Why is his disappointment like a knife to my chest? Does it matter? I'm still running? Why are am I running? Please, stop. Go back. Where? Where's back? Home? Where's home? The apartment? The orphanage? The car with Bruce? The cafeteria floor with Harper's blood on my knuckles? I wanna go home. Why can't I go home? I want my dad. No, not my dad. I want Bruce. I want Dick. But I'm mad. Mad at them. Mad at Bruce for not being there when I needed him. Mad at Dick for leaving me. Mad at myself for letting it get to me. Mad at Harper for making me feel like a piece of shit. Mad at the world for not understanding. Mad at everything. Mad at nothing. Mad at myself. Mad. Mad. Mad.

You stumble, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You're used to running, by now, because of Bruce, but not like this. Your legs burn, your lungs ache. You're not sure how long you've been running, but you can feel the stitch in your side growing with every step. The world blurs around you, a kaleidoscope of color and shadow as your eyes fill with tears. You're not crying, you're not. You're just…tired. So tired. You're just a scared kid who's lost in a world that's too big, too mean. You stop, panting, and lean against a wall, the brick rough against your back. You close your eyes, trying to block it all out, but all you can see is Harper's face, her nose broken, her eyes wide with shock and fear. You did that. You're the monster.

Part 10

"You're going to love it," Alfred says from the doorway. "You'll make friends, learn new things, and maybe even find a hobby. That hope won't involve breaking things."

You shoot him a glare. "I like breaking things," you mutter, though the edge of your anger is dulling.

Alfred's smile is warm, his eyes filled with something that looks suspiciously like affection. "And I like a clean foyer," he says, stepping into the room, "but sometimes life gives you lemons, as the saying goes."

You roll your eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. You can't stay mad at Alfred, not when he's looking at you like that. "Fine," you huff, "but if I hate it, I'm coming home and burning this uniform."

Alfred chuckles, his eyes twinkling. "I'll save you a cup of tea," he promises, his voice gentle. "Now, come on, let's not keep Mr. Wayne waiting."

You follow Alfred down the grand staircase, the sound of your new school shoes echoing through the hallowed halls of the manor. Bruce is waiting by the front door, he's dressed in a tailored suit, looking every bit the billionaire he is. You feel like a fish out of water, your school clothes itchy and uncomfortable against your skin.

"Miss is dressed and ready for her first day at school," Alfred announces, his arms wide as if presenting you on a stage. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Bruce takes a knee, his eyes level with yours. He smooths out your uniform, his hands brushing over the crumpled fabric with surprising gentleness. His touch is firm but not unkind, his eyes searching yours. "How do you feel?" he asks, the question loaded with more weight than you're prepared to acknowledge.

"Ridiculous," you reply, the word tasting sour on your tongue. The uniform feels like a costume, a façade you're wearing to pretend you're someone you're not. "Already ready to go back to bed."

Bruce's eyes hold yours for a moment, seeming to see behind the bravado. "It's natural to be nervous," he says, his voice softer than you're used to hearing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I'm not nervous, old man," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. The lie feels thick and bitter on your tongue.

Bruce lets out a chuckle with a gentle smile, "Alright, tough guy," he says, standing up. "Let's get you to school."

You follow him out to the car, the sleek black vehicle waiting like a silent sentinel. You've seen Bruce leave in it a hundred times, but now the sight of it makes your stomach twist into knots. This isn't a trip to the city or a fancy dinner—this is the start of your new life, one you're not sure you're ready for.

The drive to school is a blur of unfamiliar buildings and bustling streets. You feel like you're in a cage, trapped in a world that's too clean, and too orderly compared to the chaos of the orphanage. When the car finally stops at the school, your heart races like a caged animal's.

Bruce comes around and opens your door, his gaze steady on yours. You can see the question in his eyes, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer. You climb out, the cool morning air slapping you in the face, a stark contrast to the warm cocoon of the car. The school looms before you, a monolith of education and structure, two things you've never been particularly fond of.

"Well," you say, your voice flat as you glance around the bustling drop-off area, "I'm here. At school." You pause, the words hanging in the air like a half-hearted declaration of defeat. "Alright, let's go back." You move to climb back into the car, the sanctuary of leather and luxury feeling suddenly irresistible.

But before you can retreat into the embrace of the vehicle, Bruce's firm hands are on your shoulders, turning you around to face the schoolyard.

"Not so fast," Bruce says, his grip firm but not painful. He gently pushes you towards the schoolyard, "You're already dressed and already here. Give it a chance."

You huff, your cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment. You didn't want to admit it, but part of you was scared of what was waiting for you beyond the gates. The orphanage had been a harsh teacher, and you weren't sure you had the skills to navigate the social jungle of a school.

With a resigned sigh, you square your shoulders and march towards the schoolyard. The sounds of laughter and chatter fill the air as kids of all ages spill out of the school, forming groups and chasing each other around the greenery. You feel a pang of longing—those were the moments of camaraderie you never had.

Stopping at the gate, you look around at the buzzing students, and it's like a punch to the gut. Each one of them seems to have a place, a group, a purpose. You feel like the odd one out, the one who doesn't belong. You swallow hard, the knot in your throat threatening to choke you. You turn around and there's Bruce, less than a yard away, his eyes full of an understanding you don't think you deserve.

"You can do this," he says, his voice low and steady.

You straighten your back, "Of course I can," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "I was just making sure you were leaving," you add, a hint of challenge in your voice, "You're making me look bad."

Bruce's smile carries a sense of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the moment they just shared. He takes a deliberate step back, allowing the weight of the conversation to linger in the air between them, his hands falling casually to his sides. "I'll see you tonight," he says, his voice steady, as he strides around the car. With a smooth motion, he settles into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking slightly under his weight as he turns the ignition key, ready to drive into the evening ahead.

You don't miss the way his gaze lingers on you before he finally drives away, the tires leaving faint marks on the pavement as he goes.

You stand there for a moment, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. Then, with a deep breath, you square your own shoulders and march through the gates, your eyes scanning the crowd.

The first bell rings, a shrill sound that slices through the air, making the students scatter like a flock of startled birds. You grit your teeth, the sound a harsh reminder of the reality you've been thrust into.

You find yourself in a sea of unfamiliar faces, all of them seemingly at ease, all of them knowing exactly where they're going. You, on the other hand, are lost—both figuratively and literally. You pull and unfold the map with trembling hands, trying to make sense of the labyrinth of corridors and classrooms.

"Lost already?" a voice says, and you whip around to see a boy standing behind you, his arms crossed over his chest. Damian.

You narrow your eyes at Damian, his smug expression grating on your already frazzled nerves.

"I don't have time for you," you say, turning away from him to focus on the map.

"Father has urged me to be… inviting to you," Damian says, the word "inviting" sounding forced and unnatural. "But if you're going to act like a peasant, I'll leave you to it."

You don't bother to look up, but you can feel his gaze burning into your back. "Good," you murmur, focusing on finding your homeroom. "I wouldn't want to waste your royal time."

Damian sighs, the sound long-suffering, and takes a step closer. "Give it," he says, his hand outstretched.

You look up, your eyes narrowed. You don't want his help, but the way he's looking at you—like you're a puzzle he needs to solve—makes you want to scream. "I don't need your help," you say, your voice cold and even.

You ignore him, turning back to the map. The layout makes no sense, the letters and numbers swimming before your eyes.

“If you don’t let me help you,” Damian says, his voice firm and urgent, “Father will see me as a failure as a role model. If you’re late, he’ll believe it’s your choice. So hand over the paper now.”

You hesitate, then grudgingly hand over the map. Damian's eyes scan it quickly before pointing out your homeroom. "Room 214, up the stairs and to the right."

You snatch the map back, not bothering to thank him. "I've got it," you say, turning to leave.

"Don't get lost again," he calls after you, a hint of mockery in his tone.

You ignore him, pushing through the crowd of students who seem to part for him as he walks away. The halls are a blur of color and noise, and you feel like you're in over your head. But you're not going to let anyone see that, not even the annoying little know-it-all that is your new school's version of a knight in shining armor.

The school day began, and you struggled to keep up. The material felt foreign, even though some of it had been taught to you by the tutors Bruce provided. It was complex compared to the inconsistent education you had received before. You scribbled notes furiously, your hand aching from gripping the pencil too tightly. You weren't accustomed to sitting still for so long or listening without interrupting.

Time feels excruciatingly slow, with minutes stretching into hours. You find yourself out of place, struggling to adapt to the suffocating atmosphere. Surrounded by familiar faces, you sense a disconnect as they laugh and share secrets, leaving you feeling isolated and bewildered. It’s as if you’re an audience member in a play where everyone else knows their lines, while you’re left in the dark.

In the middle of a math class, while sitting in the back near the window, you glance up and spot someone outside—it's Dick! His head is lowered, but his eyes light up when they find yours. He gives you a cheerful wave and a grin that feels like an inside joke just between the two of you. You blink in surprise, feeling a warm flutter in your chest at his unexpected visit. It’s a delightful moment that brightens up an otherwise ordinary day.

You look around the classroom, wondering if anyone noticed the interaction. The kids are all heads-down, scribbling away at their papers, and the teacher's eyes are on the board, scribbling equations that might as well be hieroglyphs to you. You're the only one who seems to have seen him, and you're not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

Seeing Dick again feels like a lifeline thrown to someone who's been struggling. You hadn’t fully grasped how much you missed him until this moment, how his easygoing nature and the way he always treated you like a little sister had come to mean so much to you. As you muster a wave in return, you sense a small but comforting lift of the burden you’ve been carrying.

Dick lifts his finger gently, signaling for you to wait as he searches through his bag. You watch him from your window, a flicker of curiosity sparking in your chest. You can’t help but wonder what he might find to brighten your day, especially when things have felt so heavy lately. After a moment of searching, he finally pulls out a jar of pickles and holds it up with a smile. The triumph in his gesture touches you, and his wink carries a warmth that brings a little lightness to your heart. In that moment, you feel understood and cared for.

He scans the room, his gaze flickering between the teacher's back and the students hunched over their work. With a daring glint in his eye and a surge of adrenaline, he stealthily lifts the window, the hinges creaking like a secret being shared. A refreshing breeze rushes in, sending your textbook pages fluttering like butterflies taking flight. The teacher is completely oblivious, her chalk fiercely scratching against the board as she passionately unravels another algebra problem—one that feels more like an unsolvable mystery than a lesson.

Dick holds out the jar of pickles, the brine glistening in the sunlight. You take it with trembling hands, feeling like you've been handed a piece of home in the middle of a foreign land.

"Good luck," he mouths, his voice a silent whisper that only you can hear. The words hang in the air, a promise that even in this strange new world, you're not entirely alone. You nod, a genuine smile breaking through the scowl you've been wearing like a shield all day.

"Hey!" The teacher's voice echoes through the classroom, cutting through the quiet whispers and scratches of pencils on paper. Your heart jumps into your throat as you realize she's calling out to Dick, who's still half in the window, half out of it.

"What are you doing, young man?" she demands, making her way towards the window, her eyes narrowing.

"Oops," Dick says, a grin playing on his lips as he pulls himself out of the window with surprising agility. "See ya later, kid," he says to you with a wink before sprinting off. You watch him go, his form blurring as he disappears into the schoolyard.

The teacher, with a stern look on her face, calls after him. "Young man, get back here!" But he's already gone, leaving you to face her wrath alone. You shove the jar of pickles into your bag with the speed of a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick.

"And who was that?" she asks, her tone sharp.

You look at her, the question echoing in your mind. "Who was that?" you repeat, playing dumb. The teacher's eyes bore into you, searching for any hint of a lie.

"Yes," she says, her voice tight, "Who was that boy at your window?"

"What?" You ask, your voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet. "A boy at my window?" You repeat, feigning confusion.

The teacher's eyes narrow, and you can see the wheels turning in her head. She's not buying it, and you know it. "Don't play dumb with me, girl," she says, her voice low and filled with a warning.

"Me? Playing dumb?" you repeat all innocence.

The teacher's expression doesn't waver. "The boy at your window," she says, her voice like steel. "Who was he?"

You look to the window, the empty space where Dick had just been. "I don't see any boy," you reply, your voice cool and even.

The teacher's glare intensifies, and you can feel the heat of it on your cheeks. But you hold firm, staring back at her with a challenge in your eyes. You've faced worse than a displeased teacher, after all.

"Miss," you say, your voice filled with feigned sweetness, "I'm not sure what you're talking about. Perhaps you need to get your eyes checked?"

The teacher's expression shifts from suspicion to annoyance. She takes a step closer to you, her heels clicking on the floor like a metronome of doom. "Do not test me," she warns. "I don't tolerate disruptions."

You bite the inside of your cheek, tasting copper. "But miss, I was just sitting here, listening to your very important lecture," you say sweetly, laying it on thick. You've had to sweet talk your way out of worse situations than this.

The teacher's eyes narrow, her arms crossing over her chest. "Fine," she says, her voice tight with frustration. "But if I catch you or any 'visitors' disrupting my class again, I will not be so lenient." She turns back to the board, her back to you. The class has gone silent, all eyes on you before returning to their work. You let out a slow, quiet breath, your heart racing.

As the day wears on, the curiosity from your classmates grows. You catch whispers about the girl who talks to a mysterious boy at the window. But no one approaches you, no one asks for your name or tries to befriend you. You're a puzzle they're all watching but no one wants to solve.

When the bell finally rings for lunch, you make your way to the boarding school cafeteria, the smell of food wafting through the corridors. Despite the grandeur of the Wayne Manor, the food here isn't half bad. It's not the greasy mess you had to endure at the orphanage, but it's not quite up to Alfred's standards either. You grab a tray and start to pile on food, the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations filling the air.

"Hey, new girl! Who was the boy at the window?" A group of girls, all dressed in the same uniform as you but with a sense of belonging that you lack, giggle as they walk by.

You grip your tray tighter, the plastic edges digging into your palms. The question feels like a trap, a way to drag you into their social web, so you keep your eyes focused on the food in front of you, pretending not to hear.

"New girl," the girl sings, louder this time, "are you playing hard to get or just hard of hearing?"

Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and you feel your jaw clench. You know you should ignore her, but your temper flares. You turn to face her, and she's standing with her friends, all of them smiling in that fake, plastic way that you've learned to despise.

"Hey, there." the girl says, her smile widening, "Don't be shy. Why don't you tell us about your little boyfriend?"

"I don't have one," you reply flatly, hoping your lack of interest will make her drop the subject." I'm fuckin' 12 years old," you think to yourself, rolling your eyes internally, "Why the fuck would you be dating?" You've always found the concept of relationships at this age absurd, especially given your unique upbringing and the life you've led so far.

You start to walk away, and she sidesteps gracefully, blocking your path with the ease of a seasoned dance student. "If not a boyfriend, then who was it?" she asks, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. You can feel the challenge in her tone, the way she's baiting you.

"That was none of your business," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. You're aware that your response could lead to a confrontation, but you're not one to back down easily.

The girl's smirk turns into a full-blown smile as if she's enjoying your discomfort. "Oh, come on," she says, "Don't be so secretive. We're all friends here."

"I said, it's none of your business." You reply, taking a step forward.

But before you can move, a hand lands firmly on your shoulder. You tense up, expecting a gaggle of giggling girls to surround you, but instead, you feel a surprisingly strong grip and look up into Damian Wayne's unamused face.

"Leave her alone, Harper," he says, his voice as cold as the Gotham night.

The girl, Harper, looks surprised, glancing between you and Damian. Her friends exchange awkward looks, and the cafeteria seems to get a few degrees quieter. You shoot a quick look at Damian, who's staring her down with the intensity of a predator eyeing its prey. It's clear that he's not one to be messed with.

"Damian," she says, her voice now a purr, "this is a first, you standing up for the new kid." She looks you up and down, her smile twisted into something more malicious. "Wait, is this another one of Bruce Wayne's charity cases? This makes so much sense," she says, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Damian's grip on your shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly, and you feel a strange mix of gratitude and annoyance. You're not a charity case, and you don't need him to fight your battles.

"Oh my gosh, and that boy at the window was another stray he picked up from the streets?" Harper continues, her eyes sparkling with spite.

You feel your hand clench into a fist, ready to take a swing at her. But before you can act on your instinct, Damian's grip on your shoulder tightens and pulls you back firmly.

"It's not worth it," Damian whispers in your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear. You grit your teeth, but you know he's right. You don't need to give her the satisfaction of seeing you lose control.

So, you start walking away, your tray of food trembling slightly in your hands. You're aware of Damian's footsteps behind you, steady and confident.

But Harper isn't done yet. Her laughter rings out behind you, echoing in the cavernous cafeteria.

"Look at her go, running to her street rat boyfriend," she calls out, her voice carrying.

You stop dead in your tracks, the laughter of her friends hitting you like a slap in the face. You've had enough. She could make fun of you all she wanted, but when she dragged Dick into it, it became personal.

You look to Damian, almost daring him to stop you. His eyes narrow, reading your intentions, but he pauses before stepping away.

You march back to Harper, who's still smirking, surrounded by her minions. "What did you just say about my brother?" You demand, your voice sharp.

Her smirk falters for a moment before she recovers, her eyes flashing with something that looks like amusement. "Your brother?" she repeats, her tone mocking. "Then what do you call your owner, Daddy?" she says, jabbing her finger in the air towards you. "Bruce Wayne is just playing house, isn't he? He ran out of ideas to use his money on so he brought you here to play dress-up."

The room goes quiet, the buzz of conversation dying down as the students turn to watch the unfolding drama. You feel your cheeks burn with anger, your knuckles turning white as you clench your fists.

"You don't know anything," you spit back, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

"Oh, please," Harper says, her smile wicked, "I know all about you. You're just Bruce's latest toy. He's probably already tired of you. That's why he brought you here to play pretend." she leans in close you, "You're nothing special. Not him," she points at Damian, "Not that orphan playboy, and most definitely not that useless piece filth you call brother."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but it's not just the insult to Dick that breaks you. It's the way she says it like you're nothing but a charity case, a plaything for Bruce to amuse himself with. You can't hold it in anymore. You snap.

With a roar, you lunge at her, your fist connecting with her nose. The sound of the impact echoes through the cafeteria, silencing the room. Harper's head snaps back, and her hands fly to her face. Blood trickles through her fingers, and her eyes widen in shock. Her friends gasp, taking a step back.

Her nose is now a grotesque mess, and she's crying, her pretty face smeared with blood and tears. The cafeteria's once bustling atmosphere is now thick with tension, everyone watching you with a mix of shock and fear.

"Say it again!" You shout, grabbing her by the collar of her uniform, your grip tight, your voice shaking with anger. "Say my brother is useless filth again!"

But she's too shocked, too stunned, to respond. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for help, but all she finds are the wide-eyed stares of her classmates, frozen in their spots like statues. You can see the realization dawn on her face - she's gone too far.

With a snarl, you hoist her up and throw her to the ground, your fury now in full control. You rain down punches on her, each one fueled by the years of pain and rejection you've suffered. The sound of your knuckles connecting with her face and body fills the room, a rhythmic punctuation to your silent rage. You can feel the satisfaction in each blow, the power you've denied yourself for so long finally unleashed.

But before you can land another blow, a firm grip wraps around your waist and pulls you back. It's a teacher, her face a mask of disbelief and horror.

"What on Earth is happening here?" she shouts, her voice cutting through the stunned silence like a siren. You struggle against her hold, fueled by your rage, but she's surprisingly strong, and she doesn't let go.

You're dragged away from the Harper, her friends hovering around her, looking torn between shock and excitement. You can see the spread of your lunch, now a mess on the floor, and the bruised look on Harper's face. The blonde's smugness is gone, replaced with a pained snarl.

As the teacher holds you back, you catch a glimpse of Damian. His expression is a peculiar mix of satisfaction at Harper's state and respect for your unbridled defense. He nods, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in what might be the closest thing to a smile you've seen from him today. The smirk isn't one of joy, but rather an acknowledgment that you've proven yourself in a way he never expected.

Your lips almost curve upwards to return Damian's smirk, but the teacher's firm grip on your arm snaps you back to reality. She scolds you, her voice a mix of shock and reprimand, as she leads you through the stunned crowd of students, the whispers and gasps of your new classmates following like a chorus of accusations.

"I see," he says, his voice clipped and precise, "that we're having a picnic in the kitchen." You narrow your eyes at him, the sudden hostility in his tone a stark contrast to the light-hearted banter that had been filling the room just moments ago.

Dick's smile never falters, "Hey, Dame," he says casually, using the nickname that feels like a shield. "You haven't actually met our newest addition to the family, have you?"

Damian's gaze shifts to you, his eyes cold and assessing. You feel the weight of his stare, like a knife pressing against the soft underbelly of your vulnerability. "I am very aware of the newest addition," he says, his voice devoid of emotion. "I've heard her…expressive habits."

You clench your teeth, the anger flaring up again. "What's your problem?" you challenge him, the words cutting through the air like a shard of glass.

Damian's gaze never leaves yours. "I don't have a problem," he says, his tone flat. "I'm just surprised to see Father playing nanny."

"Damian." Bruce's voice is firm, the warning clear. But the younger boy doesn't budge, his eyes locked on you.

You stand up, the chair scraping against the floor, the sound echoing through the kitchen. "I didn't think a few broken vases would scare you off," you say, your voice laced with defiance.

Damian's eyes narrow, the challenge in your voice not lost on him. "I'm not one to hide away from a few shards of glass," he says, his tone even. "I just know when to avoid unnecessary mess."

Bruce's hand lands on your shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "Damian," he repeats, "that's enough."

You shrug him off, the anger in your veins pulsing with every beat of your heart. "Why don't you go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, you no good piece of shit?" you spit out, the words coming before you can think better of it.

Damian's eyes flare with something that might be anger, but it's quickly masked by his usual apathy. "Careful," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't know who you're speaking to."

"I know who," you start, your voice trembling with anger as you stand up, ready to leap at Damian, "a no good piece of-"

But before you can leap at Damian, Bruce's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest. You struggle against him, but his grip is firm, his body unyielding. "That's enough," he says, his voice a low rumble that resonates through you. His eyes are on Damian, his expression stern, but there's a softness in his gaze that's directed at you.

"Let me go," you hiss, your fists clenched. You can feel the tension in his arms, the tightness of his grip, but he doesn't release you.

"Not until you calm down," Bruce says, his breath warm against your neck.

You jerk away, pointing a finger at Damian. "He started it!" you yell, the words echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Damian raises an eyebrow, his gaze unflinching. "I merely made an observation," he says, his voice as cold as the marble countertops. "You started it with the first vase you threw."

"And I'll finish it with throwing you!" you shout, the anger in your voice a physical force.

But Bruce's grip on you doesn't falter. "That's enough," he says firmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. He guides you back to the chair, his hand on your shoulderuntil you're sitting again. "Damian," he says, turning his gaze to his son, "to your room. We'll talk later."

Damian's jaw clenches his eyes never leaving yours. He turns and leaves the kitchen, the door swinging behind him. The sound echoes through the room, the final note in the symphony of your anger.

The room is quiet again, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. You look down at your plate, the pickles and ketchup a sad reminder of the fragility of the moment. Dick's smile fades, the tension in the air thickening like the sauce on your plate.

"Dick," Bruce says, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. Dick's eyes flicker from you to Bruce, understanding crossing his face. He nods once, the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

The kitchen feels smaller now, the warmth from the oven no match for the sudden chill left in the wake of the argument. You're left with just Bruce, his eyes still on you, filled with a mix of concern and something else.

Crouching in front of you, "Look at me," he says, his voice low and steady. His hands come up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears you didn't realize had started to fall. His eyes bore into yours, the intensity of his gaze making you feel like he's trying to see right into your soul.

You swipe at your face with the back of your hand, your eyes burning with defiance. "You finally going to punish me?" you ask, your voice thick with unshed tears and anger. "Or are you just going to pretend like this is all okay?"

Bruce's eyes never leave yours as he shakes his head. "This isn't about punishment," he says, his voice soothing despite the firmness of his grip. "It's about understanding. And learning how to handle our emotions in a way that doesn't hurt ourselves or others."

You want to scream at him, tell him he doesn't understand, that it's all his fault. "He started it!" you blurt out again, the words a childish defense that feels both right and wrong.

Bruce's gaze doesn't waver. "I know," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "But you have to decide when to end it." He lets go of your shoulders, his hands moving to rest on the countertop, his knuckles white. "You can't let anger control you. It'll eat you up from the inside out."

You cross your arms over your chest, the action a barrier against his words. "I'm not supposed to not get mad when he was the one being an ass," you argue, the fire in your eyes not dimming.

Bruce's gaze softens, his arms coming to his sides. "You're right, Damian can be… difficult. But lashing out won't solve anything," he says, his tone measured. "And calling names doesn't make you any better than him."

You grit your teeth, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Why shouldn't I get mad?" you ask, your voice rising. "If he starts it, I'm only making it fair."

Bruce's eyes never leave yours as he takes a deep, measured breath. "Because you're not him," he says, his voice steady. "You're better than that. You don't have to respond to anger with anger. It's a cycle that doesn't end well for anyone."

You huff, looking away from him. You don't want to hear it. You don't want to be the bigger person. You just want to be mad. You want to scream and throw more vases, to let the anger out like a pressure valve on a boiling pot. But the kitchen remains silent, the only sound the tick of the clock in the hallway, a reminder that time is passing, that the world is moving on even if you're not ready to.

"When you see… Batman," he says slowly, his eyes searching yours, "does he solve his problems with violence?"

You scoff, the question hitting too close to home. "That's different."

Bruce's eyes stay on yours, unwavering. "Is it?" he asks, his voice calm. "Because like you, he also has a reason to be angry. Criminals do terrible things to him, they hurt the people he cares about, and they make fun of him. But he chooses to respond differently. He fights for justice without letting his anger control him."

You look away, the truth of his words stinging. You know he's right, but it's hard to accept. You've been holding onto the anger like it's all you have left of your parents, a piece of them that keeps them with you, somehow. "But he's Batman," you murmur, the words a whisper. "He's not just some orphan kid. He's… he's Batman."

Bruce sighs, his hands falling away. "No," he says, his voice gentle. "He's just a man who's been through a lot of pain, too. And he's found a way to use that pain to help others."

You lean back in the chair, the wood cool against your back. You're not ready to let go of the anger, not yet. It's all you've had to keep you company, a familiar cloak that shields you from the pain of your loss.

"Okay, I'll stop lecturing," Bruce says, his voice a gentle rumble that seems to vibrate through the air. It's like he's trying to soothe a wild animal, and maybe that's not far from the truth. "But I think it's time we talked about where to channel that anger of yours." He stands, his arms folding over his chest.

"I think it's time we explore some new outlets," Bruce says, his tone measured and calm. "You're not the first to experience such loss and anger. There are ways to cope that don't involve destruction."

You bite your lip, considering his words. The anger inside of you is a raging bonfire, but his gentle touch and understanding gaze feel like the first droplets of rain on the scorching embers. "Like what?" you ask, your voice small.

"Well," Bruce says, his eyes searching yours, "you know I train. It's how I deal with my own demons. It's a good way to release anger in a controlled environment." His voice is measured, like he's weighing each word carefully.

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I don't like working out," you reply, your tone as stubborn as ever. The very idea of sweating and pushing your body to its limits is about as appealing as a mouthful of dirt.

But Bruce doesn't back down, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's not just about working out," he says, his voice patient. "It's about discipline, about channeling your anger and pain into something positive."

"If I have to," you grumble, not quite ready to admit defeat.

Bruce nods, his expression unreadable. "It's a start," he says, his voice still gentle. "We'll go slow, okay?" he says, "We'll find what works for you."

You grumble but don't protest further. The idea of doing something productive with your anger is strange, but the thought of having someone, anyone, understand what you're going through is even stranger. You've been so lost in your own pain that you forgot people could relate, could empathize.

"Whatever." You mumble, slumping deeper into the chair, the leather cool and unforgiving against your back. The kitchen feels too quiet without Dick's laughter, too serious without the distraction of his antics.

But Bruce doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't let it phase him. He returns to the pickle jar, grabbing another slice and holding it out to you. "First," he says, his voice firm but kind, "let's get more food into you."

You eye the pickle, the anger still simmering in your veins. You don't want his pity, his charity, but your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. You snatch the pickle from his hand, the sourness a surprising comfort. You chew, the sound of your teeth grinding the cucumber echoing through the kitchen.

Bruce doesn't say anything, just watches you with a knowing look. You know he's waiting for you to crack, to give him the opening he needs to get through to you. But you're not ready to be fixed. You're not even sure you can be fixed.

"Anything else you'd like to eat?" he asks, holding up the jar of pickles.

You shake your head, the anger inside of you a simmering pot ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. "No," you say, taking the jar from him. You don't wait for his reaction, you just turn and stalk out of the kitchen, the cold glass feeling good in your hand.

Bruce sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. He watches you go, his expression a mix of disappointment and understanding.

Once he heard the door to your bedroom slam shut, Bruce took a moment to collect himself. He took a deep breath, then headed up the stairs to Damian's room, the same stairs you'd both descended just minutes ago.

He reached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the knob. He knew that Damian was probably seething, that his words had hit a nerve. But he also knew that this was a critical moment, one that could either push his son further away or draw him closer to understanding the gravity of the situation.

"Damian," he called out, his voice firm but not unkind. The door to the room creaked open, and Damian stood in the threshold, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed in challenge.

"Father," Damian's voice was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen moments ago.

Bruce nodded, his gaze holding Damian's. "Walk with me," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He didn't wait for Damian response, just turned and started walking down the hallway, the light from the chandelier casting a soft glow on the polished floors.

Damian hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking from Bruce to the floor, then he followed, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor. "Need I say anything?" Bruce asked, not looking at him.

Damian felt the weight of his father's gaze even though it wasn't directed at him. "If you are meaning to lecture me about manners, I already know," he said, his voice clipped. "You would say I must be more welcoming to guests."

Bruce stopped and turned to face him, his eyes filled with a gentle reprimand. "Then why weren't you?" he asked, his voice echoing through the hallway.

Damian's eyes flashed with something like anger, his jaw tightening. "Because she's not just a guest," he snapped back, his words sharp as knives. "She's a wild card, a disruption to our lives."

Bruce sighed, his eyes on the floor as he started down the stairs. "That's where you're wrong," he said, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience. "She's a child who's lost everything, just like we have. She's hurt and she's scared."

Damian's steps followed, his eyes narrowed. "And she takes it out on everything and everyone around her," he shot back, his voice filled with accusation. "Including you, Father."

Bruce's eyes remained on the stairs, his jaw clenched. "And that's exactly why we need to be patient with her," he said, each word deliberate. "Because she's lost everything she's ever known, and she's feeling helpless. Anger is her shield."

Damian's frustration was palpable, his voice tight as he followed Bruce through the mansion. "She's mouthy, a brat," he spat out, "And you expect me to be patient?"

Bruce's eyes never left the floor as they entered his office, the heavy oak door closing behind them with a muffled thud. The room was a bastion of calm amidst the storm of their words, the moonlight filtering through the tall windows and casting a soft, silver glow on the mahogany desk and the bookshelves that lined the walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and the faint tang of ink from the countless tomes that contained the knowledge Bruce had gathered over the years.

Bruce turns to face Damian, his eyes a stark reminder of the authority he holds. "I expect you not to start fights," he corrects, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate through the very air. His gaze is unyielding, "There's a difference between defending yourself and looking for trouble."

Damian opens his mouth to protest, but something in Bruce's expression silences him. "We all have our demons, Damian," he says, his voice softer now, "And she's no different." Bruce took a moment to look at Damian, his gaze searching the depths of his son's soul."

"You're more like her than you care to realize," he says, his voice carrying a hint of sadness. "Both of you have lost your way, and it's my job to guide you back."

Damian's eyes narrowed, his arms still crossed in defiance. "I'm nothing like her," he spits out, the words tinged with anger.

Ignoring the comment, Bruce walks over to the Shakespeare bust on the desk, his steps measured and deliberate. He pulls the head down, revealing a hidden button. The bust clicks back into place, a silent acknowledgment of the secret it guards. The tension in the room seems to thicken as the bookshelf slides aside, revealing the elevator to the Batcave.

Damian doesn't even look at the elevator; he's seen it many times, the silent sentinel that whispers of their nocturnal battles against the darkness of Gotham. He focuses instead on his father's back, his eyes tracing the line of Bruce's shoulders as he moves with the grace of a predator. The elevator doors open with a soft hiss, the cold, metallic scent of the cave wafting into the warmth of the office.

Bruce turns to him, his eyes piercing through the shadows. "Damian," he says, his voice low and serious. "You both have a lot to learn from each other. You just need to be willing to see it."

Without waiting for a reply, Bruce steps into the elevator, and after a brief hesitation, Damian follows. The doors close with a finality that seems to echo the unspoken words hanging between them. As the elevator descends, the tension in the small space is palpable, the only sound the soft hum of machinery beneath their feet.

"You know what makes us different, Father," Damian finally says, his voice tight.

Bruce meets Damian's gaze in the elevator's reflection, the steel walls framing their tense silhouettes.

"She's no Robin." Damian's voice, his eyes never leaving Bruce's reflection. The words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the chasm between you and the rest of the Wayne family.

Bruce's expression doesn't change as he continues to look at him through the reflection. "No," he agrees, "she's not. But she's someone who needs help, someone who deserves a chance to find their place in this world."

The elevator jolts to a stop, the cables groaning in protest before the doors open with a smooth whoosh. The Batcave, a sprawling underground complex filled with the tools of their nightly vigil, stretches out before them, the stark contrast of light and shadow playing over the gleaming surfaces of high-tech gadgets and the rough, organic lines of the cave walls. The air is cool and damp, the scent of earth and oil mingling with the faint electrical hum of the machinery.

"And you think you can help her here?" Damian asks, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Have you even told her of… of what you do?"

Bruce turns to face him fully, the gravity of his gaze weighing heavily. "Not yet," he admits, "but when the time is right, I will. For now, she's just a lost girl who needs guidance, not the burden of our world."

Damian's eyes narrow, the unspoken question hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "What if she's not worth it?" he finally asks, his voice echoing off the cold, stone walls. "What if she's just going to cause more trouble?"

Bruce sighs, his hand resting on the elevator's railing. "We don't get to decide who's worth it," he says, turning to face his son. "We just do our best to help those who are in need of our help. And if you can't see that, then maybe it's time for you to take a step back and remember why we do this."

Damian's eyes flash with a mix of anger and understanding as he looks at his father. He knows Bruce is right, but the idea of opening their lives to someone else, especially someone so volatile and unpredictable, is unsettling. The Batcave is their sanctuary, their fortress against the chaos of the world, and he doesn't want to see it compromised.

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth, his arms uncrossing to let out a sigh. "But if she messes up, if she doesn't learn to control herself…" His voice trails off, the threat hanging in the air.

Bruce's gaze is unwavering. "I will handle it," he says firmly, his eyes speaking volumes of trust and belief in the your potential. "But for now, let's focus on making her feel welcome and supported."

The two of them continue to walk through the Batcave, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the cold, damp walls. The lights flicker on as they pass, illuminating the various vehicles and weapons that stand sentinel around them. Weight of their conversation lingering in the air, a palpable presence that seems to cling to every shadow.

Damian's eyes dart around the cavernous space, taking in the various pieces of technology and weaponry that have been meticulously designed and crafted for their nightly battles. His mind is racing with doubt and frustration, but he knows better than to argue with his father.

As they round the corner, the sight of Dick emerging from the shadows in his Nightwing gear stops him in his tracks. Dick's eyes, shimmering with excitement behind the mask, meet his. "We heading out?" Dick asks, his voice filled with anticipation.

Bruce nods, his expression unreadable. "Yes, we are," he confirms, turning to Damian. "Get suited up, we have work to do."