#the neglected reader

Nobody Noticed

They never meant to forget you.

That's what you told yourself, in the beginning. When Bruce came home with reports about Gotham's crime rates spread across the dining table and his eyes passed over you like you were part of the furniture. When Dick ruffled your hair and said "Hey, squirt" on his way to somewhere more important. When Tim looked up from his laptop and said "Yeah, totally, I'll help you with that later" — and later never came.

You told yourself: they're busy. They're saving lives. You're not more important than Gotham.

You believed it for a long time.

---

You were six when Bruce found you.

Your mother was already gone by then — taken in a way that left marks on you that had nothing to do with bruises. You didn't understand all of it, not then. You just knew that the world was dark and cold and that sometimes men could do things that made you feel like you'd never be clean again, even when they hadn't touched you. You'd only watched. Hidden inside the closet, eye pressed to the crack in the door, too small and too terrified to make a sound.

That was your first fear: being trapped somewhere small and dark while something terrible happened and nobody came.

Bruce Wayne looked at you across a sterile hospital room and something moved behind his eyes — recognition, maybe. The shape of a child who had seen too much. He signed the papers three weeks later.

You had a home. You had a father. You had brothers.

For a while, you thought that meant you were safe.

---

Dick was twenty when you arrived, already Nightwing, already brilliant. He smiled at you like sunlight and called you little sister and the first time he did, your chest cracked open with something warm and desperate and enormous. You followed him everywhere. You learned his footsteps. You memorized the way he laughed.

He was kind to you. He just wasn't there. Not really. Not in the way that counted.

Dick existed in flashes — a weekend visit, a quick call, a laugh across the comms. He was the brother who said "I'm so proud of you" without asking what he was proud of. He saw the shape of you, the outline, and he loved that outline genuinely. He just never looked close enough to see what was inside it.

You stopped telling him things when you were nine. He always listened with one eye on his phone.

--

Tim was different. Tim noticed things — that was his whole thing, observation, deduction, detail. He noticed when Bruce's sleep patterns shifted. He noticed when Damian's training scores dropped two percent. He built files on everything.

He never built one on you.

Not because he didn't care. Because you were never a variable in any equation he was trying to solve. You were just... there. Present. Assumed. Like background noise that didn't require analysis.

You asked him once to help you with your combat assessment. You were twelve, newly suited up, still figuring out your footing. He said "Absolutely, let's do Tuesday." Tuesday came. He forgot. You reminded him. He said "Sorry, this week's bad, next week for sure." Next week came and went. You stopped asking after the fourth time.

What hurt wasn't the forgetting. It was that he never noticed he'd forgotten.

---

Jason.

Jason is a wound that never healed right.

Before he died, he was the one who saw you. Really saw you. He'd find you in the library at two in the morning when you couldn't sleep and he'd sit beside you without asking why, and somehow that was enough. He called you kid but it didn't feel dismissive — it felt like a claim. Like you're mine to look after.

He died when you were eight.

You grieved him in a way you didn't grieve your mother, because with your mother you'd been too small to understand permanence. With Jason you were old enough to know that gone meant gone. You put flowers outside his old room for a year. Bruce told you once, gently, to stop. It upset him.

You stopped.

Jason came back when you were thirteen, angry and sharp-edged and burning with something you didn't have a name for yet. You ran to him. You actually ran, across the cave, heart hammering, because he was alive, he was back, he was—

He stepped around you.

Not deliberately. Or maybe deliberately — you never knew. He looked at Bruce and the look between them was so full of history and fury and grief that there was simply no room for you in it. You stood there with your arms half-extended and slowly let them fall.

He never really came back. Not to you. The Jason who sat with you in libraries was buried in the pit somewhere. This Jason looked through you on a good day and said something cutting on a bad one — "Shouldn't you be in bed?" or "You're in the way" or once, terribly, "You're not actually his daughter, you know. You're just the latest project."

You didn't cry in front of him. You'd learned by then not to cry in front of any of them.

---

Damian arrived like a verdict.

He was Bruce's blood. His actual blood, and you understood immediately — with the cold clarity of a child who had learned to read rooms — what that meant for you. Not consciously. Bruce never said it. Nobody said it. But the shift was there, subtle and tectonic, and you felt it the way you felt changes in weather.

Damian didn't like you. He made that clear within the first week. "You were adopted out of pity," he told you, seven years old and vicious with inherited confidence. "I am a Wayne by birth. There is a difference."

You were thirteen. You already knew there was a difference. You just hadn't wanted to hear it said aloud.

You tried, for years, to reach him. You left his favorite tea outside his door. You covered for him with Bruce twice. Once, when he was injured on a mission and Bruce was unreachable, you sat with him in the med bay for four hours and held his hand when he was too delirious with painkillers to tell you to let go.

The next morning he told you to stay out of his room.

You did.

--

You became a vigilante at fifteen.

Bruce didn't exactly give you permission. You didn't exactly ask. You trained in the cave when nobody was there — which was often, because the cave was only crowded when there was something important happening, and you had learned you were rarely part of what was important. You built your own suit from components in the supply room that nobody had catalogued yet. You chose a name nobody had claimed.

Your first night out, you stopped a mugging and a convenience store robbery and helped a woman whose car had broken down on the highway find a signal to call for help. Small things. Unglamorous things.

You filed a report in the cave's system. Standard format, the way Tim had shown you once, two years ago, in a moment of actual attention. Case numbers. Location coordinates. Incident details.

Nobody responded.

You filed another one the next week. And the next.

After six months, you stopped filing reports. You just went out and came back and put your suit away and went to bed. Nobody asked where you'd been. Nobody noticed the mileage on the bike.

You had a symbol, a territory, a growing list of informants. You had a reputation in three of Gotham's worst districts. You had solved four cases that had gone cold in the GCPD for years.

The Batfamily did not know your case number. They did not know your informants' names. They did not know about the apartment you'd quietly rented in Crime Alley with the money from your trust fund — not to live in, just to have somewhere that was yours, somewhere your things weren't adjacent to theirs, somewhere you could breathe without waiting to be overlooked.

You were sixteen when you understood that you loved them and that loving them was making you disappear.

---

You tried, once, to say it.

Seventeen years old. Family dinner — one of the rare ones where everyone was present, even Jason, even Dick, even Alfred who watched everything with sad knowing eyes and sometimes touched your shoulder in a way that made you want to collapse.

Bruce was talking about a new lead on Scarecrow's operations. Dick was animated, leaning forward, offering tactical suggestions. Tim had his tablet out despite Alfred's pointed look. Jason was eating with the focused aggression he brought to everything. Damian was correcting Tim's analysis with the particular smugness of someone who knew he was right.

You had information. Relevant information — you'd spent three weeks building a profile on Scarecrow's new chemist, traced his supply chain to a warehouse in the Narrows. You had coordinates. You had a window.

You opened your mouth.

"I actually have—"

"The eastern route makes more sense," Dick said, talking over you without realizing it. "If we split the team into—"

You closed your mouth.

You sat there for the rest of dinner. You passed the bread when it was near you. You answered when Alfred asked if you wanted more water. Nobody else spoke to you directly.

After, you went to your room and sat on the floor with your back against the bed and breathed very carefully for a long time. Not crying. You'd mostly stopped crying by then. Just breathing. Waiting for the feeling to pass.

It passed. It always passed.

That was almost worse.

The accumulation of small things:

Tim promising to spar with you seventeen times over two years and canceling sixteen of them. The seventeenth time he simply didn't show up and when you asked later he said "Oh, was that today? Sorry, I had a thing."

Dick sending you a birthday message three days late with seventeen exclamation points, clearly composed in thirty seconds.

Bruce looking at your patrol report — one of the rare times he actually opened the file — and saying "Good work" with the tone of someone who had not actually read it.

Damian telling a visiting hero that there were "four" Batfamily members when you were standing six feet away.

Jason, once, when you were eighteen and tried to check if he was okay after a bad mission: "I don't need you to babysit me. Go back to playing house with Bruce."

The way none of them ever asked about your fear.

You'd mentioned it once, years ago, to Dick — that small spaces made you cold, that being trapped made your vision go white, that you'd had nightmares since you were six about a closet door and sounds you couldn't stop hearing. He'd said "Oh, that's rough, I'm sorry" and then his phone had rung and that was the end of it.

None of them knew. Not really. Not the shape of it, the weight of it, the way it lived in your chest like a stone.

---

You were nineteen when the Riddler's new syndicate took you.

It wasn't careless on your part. You'd been careful — you were always careful, you'd had to be, operating without a net, without backup, without anyone monitoring your comms. You'd tracked the syndicate for four months. You knew their patterns. You knew their safehouses.

What you didn't know was that they knew yours.

They'd been watching you watch them. Waiting. Patient in the way that only people with something to prove could be patient.

They took you on a Tuesday. Gray sky, cold rain. You were two blocks from your apartment in Crime Alley and then you weren't anywhere you recognized.

---

The room was small.

That was the first thing. That was the thing that split you open before anything else had even happened — the dimensions of it, the closeness of the walls, the single bare bulb, the door with no handle on the inside. The smell of damp concrete and something metallic.

You pressed your back against the wall and breathed.

They'll find me, you thought. They'll notice I'm gone. Bruce will pull up my tracker—

Your tracker was in your suit. Your suit was in your apartment. You'd been taken in civilian clothes.

They'll notice I'm missing from the cave. Tim monitors the system—

Tim had not responded to a single report you'd filed in six months. The system showed your last check-in as four days ago.

Dick will—

Dick didn't know your patrol schedule. Nobody did.

You sat in the small dark room and understood, with a clarity that was almost peaceful, that no one was coming.

Not because they didn't love you. Maybe they did, in the abstract, in the way you love furniture that's always been in a room. But love without attention was just sentiment. Sentiment didn't open doors.

---

They came eventually. Riddler's people, with questions you didn't answer and methods that made the room feel smaller. You held on to what you could. Your name. Your breathing. The memory of a library at two in the morning and a boy who sat beside you without asking why.

That Jason was gone. But the memory wasn't.

You held onto it.

On the third day you stopped counting hours. On the fifth day you stopped being surprised by the pain. Somewhere in there — you couldn't have said exactly when — you stopped waiting.

Not because you gave up, exactly. More because waiting required believing, and you had run out of the particular kind of belief that made waiting possible. You had spent thirteen years waiting to be seen. This was just the last version of the same thing.

You thought about your mother, in the end. Not the way it happened — you didn't let yourself go there. Just her face, which you barely remembered, which had mostly dissolved into impressions: something warm, something that smelled like cedar, something that had loved you before the world got its hands on you.

You thought: at least I know what that felt like.

The bulb flickered. The room was very small. The door did not open.

---

They found your apartment six weeks later.

Tim, actually — following a thread on a case that had nothing to do with you, a lead that happened to pass through Crime Alley and a building registry that happened to have your name on it. He stood in the doorway of the small apartment and looked at your things — the books stacked by the window, the mug on the counter, the suit folded on the table because you'd always been neat, always been careful, always cleaned up after yourself — and something shifted in his face.

He called Bruce.

Bruce came. Then Dick. Then Jason. Damian stayed in the car for a long time before he came upstairs.

They stood in your apartment and looked at your life, the one you'd built without them, the one that had existed in the negative space of their attention. There were case files on the wall. Years of them. Cases solved, territories mapped, informants catalogued. There were notes in your handwriting — careful, precise — cross-referencing their operations with yours. All the times you'd been working parallel to them, unseen.

There was a folder on the table labeled, in your handwriting: Reports — Unfiled.

Dick opened it.

It was everything you'd never said. Not a journal, not a letter — you hadn't written it for them, you'd written it for yourself, the way you wrote everything, because writing was the only place you'd ever been fully heard. Patrol notes. Case summaries. And threaded through them, small and unadorned, the record of being invisible: Tim canceled again. Dick called, didn't ask how I was. Bruce said good work without looking up. Damian said four.

And at the very end, dated two weeks before you disappeared: I think I'm going to stop waiting. Not for them — for anyone. I think I've been waiting my whole life and I'm tired and I think that's okay. I think it's okay to be tired.

I love them. I just don't think they'll notice I'm gone.

Dick sat down on your floor.

Jason stood very still in the doorway of your bedroom for a long time.

They found you three days later. What was left of you.

The Riddler's syndicate had moved on, left no living witnesses, covered their tracks with professional efficiency. The GCPD report was clinical. Bruce read it in the cave at three in the morning with Alfred's hand on his shoulder and did not speak for a very long time.

You had been afraid of small spaces. They had put you in one. They had known — somehow, because you'd never told your family but you'd mentioned it once to an informant who'd been compromised — what you were most afraid of.

You had died in the exact shape of your greatest fear.

Waiting for someone to open the door.

They held a service. Small, private. Alfred cried in the way Alfred cried — quietly, with dignity, with the devastation of someone who had seen this family make the same mistakes over and over and had never been able to stop them.

Nobody said we should have known. That was perhaps the most honest thing.

Dick didn't speak at the service. He'd tried to write something and hadn't been able to finish it. He kept thinking about the phone calls where he hadn't asked how you were. He kept thinking about how he'd loved the shape of you without ever learning the contents.

Tim thought about seventeen canceled sparring sessions. He thought about the reports sitting unread in the system. He thought about how he'd built files on everything — everything except you.

Jason thought about what he'd said. You're not actually his daughter, you know. You're just the latest project. He thought about it with the particular torture of someone who cannot take words back. He thought about a library and two in the morning and a small girl who had run toward him with her arms out and he had walked around her like she wasn't there.

He thought about that for a long time.

Damian stood at the graveside and looked at your name on the stone and thought about a mug of tea left outside his door. He had not thanked you. He had not acknowledged it. He had told you to stay out of his room.

He had been seven. He did not think that excused him.

---

Bruce went back to the cave that night. He opened your file — your real file, the one Tim had built after, pulling together everything, trying too late to see you whole. He read every report. Every case. Every small careful note.

He read the line: I love them. I just don't think they'll notice I'm gone.

He sat in the cave for a long time.

Then he closed the file.

He went upstairs. He stood in the hallway outside your room — your old room, the one you'd kept because you'd never officially moved out, the one with your books and your drawings and your second-best mug because your favorite was in the apartment in Crime Alley. He stood there and he put his hand flat against the door.

He did not open it.

He stood there for a very long time, in the dark, in the quiet.

And then he went to bed.

Because Bruce Wayne had always been better at grieving in retrospect than preventing it. Because the people he failed were always, in the end, the ones already inside the house.

Because you had been right.

𐔌 . ⋮ note: This gone far than i though I am gland that you guys like my kind of reader and my poor english .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

◟♯ . Let's describe about Loser! Weeb! Reader some headcanon and a bit of Reader's opinions.

🎧𓏲ּ𝄢 recommended vibe: Wet, My My Metrocard, Watermelon

<- pervious ☆ M.List

Headcanon

— Loser! Weeb! Reader was based on Bocchi's personality from Bocchi The Rock. The social anxiety and properly their guitar skill (play only anime op but then bore and quit)

— Loser! Weeb! Reader is definitely Gen Z. The generation that grew up watching the world change in front of their eyes, never allowed to have a full experience of theirown roof. Reader has barely seen newspapers in front of the mansion, CDs are practically nonexistent in stores,s and people don't use telephone booths anymore (even Superman doesn't change his costume in it!)

— Loser! Weeb! Reader who can handle the change surprisingly excellent, as their life has been through so much that the reader has to learn something from it. But still playing riddles from old newspapers.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader who properly use those meme brainrot listen to Vocaloidd yap all day long. Properly use the ishowspeed meme A LOT on batfamily chat to troll them out and confuse old Gens. (Alfread, Bruce Dick, and a bit of Jason) It would be a shame if you didn't memorize this moment before it's gone!

— Loser! Weeb! Reader always have 2 limited- edition anime T-shirts, one for use and another for showing off. Of course, the readers' main interest in anime is Dilfs and Milfs as such Nanami Kento, Aisawa, or Yor (Daddy/Mommy issue don't worry)

— Loser! Weeb! Reader was left to watch TV or read newspapers as he's too busy with his business, and Reader is properly addicted to TV and cartoons. (Readers like puzzles or riddles in newspapers a lot, like come on, every kid hates reading long articles)

— Loser! Weeb! Reader was/is a Discord kitten, sometimes dressed as an egirl, femboy, or cosplay for Discord gifts. Of course, you don't have a money problem, but you have a daddy issue. Which is fair. You're a desperate scrap of attention, even if it's from strangers. (Tim gotta be the first one to find out this secret)

Reader's opinion to batboys.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader and Dick were closed when he was babysitting when you were a toddler; he still saw you as a fragile, immune, and weak baby sibling, even though you are 16 now. It isn't an unexpected change. You began to notice a subtle change in him over time since you were 5. the distance, the dark circles, the movement with precision and brutality, nothing like the Robin Dick used to be.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader and Dick barely talked to each other because it was easier to let you go than to try to heal what remained. Dick doesn't want to admit it, but it's hard to talk with clueless (about their nightlife) people like you. But he will try, at least, to be a big brother and greet you every time you meet (he will forget)

"Hey babybird" Dick smiled and waved at you.

"Hi, Dick" and you gone to your own room.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader who thinks the word “babybird” is lame as hell. The point of calling it, like come on, he called everyone who was younger than him “babybird” with those stupid smiled.

you don’t want to be called babybird anymore.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader and Jason. You guys don't talk anymore, not after his accident. But it must be only you who misses the precious time when they unlocked Bruce's nude magazines safe lock. Hilarious.

But deep down, you were upset at Jason's first meeting. He made you insecure, jealous of Dick who talked with Jason more, and made jokes you can't understand. The only thing you thought you were better than him is that you share blood with your dad.

(that's not a good things btw. You hate youself for thinking like that. )

— Loser! Weeb! Reader and Tim. Tim is the greatest example to compare how useless, weak, and immune you are (no matter if you are just 12 when you first meet him). We share the same birth year, you may be older than him a few months. Tim is smart, and he lets his actions speak. while you do nothing but watch cartoons in your room.

if Tim is coffe addicted, you certainly are Monster addicted. You drank like it was fuel, racing on who’d drop dead at their desk first. Tim accidently took your drink once from fridge and his heart shook like it's going to explode.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader and Damian are a mess. Damian may see you as rivals while you see Damian as a younger, better version of yourself. You won't romanticize Damian's traumas, but you believe the experience makes him the child he is today. At least Damian was loved by people who understood him deeply.

oh mother, you were driven by envy. In this moment, you have to admit you are jealous so bad. Maybe Damian is your competition that you can't win him in the way you want to.

— Loser! Weeb! Reader and Bruce.

you don't want to talk about him.

you don't hate him, but you have nothing to do with him.

<- pervious ☆ M.List

Love your writing!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧

pairing: platonic yandere!batfam x neglected!super!gn!reader (ft. platonic!clark kent x neglected!super!gn!reader) summary: your family learns that overlooking one person might bring a lot of trouble. Especially if that someone's mother is from Krypton. warnings: mentions of neglect, major character death!!!, that death could be considered a suicide in a way, batfam's obsession develops too late, unspecified family relations with Clark Kent, Lazarus Pit mentioned, there are no healthy coping mechanisms in this one, Jason's death mentioned, Superman is MAD, I have no clue how they bury the dead on Krypton I just be making shit up, body horror, post Pit insanity, jokes about graves and their sizes? (there's one but like it can be sensitive subject idk) a/n: I've been in the mood for some neglected reader lately so…

There were parts of you that always knew you were destined to end like this. Your body restrained by cuffs made out of Kryptonite, at the mercy of Gotham's most infamous clown.

You knew you didn't have long before the Kryptonite poisoning would kill you. Assuming Joker won't grow bored of watching you wither away and end this faster.

A part of you still clung to hope that your dad would come and save you. Just like you watched him do with Tim or Damian. Keeping the promise he made to his kids that he won't let another death happen. Not from Joker. Not like he let Jason pass.

Platonic Yandere! Batfam x Neglected! Reader

If you want to know who are my Oc's check my Youtube channel

If the Batman win, I will work on the Y/n look to show what they will look like.

Also, if anyone have ideas of how she or they will look because I'm having difficult times about how she or they should look or what her backstory villain Arc will look like.

Invisible Heart

Part 1 - part 2 - part 3

The thing about dying, you discovered, was that it was simultaneously more dramatic and more boring than you'd expected.

There were machines beeping, bright lights overhead, people in scrubs moving with purposeful urgency. Very medical drama. Very exciting.

But there were also long stretches of nothing—waiting for test results, waiting for doctors, waiting for your heart to decide whether it was going to keep beating or just give up entirely. That part was boring. Tedious, even.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments.

"—severe dilated cardiomyopathy—"

"—why wasn't she on a transplant list—"

"—Guardian? We need to contact—"

"—Bruce Wayne, apparently, but no one's answering—"

That tracked. Of course no one was answering. It was gala night. The Waynes had more important things to do than answer calls about their dying daughter.

Except they didn't know you were dying, did they? Because you'd never told them. Because Bruce had kicked you out of his office. Because no one had cared enough to notice.

"We'll keep trying," someone said, and you wanted to laugh. Good luck with that.

At some point—hours? minutes? time was weird—you surfaced enough to find a doctor standing by your bed. She was older, South Asian, with kind eyes and tired features.

"Hello," she said gently when she noticed you were awake. "I'm Dr. Kaur. You're at Gotham General Hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Bus bench," you croaked. Your throat was raw. "Couldn't breathe."

"You had a cardiac event. A very serious one. Your heart is—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Your heart is very sick. You have dilated cardiomyopathy. Were you aware of this diagnosis?"

"Yes."

"And you were being treated?"

"Was. Ran out of medication."

Her expression shifted—not quite anger, but close. Frustration, maybe. Disappointment in the systems that had failed you. "How long have you been without your medication?"

"Day and a half."

"And before that? Were you taking it regularly?"

"When I could afford to refill it."

Dr. Kaur's jaw tightened. "You're sixteen years old. You should not be managing a life-threatening heart condition on your own." She pulled up a chair, sat down like she had all the time in the world even though you could hear the chaos of the ER beyond the curtain. "We've been trying to reach your father, Bruce Wayne. We've called multiple times, but—"

"He won't answer." Your voice was flat. "He's at a gala tonight. Important people, important causes. He won't answer."

"We'll keep trying. You're a minor. We need parental consent for treatment, and we need medical history, and—"

"I can consent," you interrupted. "Emancipated minor laws. If my guardian is unavailable and it's an emergency, I can consent to life-saving treatment. I looked it up."

You had, actually. Months ago, when you first got diagnosed and realized you were on your own. Just in case.

Dr. Kaur looked at you for a long moment, something sad and angry warring in her expression. "You're sixteen," she repeated, softer this time. "You should not have to know those laws."

"Yeah, well." You tried to shrug, but moving hurt. "Here we are."

"Here we are," she echoed. She pulled out a tablet, started pulling up screens. "All right. Let me tell you what's happening. Your heart is functioning at about thirty percent capacity. That's dangerously low. We've started you on IV medications to help support your heart function, and we're running tests to determine the full extent of the damage. But I need to be honest with you—this is very serious. You should have been in treatment months ago."

"I was trying," you said, and hated how defensive you sounded. "I went to a clinic. Got diagnosed. Got medication. I was taking it. I just—ran out."

"Why didn't you get a refill?"

Because you were alone. Because you had no money. Because asking for help meant admitting how bad things were, and you'd been so sure you could handle it yourself.

Because you were tired of being a burden no one wanted to carry.

"Complicated," you said finally.

Dr. Kaur's eyes were too understanding. "I'm going to keep trying to reach your family. In the meantime, is there anyone else we can call? Other family members? Friends?"

Your friends. God, your friends. You were supposed to be at Dani's house right now, eating tamales and watching movies. They were probably wondering where you were.

"My phone," you said. "Where's my phone?"

"The paramedics brought your belongings. Hold on." She stepped away, returned with a plastic bag containing your waterlogged phone, your wallet, your keys. The phone screen was more crack than glass now, but when you pressed the button, it miraculously turned on.

Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-four texts.

Dani: where are you???

Marco: yo you were supposed to be here an hour ago

Jas: this isn't funny anymore. call us back

Dani: im actually worried now. please respond

Marco: if youre dead im going to kill you

Jas: we're calling the police

Dani: no wait marco found your location. your phones at gotham general. WHAT THE HELL

All three: OMW

The last text was from fifteen minutes ago.

"My friends are coming," you told Dr. Kaur. Your voice cracked. "They're—they'll be here soon."

"Good. That's good." She made a note on her tablet. "I'll let the nurse know to send them back when they arrive. But sweetie, we really do need to reach your father. There are decisions that need to be made, and—"

"He won't come." You said it with certainty, with the weight of sixteen years of evidence. "You can keep calling. But he won't come. Not for me."

"Let's try one more time." Dr. Kaur pulled out her phone, dialed the number the hospital had on file. You could hear it ringing on speaker.

One ring. Two. Three. Four.

"You've reached Bruce Wayne—"

She hung up, tried another number. "Is there an alternate contact? An assistant, maybe?"

"Alfred Pennyworth. He's—" What was Alfred, exactly? Butler felt reductive. Guardian felt inaccurate. "He takes care of things at the house. He might answer."

You didn't have Alfred's number. You'd never needed it. But Dr. Kaur got it from the hospital records—apparently it was listed as an emergency contact, which was more than Bruce had managed—and dialed.

It rang once before a familiar, cultured voice answered. "Pennyworth speaking."

"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Dr. Kaur at Gotham General Hospital. I'm calling about—" She glanced at you, and you nodded. "About your—about Miss Wayne. She's been admitted with a cardiac emergency."

There was a beat of silence. Then: "I beg your pardon?"

"She collapsed earlier today. She's stable now, but her condition is very serious. We've been trying to reach Mr. Wayne, but—"

"He's at the gala. They all are. I'll—give me ten minutes. I'm on my way."

He hung up. Dr. Kaur looked at you. "He's coming."

"Yeah." You felt something loosen in your chest. Alfred was coming. It wasn't the same as your father, wasn't the same as the family you'd wanted your whole life, but it was something. "He's good like that."

"I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to rest." She paused at the curtain. "Your friends are lucky to have you. I hope you know that."

"I'm lucky to have them," you corrected.

She smiled, sad and knowing, and left you alone with the beeping machines and your failing heart.

You closed your eyes, just for a moment.

You woke to the sound of barely contained panic.

"—just found her like this? On a bench? In the rain? What the actual fuck—"

"Marco, you need to calm down, they're going to kick us out—"

"I don't care! She could have died! She—" His voice cracked. "She almost did die, Dani."

"I know. I know. But she didn't. She's okay. She's—"

"She's awake," Jasmine said quietly, and three faces swiveled toward you.

They looked terrible. Dani's eyes were red and puffy from crying. Marco's jaw was clenched so tight you worried about his teeth. Jasmine's usual composed mask had cracked, revealing raw worry underneath.

"Hey," you said weakly.

"Hey?" Marco's voice pitched up. "Hey? You almost die and that's all you've got? 'Hey?'"

"Marco—" Dani warned.

"No! No, she doesn't get to just—" He was pacing now, all nervous energy and unleashed fear. "We've been terrified! You sent that text—just 'help,' that's it, that's all we got—and then nothing! Your location showed the hospital and we thought—we thought—"

"I'm sorry," you said, and your voice broke. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"What happened?" Jasmine asked. She'd pulled a chair up to your bedside, was holding your hand like she was afraid you'd disappear. "The truth this time. No deflecting."

So you told them. About the diagnosis three months ago, about the medication you'd been managing alone, about running out of pills and not knowing how to get more. About trying to tell Bruce and being dismissed. About the texts from the mysterious stalker. About collapsing on a bus bench in the rain.

By the time you finished, Dani was crying again, and Marco had stopped pacing to grip the rail of your hospital bed so hard his knuckles were white.

"You should have told us," Jasmine said. Her voice was steady, but her hand was shaking. "We could have helped."

"How? You're seventeen, sixteen, and seventeen. What were you going to do?"

"Literally anything!" Marco exploded. "We could have—I don't know, helped you pay for medication, or made you go to the doctor, or told your family, or—something! Anything would have been better than you handling this alone!"

"I didn't want to be a burden—"

"A burden?" Dani's voice was sharp. "You think—God, do you really think that's how we see you? As a burden?"

"You have your own problems—"

"So? Everyone has problems! That's life! That doesn't mean you have to face everything alone!" She was crying harder now, ugly-crying in a way that would have been embarrassing in any other context. "You're our best friend. You matter. You matter so much, and the fact that you don't know that is—it's—"

"It's fucked up," Marco finished. "It's completely fucked up. Your family doesn't see you, fine, they're emotionally constipated billionaire vigilantes, whatever. But we see you. We've always seen you."

"You're not invisible to us," Jasmine added quietly. "You never have been."

Something inside you broke. Not your heart—that was already broken, literally and figuratively. Something else. Some wall you'd built to keep yourself together, to keep the pain manageable.

You started crying, and once you started, you couldn't stop. Great, heaving sobs that made your chest hurt worse but felt necessary, like lancing a wound. All the fear and loneliness and exhaustion you'd been holding in for months—years, really—came pouring out.

Your friends held you. Dani on one side of the bed, Jasmine on the other, Marco standing at the foot, all of them anchoring you to the world, reminding you that you weren't alone even when it felt like you were.

"I'm scared," you finally gasped out between sobs. "I'm so scared. My heart is—they said it's really bad. And I don't know what's going to happen, and my family doesn't care, and—"

"We care," Dani said fiercely. "We care so much."

"We're not going anywhere," Marco added. "You're stuck with us."

"Even if you want to get rid of us," Jasmine said, attempting lightness. "Especially then."

You laughed, wet and messy. "I don't want to get rid of you."

"Good. Because we're going to be super annoying about this. We're talking daily check-ins, medication reminders, doctor's appointment escorts—the works."

"You don't have to—"

"We want to," Dani interrupted. "Let us be here for you. Please."

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

A nurse poked her head in. "Sorry, visiting hours are technically over, but—oh." She took in the scene—you crying, your friends clustered around, all of you holding onto each other like lifelines. "I'll give you a few more minutes."

"Thank you," Jasmine said.

The nurse left, and you settled back into the terrible hospital pillows, exhausted from crying but feeling lighter somehow. Less alone.

"Did they reach your family?" Marco asked after a moment.

"Alfred's coming. He should be here soon."

"And your dad?"

"At the gala. Won't answer."

"I'm going to key his car," Marco announced.

"You don't even know which one is his."

"I'll key all of them. Every single Batmobile or whatever the hell he drives."

"That's the Batmobile," you corrected automatically. "His regular cars are—"

"Don't care. Keying them all."

Despite everything, you smiled. "I love you guys."

"We love you too," Dani said. "So much."

"Even when you're being stupid and self-sacrificing," Marco added.

"Especially then," Jasmine agreed.

You closed your eyes, feeling their presence, their warmth, their fierce protectiveness. Your family might not have shown up, but your people had.

That had to count for something.

Alfred arrived twenty minutes later, and the change in energy was immediate. He swept into your room like a force of nature, all British composure on the surface but with worry radiating from every line of his body.

"Miss," he said, and his voice was rough in a way you'd never heard before. "My dear girl."

Your friends stepped back, giving him space. He took Jasmine's vacated chair and immediately took your hand in both of his, studying your face with those sharp butler's eyes that missed nothing.

"I'm okay," you said automatically.

"You are decidedly not okay." He glanced at the monitors, at the IV in your arm, at your pale face. "How long have you been ill?"

"Three months. Diagnosed, I mean. Probably longer than that."

His expression did something complicated—pain, guilt, anger, all carefully controlled. "And you didn't tell anyone."

"I tried. Bruce—" Your voice caught. "I tried to tell him. He was busy."

Alfred's jaw tightened. "I see."

"It's not your fault," you added quickly. "You have so much to manage. I didn't want to add to it."

"My dear child." His voice was gentle but firm. "You are never an addition to my burdens. Never. Do you understand? You are part of this family, whether they remember to act like it or not."

"They're at the gala," you said. Stating the obvious, but it felt important somehow. "All of them. Together. Being the perfect Wayne family."

"I will call them immediately—"

"Don't." You grabbed his hand tighter. "Please don't. Not tonight. Let them have their gala. I'll still be here tomorrow."

"This is a medical emergency—"

"I'm stable. The doctor said so. And if you call Bruce now, he'll be angry that I interrupted his important event. He'll come because he has to, not because he wants to. I don't—" Your voice cracked. "I don't want that. I'd rather be here with Alfred, who actually cares, than have Bruce show up out of obligation."

Alfred looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the war in his expression—duty versus compassion, protocol versus your obvious pain.

"Very well," he said finally. "But first thing tomorrow morning, I will inform them. This cannot continue."

"Okay."

"And I will be staying here with you tonight."

"You don't have to—"

"I am staying," he repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "End of discussion."

You nodded, too tired to fight.

He turned to your friends, who'd been watching the exchange with interest. "And you three must be the friends she speaks so highly of."

"She speaks about us?" Marco looked surprised.

"Occasionally. Usually when she's trying to avoid discussing her own wellbeing." Alfred's expression softened. "Thank you for being there for her. For seeing her when others did not."

"She's our best friend," Dani said simply. "Of course we're here."

"Yeah, you couldn't get rid of us if you tried," Marco added.

"I have no intention of trying. In fact—" Alfred pulled out his phone. "I would like your contact information, if you're comfortable sharing. Someone should know how to reach her support system."

They exchanged numbers, and you watched through heavy eyelids, feeling a weird sense of worlds colliding. Alfred and your friends, the two parts of your life that actually cared, coordinating.

Maybe tomorrow would be terrible. Maybe Bruce would show up angry or indifferent. Maybe your brothers would be uncomfortable and distant. Maybe this whole thing would just reinforce how little you mattered in the grand scheme of Wayne family dynamics.

But tonight, you had Alfred and your friends, and you were alive, and that was enough.

Dr. Kaur returned, ushering your friends out with promises that they could visit tomorrow. They hugged you goodbye—carefully, mindful of the wires and IVs—and left with backward glances and worried expressions.

"I'll text you," Dani called from the door.

"Constantly," Marco added. "Like, annoyingly often."

"We'll coordinate a schedule," Jasmine said, ever practical.

Then they were gone, and it was just you and Alfred and the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"Rest," Alfred said, still holding your hand. "I'll be right here."

"Don't you need to get back? The gala—"

"The gala will manage without me. You will not."

You wanted to argue, but exhaustion was pulling you under. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Thank you. For coming. For caring."

"Always," he said quietly. "I am sorry I didn't see this sooner. I am sorry you felt you had to face this alone."

"Not your fault."

"Perhaps. But I should have looked closer. Should have noticed. That is my failure, not yours."

You wanted to say more, wanted to absolve him of guilt he didn't deserve, but sleep was claiming you. The last thing you heard before you drifted off was Alfred's voice, quiet and determined:

"I will make this right. I promise you, my dear girl. I will make them see."

Ĩ̴̗͖͇͛͒͐̆ J̵̯̝̬͔́͋̊u҉̩̝̫̳̞̈̀̔s҉̖͕̩̬͌͐̓̾̚t̵̬̟̱͖͓̄̍̊̆̇ W҉̭͚͍̆́a̴͚͎̓̽̿͊̏n̵̝̰̭̈́͛̆̂t̵̳̯͔́͊é̵͕͔̲̟̄d҉̗͔̠̟̪͗̃̉̌̀ Ỳ̸̠͇̩̰̱̏͋o҈̭͓̉͛͊̿u̵͓͕̽͗,̴̖̰͎̀̀ D҉̫̪̞͉͙̂̉̀̆ä̵̘͚̟́̉̿d̸̰̝̣̽̈͂̎́-̶̯͓͕̥̄̃͐͂̀-̸̝̰̦͉̾̓

The thing about living in Wayne Manor was that you could go days without seeing another living soul, even though the house was never truly empty.

You discovered this particular brand of loneliness at age seven, when you'd spent an entire Saturday wandering the east wing's portrait gallery, counting the stern-faced Waynes who'd come before you. Forty-three paintings in total. Forty-three dead relatives who seemed more present than your own father.

Now, at sixteen, you'd perfected the art of existing in the negative spaces of Bruce Wayne's life.

The morning sun filtered through your bedroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long golden rectangles across the Persian rug. Your alarm had been screaming for the past fifteen minutes—a shrill, insistent thing that barely penetrated the warm cocoon of your covers. Sleep clung to you like honey, sweet and thick, pulling you back down even as your conscious mind clawed toward wakefulness.

"Miss," Alfred's voice carried from the hallway, accompanied by a gentle knock. "It's half past seven. You'll be late for school again."

You buried your face deeper into the pillow, mumbling something that might have been agreement or protest—even you weren't sure which. The door opened with its familiar whisper of well-oiled hinges, and you felt rather than saw Alfred enter, his presence as comforting and reliable as sunrise.

"Third time this week," he observed mildly, setting down what smelled like Earl Grey on your nightstand. "At this rate, Principal Jameson will have my phone number memorized."

"Mmph," you eloquently replied.

"I've laid out your uniform. The blue cardigan, I think—it's going to be brisk today." A pause. "Your father asked me to remind you about the charity gala next Saturday. He'll need you in attendance."

That got your eyes open. You rolled over, blinking against the light, your dark hair a tangled mess across the pillow. Alfred stood by your window, impeccably dressed as always in his pressed suit, his expression carrying that particular blend of affection and exasperation he reserved exclusively for you.

"Asked you to remind me," you repeated, voice still rough with sleep. "Not asked me himself."

Alfred's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "He's been very busy with—"

"Wayne Enterprises. I know." You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest. The oversized t-shirt you slept in—stolen from the donation pile years ago, originally belonging to some nameless person—hung off one shoulder. "He's always busy with Wayne Enterprises."

This was an old dance between you, this careful navigation around Bruce Wayne's absence. Alfred was too loyal to criticize his employer, and you were too tired to push. Instead, you reached for the tea, letting its warmth seep into your palms.

"He does try, you know," Alfred said quietly.

You didn't answer. Trying, in Bruce Wayne's world, meant a new laptop appearing on your desk when your old one slowed down. It meant a blank check for prom dresses you'd never been excited enough about school dances to buy. It meant Alfred driving you everywhere because your father was too busy to teach you how to drive himself, and now at sixteen, you still didn't have your license because the thought of asking strangers to teach you something so fundamental felt like admitting a defeat you weren't ready to face.

Trying didn't mean showing up to parent-teacher conferences. It didn't mean family dinners or asking about your day. It definitely didn't mean noticing when you stopped coming home right after school, instead spending hours at the Gotham City Library, curled in the third-floor window seat where no one ever bothered you, reading novels about families who actually liked each other.

"I'll get dressed," you said, swinging your legs out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you suppressed a shiver. "Tell him I'll be at the gala. Wouldn't want to disappoint the cameras."

Alfred's expression softened into something that looked dangerously close to pity, which you hated more than almost anything. You were Bruce Wayne's daughter—people weren't supposed to feel sorry for you. You lived in a mansion. You wore designer clothes (when Alfred insisted). You'd never worried about money or food or safety.

You had everything except the one thing you'd wanted since you were old enough to understand what other children had that you didn't.

"He does love you," Alfred said, and this was his own particular dance, his way of building bridges across chasms he hadn't created. "He simply doesn't know how to show it."

You smiled, the expression feeling tired on your face. "I know, Alfred."

But knowing and feeling were different countries, separated by an ocean you didn't know how to cross.

Gotham Academy perched on the city's edge like a castle from a gothic novel, all stone architecture and ivy-covered walls. It was the kind of school where senators' children rubbed shoulders with old money heirs, where everyone's last name carried weight and history. You'd been attending since kindergarten, and you still felt like a visitor.

The bell for first period had already rung by the time Alfred pulled the Bentley up to the entrance. A few stragglers were hurrying up the steps, and you could see Mr. Patterson, the vice principal, standing at the door with his clipboard, marking down names with the grim satisfaction of someone who enjoyed catching students in minor infractions.

"Have a good day, Miss," Alfred said as you gathered your bag. "Try to stay awake during lessons, hmm?"

You shot him a look that was half-smile, half-grimace. "No promises."

The day unfolded with the predictable monotony of all your days. AP Literature first period, where Mrs. Chen was dissecting "The Great Gatsby" with the kind of enthusiasm you couldn't muster for anything before noon. You'd read it twice already—once for class, once because you'd been trying to understand what Fitzgerald meant about the past repeating itself, whether we were all just boats beating against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the patterns that shaped us.

You thought maybe you understood it better than you wanted to.

Your desk was by the window, third row back, and you spent most of the class period with your cheek pressed against your palm, watching the clouds drift across Gotham's perpetually grey sky. The city sprawled below the hill, all Gothic spires and steel, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Somewhere down there, your father was probably in a meeting, making decisions that affected thousands of people, wielding influence and power that you could barely comprehend.

He just couldn't seem to spare any of it for you.

"Miss Wayne?"

You jerked upright, blinking rapidly. Mrs. Chen was looking at you with raised eyebrows, and you could feel the weight of your classmates' attention shifting your direction. Some looked amused, others sympathetic. Madison Carver, daughter of the district attorney, was whispering something to her neighbor behind her hand.

"Sorry," you mumbled. "Could you repeat the question?"

Mrs. Chen's expression softened slightly. She liked you, you thought, in the way teachers liked quiet students who didn't cause trouble even if they didn't exactly excel. "I asked what you thought Fitzgerald was saying about the American Dream through Gatsby's tragedy."

You scrambled for an answer, pulling fragments of analysis from the depths of your memory. "That... it's always just out of reach? That we think if we just achieve enough, acquire enough, we'll finally be worthy of love, but the premise is flawed. Because love—real love—isn't something you can earn. It's something freely given, or it's not love at all."

The classroom was quiet for a moment. Mrs. Chen's expression had shifted into something contemplative, almost concerned. "That's a rather cynical reading for someone your age."

You shrugged, sinking back into your seat. "Maybe Gatsby was cynical."

"Or maybe he was hopeful," Mrs. Chen countered gently. "He believed, even when belief was irrational. There's something almost noble in that."

You didn't answer, turning back to the window. Hope felt like a luxury you'd used up years ago, back when you still waited by the door on your birthdays, thinking this year would be different. This year, he'd remember. This year, he'd show up.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of lectures and note-taking that you'd probably never review. By lunch, you'd perfected your usual routine: grab something light from the cafeteria, find an empty classroom or corner of the library, avoid the social dynamics of the lunch room where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.

You ended up in the library's third floor, your favorite spot by the tall arched window that overlooked the grounds. The window seat was deep enough to curl up in, worn leather cushions conforming to your body as you settled in with a yogurt and a book you'd already read three times—a fantasy novel about a girl who discovered she was secretly a princess, loved and wanted and important.

Escapism at its finest.

"Skipping lunch social hour again?"

You looked up to find Ryan Martinez, one of the few people at Gotham Academy you considered something like a friend, leaning against the nearest bookshelf. He was tall and lanky, with dark curly hair that never quite obeyed styling products, and the kind of easy smile that suggested he'd never spent a day worrying about whether people liked him.

"You say that like the lunch room isn't a circle of hell," you replied, marking your page.

"Fair." He slid down to sit against the bookshelf, long legs stretching out in front of him. "But you could sit with us sometimes. Jeremy and Kate were asking about you yesterday."

Jeremy and Kate were Ryan's friends—nice enough people who'd been kind to you on the occasions you'd been forced into group projects together. They occupied that middle tier of the social hierarchy: not quite popular enough to be with the Madisons and Braydens of the world, but confident and connected enough to navigate the cafeteria without anxiety.

"Tell them I said hi," you said, which was neither acceptance nor rejection.

Ryan studied you for a moment with those dark, thoughtful eyes. You'd known him since freshman year, when you'd been paired together for a biology project and discovered you both had a tendency to overthink things and a shared love of science fiction novels. He was one of the few people who didn't treat you differently because of your last name, though whether that was because he was genuinely indifferent to wealth or just exceptionally good-natured, you'd never quite determined.

"You okay?" he asked. "You seem more... distant than usual. If that's possible."

"I'm fine," you said automatically. Then, because Ryan had never done anything to deserve your reflexive deflection: "Just tired. I didn't sleep well."

"Again?"

You shrugged. The insomnia had been getting worse lately, your mind refusing to quiet even when your body was exhausted. You'd lie awake in your enormous bedroom, listening to the manor settle around you, wondering if your father was home yet or still out doing... whatever it was he did that kept him gone until all hours.

Wayne Enterprises business didn't usually require someone to stumble home at four in the morning, smelling like rain and something else you could never quite identify. You'd noticed that pattern years ago, had tried to stay awake to catch him, to maybe have a conversation in those quiet early hours when the rest of the world was asleep.

But he'd been so cold the one time you'd succeeded, finding you curled on the second-floor settee at 3 AM, waiting. His face had done something complicated when he'd seen you—surprise, then something that might have been guilt, then a careful blank neutrality that hurt worse than anger would have.

"You should be asleep," he'd said.

"I wanted to see you," you'd replied, thirteen years old and still stupid enough to be honest. "You're never home."

"I'm home now." But he'd stayed distant, like you were something dangerous, something that might detonate if he got too close. "Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

You had. You'd gone to bed, and in the morning, he'd already been gone again, and Alfred had served you breakfast with the kind of gentle sympathy that made you want to break something.

You'd stopped waiting after that.

"Earth to Wayne," Ryan said, waving a hand in front of your face. "You're doing that thing again where you go away inside your head."

"Sorry." You pulled yourself back to the present, managing a small smile. "Told you I'm tired."

"You should actually sleep in class less," Ryan suggested with mock seriousness. "I know, I know, revolutionary concept. But Patterson's starting to notice, and you know he lives for writing people up."

"Patterson can—" You stopped, searching for an appropriately creative ending to that sentence.

"Fight a bear?" Ryan supplied helpfully.

"Eat glass?"

"Learn interpretive dance?"

That surprised a real laugh out of you, the sound feeling foreign in your chest. Ryan grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

"There she is," he said. "Proof that Wayne's daughter is, in fact, capable of human emotion and not just a very sophisticated android."

"Beep boop," you deadpanned.

The warning bell rang, signaling five minutes until fifth period. Ryan groaned, hauling himself to his feet and offering you a hand up. You took it, letting him pull you out of the window seat.

"Calculus?" he asked.

"Chemistry."

"Ah, the class where you actually pay attention." He shouldered his backpack. "See you tomorrow? Same bat-time, same bat-channel?"

"Maybe," you said, which you both knew meant yes.

He left with a casual wave, and you gathered your things slowly, not eager to rush back into the flow of academy life. Through the window, you could see storm clouds gathering on the horizon, dark and heavy with rain. The weather matched your mood, which felt appropriate. Gotham was always ready to provide atmospheric ambiance for whatever emotional drama its residents were experiencing.

The afternoon crawled by with the inexorable slowness of all school days. Chemistry was marginally interesting—you were studying reaction rates and catalysts, the way certain elements could speed up or slow down fundamental changes. Ms. Park was explaining activation energy, drawing curves on the board showing how reactions needed that initial push to occur, and you found yourself thinking about people. About how some relationships seemed to require so much energy to begin, such a massive push to overcome the natural state of separation.

Was that what you and your father had? An insurmountable activation energy barrier? Were you both just sitting on opposite sides of a reaction that would never occur because neither of you could generate enough force to bridge the gap?

"Miss Wayne, could you come up and balance this equation?"

You walked to the board on autopilot, chalk in hand, adding coefficients until the equation made sense. The numbers were easy—straightforward cause and effect. Nothing like actual life, where you could do everything right and still end up alone.

By the time the final bell rang, you were exhausted in that specific way that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and everything to do with emotional depletion. The other students flooded into the hallways, their voices echoing off the stone walls, everyone eager to begin their afternoons of sports practices and club meetings and social gatherings you'd never quite felt invited to.

You took your time at your locker, waiting for the rush to die down. Your phone buzzed with a text from Alfred: Running late with an errand. Will be there at 4:15. Wait inside.

You typed back an acknowledgment, then hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. On impulse, you opened your messages with your father. The last text was from three weeks ago: Will be late tonight. Don't wait up.

You'd sent back: ok

Before that, a month earlier: Credit card approved for spring wardrobe. Alfred has the details.

Your response: thanks

The conversation log read like a relationship with a bank, not a father. All transactions and logistics, nothing resembling actual communication.

Your fingers moved before you could think better of it: How are you?

You stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it character by character. Too needy. Too obvious. He wouldn't respond anyway—he never did to anything that required emotional engagement.

Instead, you pocketed your phone and headed for your usual spot: the east courtyard, where there was a bench tucked behind an overgrown rhododendron that most people forgot about. It was nearly four, and the courtyard was empty, most students long gone. The clouds had finally made good on their promise, and a light rain was starting to fall, misting everything in grey.

You sat on the bench, tilting your face up to feel the rain, not bothering to pull up your hood. There was something cleansing about it, like the weather was washing away the accumulated weight of the day. In the distance, you could hear traffic from the main road, the eternal heartbeat of Gotham City going about its business, indifferent to one lonely teenager's existential crisis.

Your phone buzzed again. You pulled it out, expecting another update from Alfred.

Instead, it was a news alert: BREAKING: Three Confirmed Dead in Downtown Gotham Shooting. Batman Reportedly on Scene.

You clicked through to the article, skimming the details. A robbery gone wrong at a jewelry store, violence spilling into the street, witnesses reporting the familiar silhouette of Gotham's vigilante arriving too late to prevent the deaths but in time to apprehend the suspects.

Batman. The city's dark knight, its mysterious protector. You'd never seen him in person, though you'd heard the stories everyone had—the way he moved like smoke, the fear he struck into criminals' hearts, the question marks that surrounded everything about him.

Your father hated Batman, or at least that's what he said in interviews. "A vigilante operating outside the law," he'd said once on the evening news, his public persona firmly in place. "However well-intentioned, it sets a dangerous precedent."

You'd always thought that was ironic, given how often Bruce Wayne himself operated outside normal social rules, like the ones that said parents should raise their children, not delegate the job to staff.

The rain was picking up, soaking through your cardigan. You should move, go wait inside where it was warm and dry. Instead, you sat there, watching the water bead on your phone's screen, feeling the cold seep into your bones. There was something almost meditative about it, this voluntary suffering. At least it was a feeling you chose, unlike the loneliness that had been chosen for you.

"Miss Wayne!"

You looked up to see Alfred hurrying across the courtyard, umbrella in hand, his expression caught between concern and exasperation. He reached you in seconds, immediately holding the umbrella over your head.

"What on earth are you doing sitting in the rain?" he demanded. "You'll catch your death."

"I'm fine," you said, but you let him pull you to your feet, grateful for his warmth, his presence, the way he cared enough to scold you.

"You are most certainly not fine. You're soaked through." He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, still holding the umbrella. "Come on, let's get you home and into dry clothes."

Home. Wayne Manor, with its seventy-some rooms and echoing hallways and absent master. But Alfred would be there, and that counted for something. Maybe everything.

You let him guide you to the car, sliding into the back seat of the Bentley. Alfred turned the heat up high, and you huddled in his jacket, breathing in the familiar smell of his cologne and the peppermints he always carried.

"Rough day?" he asked gently, meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"Just a day," you replied.

But as Gotham City rolled past the windows, all Gothic shadows and perpetual gloom, you found yourself thinking about activation energy again. About reactions that never occurred because the barrier was too high, the push required too great.

About fathers and daughters and the space between them that might as well have been an ocean.

About Batman, and dead bodies, and a city that needed saving.

About how strange it was that Gotham's vigilante seemed more present in the city's life than your own father was in yours.

The thought felt disloyal, ungrateful. You pushed it away, closing your eyes and listening to the rain drum against the car's roof, letting the sound drown out everything else.

---

Wayne Manor rose before you like something from a Gothic novel, all stone and shadow and leaded glass windows that caught the dying light. The rain had intensified during the drive, turning the long driveway into a impressionistic blur beyond the car windows. Alfred pulled into the circular drive, the tires crunching on gravel, and you felt that familiar mix of relief and resignation that came with returning to this place.

Home, but not quite.

"Straight up for a hot shower," Alfred instructed as he opened your door, umbrella already deployed. "I'll bring tea and soup to your room."

"You don't have to—"

"I absolutely do have to. You're shivering, Miss, and if you think I'm going to let you catch pneumonia on my watch, you severely underestimate my dedication to my duties."

There was affection under the stern tone, and you felt something warm uncurl in your chest. "Thank you, Alfred."

His expression softened. "Go on, then. Before you freeze solid and I have to carry you."

The manor's entrance hall swallowed you in its familiar grandeur—marble floors, soaring ceilings, the twin staircases curving up to the second floor like something from a fairy tale. A fairy tale where the princess lived alone in the castle, waiting for a prince who never came. Or in your case, a father.

Your footsteps echoed as you crossed to the stairs, leaving wet prints on the marble. Somewhere deeper in the house, you could hear the usual sounds of the manor: the ancient heating system groaning to life, the tick of the grandfather clock in the study, the general sense of a building breathing around you.

What you couldn't hear was your father.

His study door was closed, which meant either he wasn't home yet or he was locked inside with whatever work occupied him. You'd learned years ago not to knock—the few times you had, you'd been met with distracted acknowledgment at best, irritation at worst. Bruce Wayne did not like to be interrupted.

Even by his own daughter.

Your room was in the family wing, a space that had once housed generations of Waynes but now held only you and your father, existing in separate orbits. You passed his bedroom door—firmly closed, always closed—and tried not to think about how you sometimes pressed your ear against it late at night, just to hear if he was there. If he was breathing. If he existed at all beyond the ghost who funded your life.

Your own room was exactly as you'd left it that morning, which was to say carefully curated to look like a normal teenager's space while revealing almost nothing real about you. The walls were a soft grey-blue, decorated with a few posters of bands you liked well enough but didn't love. Your desk was organized but not obsessively so, school books stacked beside the laptop he'd bought you, a jar of pens you barely used. The bed was four-poster mahogany, probably an antique, with a down comforter that cost more than most people's monthly rent.

It should have felt like a sanctuary. Instead, it felt like a stage set.

You peeled off your wet clothes, dropping them in the hamper—Alfred would see them laundered, because Alfred saw to everything. The shower was hot enough to hurt, steam filling the marble bathroom until you couldn't see your own reflection in the mirror. Good. You didn't particularly want to look at yourself right now, at the girl who had everything except what she actually needed.

By the time you emerged, wrapped in your softest robe, Alfred had indeed left a tray on your desk: chicken soup that actually looked homemade, Earl Grey tea with honey, and a couple of the shortbread cookies he made that you loved. A note in his precise handwriting read: Eat. All of it. -A

You smiled despite yourself and carried the tray to your bed, curling up against the headboard. Through your windows, you could see the grounds of Wayne Manor stretching out into the gloom, formal gardens giving way to the woods that surrounded the property. The rain made everything look like an oil painting, all running colors and soft edges.

Your phone buzzed. You grabbed it eagerly—pathetically, embarrassingly eagerly—hoping maybe your father had responded to the text you'd deleted before sending, had somehow sensed your need and decided to reach out.

Instead, it was Ryan: Stop me if you've heard this one: what's the difference between Batman and Bruce Wayne?

Despite everything, you felt your mouth quirk. You typed back: what?

Batman is actually there when Gotham needs him.

You stared at the message for a long moment, something cold settling in your stomach. It was meant as a joke—Ryan didn't know how deeply that particular observation cut. He couldn't know that you'd made the same comparison yourself more times than you could count.

Harsh, you sent back.

Too soon? My dad says your dad is actually doing a lot for the city through Wayne Enterprises. New housing initiatives, funding for schools, that kind of thing.

Yeah. He's great at helping everyone but his own kid, you typed, then immediately deleted. Instead: He tries.

Alfred's lie, now yours. You'd inherited his protective instincts, his need to shield Bruce Wayne's reputation even when the man himself couldn't be bothered to maintain the relationship that reputation was supposedly protecting.

You set the phone aside and focused on the soup, which was perfect because of course it was. Alfred's cooking was one of the few consistently good things in your life. You were midway through the bowl when you heard it: the distant sound of a door closing, footsteps in the hallway.

Your father was home.

You froze, soup spoon halfway to your mouth, listening. The footsteps paused outside your door, and for one wild moment, you thought he might knock. Might actually check on you, acknowledge your existence beyond the logistical updates Alfred presumably provided.

The moment stretched. You barely breathed.

Then the footsteps continued, moving toward his own room, and you released a breath that felt like it had been trapped in your lungs for years.

Stupid. Stupid to hope. Stupid to think today would be different from any other day.

You finished your soup mechanically, no longer tasting it, and crawled under your covers with your book. But the words wouldn't focus, the story of the secretly-royal girl suddenly feeling less like comfort and more like mockery. At least she was wanted by someone, even if she didn't know it yet.

Sleep came eventually, dragging you under despite the early hour, exhaustion finally overwhelming the tangle of emotions in your chest.

---

You woke to darkness and the sound of voices.

For a moment, you were disoriented, unsure what had pulled you from sleep. Then you heard it again: low voices from somewhere below, too muffled to make out words but carrying an intensity that suggested urgency.

Your clock read 2:47 AM.

You slipped out of bed, curiosity overriding common sense, and padded to your door. The hallway was dark except for the night lights that Alfred insisted on, small pools of illumination marking the path to the stairs. The voices were clearer now—coming from the direction of your father's study.

One was definitely Bruce. The other...

You crept closer, staying in the shadows. The study door was cracked open, light spilling out, and you could see movement inside. Two figures: your father, still dressed in what looked like dark clothes, and someone else you didn't recognize.

"—getting worse," the stranger was saying. He was older, maybe sixty, with grey hair and an air of authority. "Three dead tonight, and we were ten minutes too late. Ten minutes, Bruce."

"I know." Your father's voice was different than you'd ever heard it—raw, almost anguished. Nothing like his usual controlled tone. "I know, Jim."

Jim. Commissioner Gordon, you realized. You'd seen him on the news, standing beside the Bat-Signal, the only cop in Gotham who openly worked with Batman.

What was he doing here? At three in the morning? In your home?

"You can't be everywhere," Gordon continued. "You can't save everyone. But these are the ones that haunt you—the almosts. The if-onlys."

"Don't." Bruce's voice had hardened. "Don't make excuses for me. They're dead because I wasn't fast enough, wasn't smart enough to anticipate—"

"You're human, Bruce. Even in the cowl, you're still human."

The cowl.

The world tilted sideways.

The cowl. The Bat-Signal. Commissioner Gordon in your house in the middle of the night. Your father's unexplained absences, the strange hours, the smell of rain and something else—rain and Gotham's streets and fear.

No.

No, that was—

Impossible. Insane. Your father was Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy philanthropist, the man who appeared in society pages and business journals. He wasn't—he couldn't be—

Batman.

Batman, who saved the city every night while you sat in your room, wondering why your father never had time for you.

Batman, who Commissioner Gordon was talking to right now, standing in Bruce Wayne's study, discussing people who had died tonight.

Your hand went to your mouth, holding back a sound that wanted to escape—a laugh or a sob, you weren't sure which. All these years. All these years of waiting, wondering, feeling abandoned and unwanted, and he'd been out there. Not avoiding you out of indifference but because he was trying to save everyone else.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because Gotham got the hero. Gotham got the savior, the protector, the Dark Knight who would run himself into the ground trying to prevent every tragedy.

And you? You got the leftovers. The exhausted shell that stumbled home at dawn. The man too emptied out by his crusade to have anything left for his own child.

You backed away from the door, moving on instinct, your mind reeling. Your foot caught the edge of a hall runner, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the wall with a thump that sounded catastrophically loud in the silence.

The voices in the study cut off.

You ran.

Not to your room—that would be the obvious place to check. Instead, you flew down the hall toward the back stairs, the ones the staff used, taking them two at a time in the dark. Your heart was hammering, though you couldn't have said if it was from fear of being caught or from the revelation still detonating in your mind.

Batman. Your father was Batman.

You made it to the kitchen, pressing yourself against the wall beside the pantry, listening for sounds of pursuit. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then:

"Probably the manor settling," Gordon's voice, distant. "This place must be a hundred years old."

"Hundred and fifty." Your father's voice, and you had to stop thinking of him as just your father now because he was also something else entirely. Someone else. "But you're probably right."

Their voices faded as they presumably returned to their conversation, and you sagged against the wall, legs shaking. The kitchen was dark except for the glow of the clock on the oven: 2:54 AM.

You'd spent sixteen years thinking your father didn't care enough to make time for you.

The truth was so much more complicated it made your head spin.

He did care—just not about you specifically. He cared about all of Gotham, every citizen, every potential victim. You were just one person, one life, weighed against millions. The math was simple, really. Cold, but simple.

And you'd been so stupid. So willfully blind. The signs had been there all along—the late nights, the injuries he thought you didn't notice, the way Alfred sometimes looked at him like he was watching someone slowly self-destruct. The state-of-the-art security in the manor, the restricted areas you'd been told never to enter.

The way Bruce had looked at you that night you'd waited up for him, like you were something dangerous. A weakness, he'd probably thought. A liability. Something that could be used against him, against Batman.

Was that why he kept his distance? Not because he didn't love you, but because he loved his mission more, and you were a complication he couldn't afford?

You pressed your hands against your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. Crying was pointless. It changed nothing. Your father was Batman, and Batman belonged to Gotham, and there was no room in that equation for a lonely teenager who just wanted her dad to ask about her day.

"Miss?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin. Alfred stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing a burgundy robe and slippers, his expression concerned. How did he move so quietly? How had you not heard him coming?

"I—" Your voice came out wrong, too high, too strained. "I couldn't sleep."

Alfred's eyes searched your face, and you saw the moment he understood. That you knew. That you'd discovered the truth that had been hidden from you your entire life.

His expression did something complicated—resignation, perhaps, or relief that the secret was finally out. "Come," he said gently, moving toward the small breakfast table. "Sit. I'll make tea."

"Alfred—"

"Tea first," he said firmly. "Then we can discuss whatever is troubling you."

It was such a perfectly Alfred response that you almost laughed. The world had just tilted on its axis, your entire understanding of your father fundamentally rewritten, and Alfred's solution was tea.

But you sat, because you didn't know what else to do, and watched as he moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency. The kettle went on. Cups appeared. Shortbread cookies materialized on a plate. All of it so normal, so mundane, while your mind kept screaming Batman Batman Batman.

"How long have you known?" Alfred asked quietly, setting a cup in front of you.

"About fifteen minutes." You wrapped your hands around the cup, needing its warmth. "I heard voices. Heard Commissioner Gordon talking about... about the cowl."

Alfred lowered himself into the chair across from you with a small sigh. "I see."

"Did my mother know?" The question came from somewhere deep, somewhere you hadn't known was hurting until this moment. "Before she died, did she know what he was?"

Something flickered across Alfred's face—old pain, carefully contained. "Your mother passed when you were so young, Miss. I'm not certain—"

"Please don't lie to me." Your voice cracked. "Not you, too. Did she know?"

Alfred was quiet for a long moment, his tea untouched. Finally: "Yes. She knew. It was... complicated."

"Everything about him is complicated," you said bitterly. Then: "Does he know that I know?"

"I doubt it. Master Bruce is many things, but particularly perceptive about emotional matters? That has never been his strong suit."

It startled a laugh out of you, sharp and a little hysterical. "He can analyze a crime scene, track down criminals, save the entire city, but he can't figure out his own daughter?"

"He's been... focused," Alfred said carefully. "Since he took up the cowl, perhaps too focused. The mission has consumed him in ways that worry me deeply."

"The mission," you repeated. "Is that what we're calling it? The thing that matters more than his actual family?"

"It's not that simple—"

"Isn't it?" You could feel tears building now, hot behind your eyes, and you hated it. Hated that you were going to cry, that even now, knowing the truth, you were still the abandoned child looking for scraps of affection. "He chose this, Alfred. He chose to be Batman. He chose to spend every night out there, fighting for strangers, while I've been here, wondering what I did wrong. Wondering why I wasn't enough to make him want to stay."

"Oh, Miss." Alfred reached across the table, covering your hand with his. "You did nothing wrong. This has never been about you not being enough. If anything, you're the one thing in his life that has always been too important, too precious. You terrify him."

You stared at him. "I terrify him?"

"You're the one thing in this world he couldn't bear to lose," Alfred said softly. "And in his mind, the closer you are to him, the more danger you're in. So he keeps his distance. He tells himself it's to protect you, but really, I think he's protecting himself. Because if something happened to you because of what he does—" He shook his head. "I don't think he could survive it."

It made a horrible kind of sense. The way Bruce had looked at you that night, like you were dangerous—not to others, but to him. A weakness, yes, but not in the way you'd thought. Not because you were a liability to his mission, but because he cared too much, and in Batman's world, caring was the most dangerous thing of all.

"That's stupid," you whispered. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I won't argue with you there," Alfred said. "But understanding why someone does something doesn't make it less painful. I know that."

You did cry then, quiet tears spilling down your cheeks while Alfred held your hand and didn't tell you everything would be okay. Because he was too honest for that, and you were too old to believe it anyway.

"What do I do?" you asked when you could speak again. "Do I tell him I know? Do I pretend I don't? I can't—Alfred, I can't go back to how things were. Not now."

"I don't know, Miss," Alfred admitted. "But perhaps... perhaps this is an opportunity. A chance to bridge the distance between you. Though I should warn you: Bruce is very good at many things, but acknowledging his own emotions is not one of them. If you confront him, be prepared for resistance."

"What else is new?" You wiped your eyes with the heel of your hand. "He's been resisting being my father for sixteen years."

"He's been resisting being human for sixteen years," Alfred corrected gently. "There's a difference."

You finished your tea in silence, mind spinning through scenarios. How did you even begin a conversation like that? "Hey, Dad, I know you're Batman, and I understand that means you're too busy saving the world to parent me, but maybe we could schedule a family dinner sometime between stopping the Joker and preventing mass casualties?"

It was absurd. All of it was absurd.

And yet, for the first time in years, you felt something other than resignation about your relationship with your father. Anger, yes, and hurt—so much hurt. But also something that might have been hope, fragile and dangerous.

Because now you knew the truth. And the truth meant you could stop wondering what you'd done wrong, stop trying to decode signals that didn't exist. Your father's absence wasn't about you. It was about him, about his mission, about choices he'd made long before you were old enough to question them.

That didn't fix anything. It didn't give you back the years of loneliness, the birthdays he'd missed, the parent-teacher conferences attended only by Alfred, the nights you'd cried yourself to sleep wondering why you weren't enough.

But it was a start. Maybe.

"Go back to bed, Miss," Alfred said gently. "We can discuss this more in the morning, if you'd like. But right now, you need rest."

You nodded, standing on shaky legs. At the doorway, you paused. "Alfred? Thank you. For being here. For being... you know. Everything he isn't."

Alfred's expression turned impossibly soft. "It has been my greatest honor, Miss. Raising you. Watching you grow. I need you to know that."

You couldn't speak past the lump in your throat, so you just nodded and fled back upstairs, avoiding the main hallway where your father's study light still glowed. Back in your room, you burrowed under the covers and stared at the ceiling, watching shadows play across the plaster.

Batman. Your father was Batman.

Somewhere in the manor, Bruce Wayne—no, Batman—was probably still strategizing with Commissioner Gordon, planning how to save a city that devoured its heroes and demanded more.

And you were just his daughter, the girl in the tower, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

Because Batman didn't save people like you. He saved Gotham.

And Gotham would always, always come first.

---

Morning arrived with weak sunlight filtering through your curtains, doing little to dispel the grey that seemed permanently settled over Gotham. You'd barely slept after returning to your room, your mind cycling through the revelation on an endless loop: Batman, Batman, your father is Batman.

The knowledge sat in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold.

You dressed mechanically—jeans, a sweater, comfortable shoes—and made your way downstairs. It was Saturday, which meant no school, which meant an entire empty weekend stretching ahead of you in Wayne Manor. Usually, you'd spend it reading, or maybe convincing Alfred to drive you to the library or the art museum. Safe, quiet activities that required nothing from your father.

But everything was different now.

The breakfast room was flooded with pale light, Alfred already setting out food despite the early hour. Your father sat at the head of the table, newspaper in hand, dressed in casual slacks and a button-down shirt. He looked tired—shadows under his eyes, a tightness around his mouth—but otherwise perfectly normal. Like he hadn't spent the night before discussing dead bodies with the police commissioner. Like he wasn't Gotham's vigilante detective.

"Good morning, Miss," Alfred said warmly, pulling out your usual chair. "French toast this morning. Your favorite."

Bruce glanced up briefly, his eyes skating over you before returning to the paper. "Morning," he said absently.

That was it. One word. Not even a full sentence.

Something inside you twisted, and before you could think better of it, words were spilling out: "Did you sleep well?"

Bruce's eyes lifted again, this time with a hint of surprise. You almost never initiated conversation. "Well enough. You?"

"Not really," you said, holding his gaze. "I had trouble sleeping. Heard some noises around three in the morning. Voices."

You saw it—the microscopic freeze, the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes. If you hadn't been looking for it, you would have missed it. But you were looking now. You were finally, actually looking at your father and seeing him.

"Old house," he said smoothly. "Pipes, probably. Or the wind."

Liar. The word echoed in your head, but you swallowed it down. "Probably."

Alfred set a plate in front of you, and you could feel his concerned gaze. He knew you were poking at something dangerous, testing boundaries that had been firmly established for sixteen years.

"I was thinking," you continued, cutting into the French toast without eating it, "that maybe we could do something today. Together. Since it's the weekend."

Bruce's expression flickered with something—confusion, maybe, or wariness. "I have meetings this afternoon. Wayne Enterprises business."

"This morning, then."

"I have work to catch up on in my study—"

"Of course you do." The words came out sharper than you'd intended, years of swallowed bitterness finally finding their edge. "You always have work. Or meetings. Or somewhere else to be."

The silence that fell over the breakfast room was suffocating. Bruce had set down his newspaper, his full attention on you now, and you realized with a start that you couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked at you like this. Like you were something that required his focus.

"Is there something you need?" he asked carefully.

You, you wanted to scream. I need you. I need my father.

Instead, you said: "Nothing you can give me."

You stood, abandoning your untouched breakfast, and walked out. Behind you, you heard Alfred murmur something too low to catch, and your father's response: "What was that about?"

The man could decode criminal conspiracies and track the Riddler's clues, but he couldn't figure out why his own daughter was upset.

You grabbed your jacket from the hall closet and headed for the door.

"Miss, where are you going?" Alfred appeared from the breakfast room, concern written across his features.

"Out," you said. "I need air. I need—not here."

"Let me drive you—"

"I'll walk." You were already pulling open the heavy front door. "I have my phone. I'll be back before dark."

"Miss—"

But you were already down the steps, crossing the circular drive toward the long driveway that led to the manor's gates. You could feel Alfred watching from the doorway, but he didn't call after you again. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, that sometimes you just needed to escape.

The walk to the gates took fifteen minutes, the gravel crunching under your shoes. The rain had cleared, leaving everything washed and slightly surreal, colors too vivid against the grey sky. The gates opened automatically as you approached—Wayne Manor security, state-of-the-art and impersonal—and then you were through, onto the private road that eventually connected to Gotham proper.

You'd walked this route before, though not often. Usually, you were too tired or too apathetic to bother. But today, you needed the movement, needed to feel like you were going somewhere even if you had no actual destination in mind.

Your phone buzzed. Alfred: Please be careful. Stay in well-populated areas.

You sent back a thumbs-up emoji and kept walking.

The road wound through the woods that bordered the Wayne estate, tall trees creating a canopy overhead. It was beautiful in a melancholy way, like everything in Gotham—lovely and slightly decayed, romantic and dangerous in equal measure. You could understand why gothic novels were always set in places like this.

You'd been walking for maybe twenty minutes when you heard the car.

It came from behind you, engine purring expensive and smooth. You stepped to the side of the road to let it pass, but instead, it slowed, pulling up beside you.

The window rolled down, revealing a woman you didn't recognize—mid-forties, sharp suit, sharper eyes. "You're a long way from anywhere, sweetheart," she said. Her voice was pleasant enough, but something about her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm fine, thanks," you said, keeping walking.

The car kept pace with you, moving slowly. "You sure? It's a long walk to the city from here. I could give you a ride."

"I'm good."

"You don't look good. You look lost." The woman's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "Come on, get in. It's not safe for a young girl to be walking alone out here."

Warning bells were ringing now, some instinct you'd inherited from growing up in Gotham telling you that something was wrong. You walked faster. "No, thank you."

The car stopped. You heard the door open behind you.

You ran.

Stupid, maybe—you were still a mile from the main road, surrounded by woods, with only your phone and no real plan. But every cell in your body was screaming danger, and you'd learned to trust that instinct.

Behind you, you heard the woman curse, then: "Don't make this difficult, Miss Wayne."

Ice flooded your veins. She knew your name. This wasn't a random encounter—this was targeted.

You crashed into the woods, branches whipping at your face and arms. Behind you, you could hear pursuit—more than one person now, multiple sets of footsteps. How many had been in the car? Where had the others come from?

"Miss Wayne, stop running! We're not going to hurt you!"

That was a lie. You didn't know how you knew, but you knew. Whatever they wanted, it wasn't good.

Your phone was in your pocket. You dragged it out while running, trying to pull up your contacts, trying to call Alfred, but the screen was locked and you couldn't get your shaking fingers to cooperate. You risked a glance back—

—and ran straight into someone.

Hands grabbed you, strong and unyielding. You screamed and fought, kicking and clawing, but there were too many of them. Three, maybe four, all dressed in dark clothes, all moving with professional efficiency. One of them grabbed your phone, tossing it away into the underbrush.

"Sedate her," the woman from the car ordered, appearing through the trees. She wasn't even breathing hard. "Carefully. We need her conscious but compliant."

Something sharp pricked your neck. Chemical warmth spread through your veins, and your legs went liquid. You tried to fight it, tried to scream again, but your voice came out slurred and wrong.

"That's it," the woman said, her face swimming in your vision. "Just relax, sweetheart. Your father is going to be very interested in getting you back. Very interested indeed."

Ransom. They were going to ransom you. Use you as leverage against Bruce Wayne—or worse, against Batman. Did they know about Batman? Was that what this was about?

You tried to ask, but your mouth wouldn't form words. The world was tilting sideways, sound distorting into meaningless noise. You felt yourself being lifted, carried, the tree canopy spinning above you.

The last thing you saw before darkness took you completely was a bird wheeling in the grey sky, free and untouchable, everything you weren't.

Then nothing.

---

You woke to the smell of mildew and concrete.

Consciousness returned in layers—first physical sensation, cold seeping through your clothes from whatever you were lying on. Then sound: dripping water somewhere close, the hum of machinery in the distance, voices speaking too low to understand. Finally, sight: dim light from a bare bulb, concrete walls, no windows.

A basement. Or a warehouse. Somewhere industrial and abandoned, the kind of place Gotham had in abundance, left to rot when the economy shifted and the jobs fled.

You tried to sit up and discovered your hands were zip-tied behind your back, ankles similarly bound. Panic flared hot in your chest, but you forced it down. Panic wouldn't help. You needed to think.

How long had you been out? Where were you? Most importantly: did anyone know you were missing?

You'd told Alfred you'd be back before dark. If it was already dark—and you couldn't tell from here—he'd be worried. He'd be looking for you. Maybe he'd already called your father, and Bruce was even now putting on the cowl, becoming Batman, using all his resources to track you down.

Or maybe he'd just assume you'd run away. Extended your walk into a teenage rebellion. Maybe he wouldn't even—

No. Alfred wouldn't let him assume. Alfred would make him look.

You hoped.

The voices were getting closer now, footsteps approaching. You closed your eyes, feigning unconsciousness, trying to gather information before they knew you were awake.

"—don't know why we grabbed her in broad daylight," a male voice was saying. "Could have waited, been cleaner."

"Boss wanted it done today." The woman from the car. "Said Wayne was getting too close to something. We need the leverage now."

"If he's really got Batman in his pocket like they say—"

"That's exactly why we need the girl. Even Batman can't be everywhere at once."

Your blood ran cold. They didn't know Bruce was Batman—they thought the two were separate entities. But they knew there was a connection, knew Bruce had some relationship with the city's vigilante.

"She's awake."

Your eyes flew open. The woman was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, studying you with clinical detachment. Behind her, you could see two men, both large and serious-looking.

"Good morning, Miss Wayne," the woman said pleasantly, like you'd met for coffee instead of her having kidnapped you. "Or should I say good evening? You've been asleep for about six hours."

Six hours. That meant it was early evening now. Alfred would definitely have noticed you were missing. He'd be frantic.

"What do you want?" Your voice came out hoarse, throat dry from whatever they'd drugged you with.

"That's direct. I appreciate directness." The woman stepped into the room—more of a cell, really, maybe ten feet square. "My name is Elena Marquez. These are my associates. And what we want is very simple: your father's cooperation."

"He won't negotiate with kidnappers," you said, though you weren't sure if that was true. Bruce Wayne might not, but would Batman?

"Oh, I think he will. When the alternative is getting pieces of his daughter mailed back to him." Elena's smile was pleasant, horrible. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're not unreasonable people. We don't want to hurt you—you're much more valuable intact."

"My father will find me." You tried to sound confident, tried to channel even an ounce of Batman's intimidation. "And when he does—"

"When he does, we'll already have what we want. See, your father has been poking around in some business ventures that don't concern him. Wayne Enterprises has been buying up properties in the Narrows, pushing out certain... operations. We need those operations to continue. So, we need him to back off."

"He won't. Not for me." The words tasted like ash, but they were true. Bruce Wayne had proven over and over that you weren't his priority. Why would that change now?

Elena studied you, head tilted. "You really believe that. How sad." She crouched down to your level, her expensive perfume mixing with the mildew smell. "Let me tell you something, sweetheart. I've been doing this for a long time. And fathers—even the absent ones, even the ones who seem not to care—they always care when push comes to shove. When it's life or death. He'll cooperate."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we move to plan B, which involves making you a very public example of what happens when people interfere with our business. But let's hope it doesn't come to that."

She stood, brushing off her slacks. "Someone will bring you food and water shortly. I suggest you eat—you'll need your strength. We're going to record a video for your father in a few hours, and you'll want to look presentable for that."

"What if I refuse?"

Elena's expression hardened. "Then we'll make the video anyway, and it will be much less pleasant for you. Your choice."

They left, the heavy door swinging shut with a clang that echoed through your cell. You heard a lock engage, then footsteps retreating, then nothing but the drip of water and the hum of machinery.

You were alone.

The panic you'd been holding back surged forward, and you had to fight to keep breathing. Zip ties cutting into your wrists. Concrete cold beneath you. No way out. No help coming—or at least, no guarantee of it.

Think, you commanded yourself. Batman would think. What would Batman do?

First: assess your situation. You were bound but not gagged, which meant they weren't worried about you screaming—either because no one would hear, or because they were confident in their security. The room had one door, no windows, concrete walls that looked thick. The zip ties were tight but not impossibly so.

Second: gather resources. You still had your clothes, your shoes. No phone—they'd taken that in the woods. No jewelry except the small silver bracelet Alfred had given you for your thirteenth birthday, engraved with your initials.

Third: make a plan.

Except you didn't know how to make a plan for this. You weren't Batman. You weren't even particularly brave. You were just a scared sixteen-year-old girl who'd been stupid enough to walk away from the only safe place she'd known.

Time passed with agonizing slowness. You managed to work yourself into a sitting position, back against the wall, and tried to think of anything except the growing pain in your shoulders and the fear gnawing at your chest.

Eventually, the door opened again. A different man this time, younger, carrying a bottle of water and what looked like a sandwich in a plastic bag. He set them down just inside the door, studying you warily.

"I'm going to cut your hands free so you can eat," he said. "But if you try anything, Elena will make your life very unpleasant. Understand?"

You nodded. What choice did you have?

He approached carefully, producing a knife that made your heart jump, and cut through the zip tie on your wrists. Blood rushed back into your hands, pins and needles painful enough to make you gasp. Your ankles remained bound.

"Fifteen minutes," he said, backing toward the door. "Then I tie you back up."

The door shut again, and you were alone with your meager meal. Your hands shook as you opened the water bottle, drinking too fast, your throat screaming for moisture. The sandwich was generic—turkey and cheese on white bread—but you forced yourself to eat it. Elena had been right: you needed your strength.

Because you were going to get out of this. Somehow. You had to.

You thought about your father, probably just now learning what had happened. Was he in the cave—there had to be a cave, right? Some secret Batman base? Was he reviewing security footage, tracking cell phone signals, doing whatever detective work would lead him to you?

Or was he hesitating? Weighing your life against whatever crusade he was on, whatever mission he deemed more important?

The thought made something crack inside your chest, a fissure in the carefully constructed wall you'd built around the truth of your relationship with Bruce Wayne.

He would come. He had to come.

But what if he doesn't come as your father? a small voice whispered. What if he only comes as Batman? What if he saves you not because you're his daughter, but because you're a civilian in danger, just another victim in Gotham's endless cycle of violence?

What if he saved you and didn't even realize who he was saving until it was over?

The man returned exactly fifteen minutes later, binding your wrists again, tighter this time. You didn't resist. There was no point, not yet. You needed to wait, to watch for an opportunity.

Batman was a planner. Batman was patient.

You could be patient too.

---

Hours passed in the dark. You dozed fitfully, dreams mixing with waking anxiety until you couldn't tell which was which. In your nightmares, you were trapped in Wayne Manor, running through endless corridors, calling for your father, but he never answered. Or he did answer, but when you found him, he was wearing the cowl, and he looked at you like a stranger.

You woke to voices again, multiple people arguing somewhere beyond your cell. You couldn't make out words, but the tone was urgent, aggressive. Something had changed.

The door burst open. Elena stood there, her earlier composure cracked, anger making her face harsh in the dim light.

"On your feet," she snapped.

"I can't—my ankles—"

She gestured impatiently, and one of her men cut the zip tie. Blood rushed back into your feet, painful and dizzying. They hauled you up before you were ready, and you stumbled, legs not quite working properly yet.

"We're moving," Elena said, already turning away. "Your father decided to be difficult. Time to send him a stronger message."

Fear spiked through you. "What kind of message?"

She didn't answer, just started walking, her men dragging you along. The hallway beyond your cell was long and industrial, pipes running along the ceiling, more doors leading to other rooms. You tried to memorize the layout, look for exits, but they moved too fast.

They pulled you into a larger room, better lit, with camera equipment set up in one corner. A chair sat in the center, positioned in front of a blank wall. This was where they'd planned to film you, you realized. The ransom video.

But now something had changed.

Elena was on her phone, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish too fast for you to follow. When she hung up, her expression was ice. "Sit," she commanded, pointing at the chair.

You sat, because you had no choice, and watched as they positioned the camera. Your heart was hammering so hard you thought it might burst from your chest.

"Your father," Elena said conversationally as she adjusted the camera angle, "has apparently decided that his business interests are more important than your safety. We made our demands very clear. We gave him six hours to respond. And do you know what he did?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't answer.

"He sent a statement through his lawyers. A statement saying Wayne Enterprises does not negotiate with criminals and will not be extorted. Can you believe that?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "His own daughter, and he chooses his precious company."

Something inside you went very cold and very still. He hadn't come. Hours had passed, and he hadn't even tried to negotiate.

But maybe Batman is out there, you thought desperately. Maybe he's tracking you, getting close, waiting for the right moment—

"So now," Elena continued, "we're going to show him the consequences of that choice. We're going to start with something small. A finger, maybe. And if he continues to refuse—"

"Wait!" The word burst out of you, panic overriding sense. "Please, just—give him more time. He'll cooperate, I know he will—"

"You know nothing," Elena snapped. "That man doesn't care about you. If he did, he would have responded by now. But don't worry—we'll make sure he sees exactly what his stubbornness costs."

One of the men grabbed your arm, pulling your hand forward, and you saw the glint of a knife, and somewhere in your mind, you heard yourself screaming, but it sounded distant, like it was coming from someone else—

The lights went out.

Not flickered—went completely dark, the kind of sudden absence of light that only happened when power was cut deliberately. You heard Elena curse, heard movement in the darkness, confused shouting.

Then: breaking glass. The sound of something heavy hitting flesh. A body dropping to the floor.

"What the—"

More sounds of impact. Someone screamed. The emergency lights kicked on, dim red, and in their glow, you saw him.

Batman.

He moved like liquid shadow, like violence choreographed into art. One man went down with a shattered arm, another with a blow to the head that looked strong enough to crack concrete. Elena lunged for you, maybe to use you as a shield, but Batman was faster—a grappling line caught her leg, yanked her off balance, and she hit the floor hard.

It was over in less than thirty seconds.

Batman stood in the center of the room, chest heaving slightly from exertion, surrounded by unconscious or groaning bodies. The red emergency lights cast his face in deep shadow, made him look more monster than man.

Then his eyes found you.

You were still in the chair, hands bound, frozen in shock and fear and relief so overwhelming you thought you might throw up. For a moment, neither of you moved. He stared at you—at just another victim, just another civilian caught in Gotham's violence.

He didn't know. Even this close, even looking right at you, he didn't recognize his own daughter.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was rough, distorted—modulated, you realized. Batman's voice, not Bruce Wayne's.

You couldn't speak. Could only shake your head.

He crossed to you, producing a knife to cut your bonds. His hands were gentle despite their leather covering, careful not to hurt you as he freed your wrists. You could smell him—kevlar and something like gunpowder and, underneath it, something that might have been the expensive cologne Bruce Wayne wore to board meetings.

"Can you walk?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He helped you stand, one hand supporting your elbow, and the touch burned even through the layers between you. This close, you could see the details of the suit—the armor plating, the utility belt, the cape that seemed to swallow light. This close, you could almost see his jaw beneath the cowl, the shape of it familiar in ways that made your chest ache.

"I'm calling the police," he said, already reaching for something on his belt. "Stay here. You're safe now."

Dad, you wanted to say. It's me. Your daughter. Don't you know me at all?

But the words wouldn't come, and maybe that was for the best. Because this was what you'd needed to see, wasn't it? This was the truth laid bare: Bruce Wayne would come for you as Batman, would save you as part of his mission, but wouldn't even recognize you while doing it.

You were just another civilian to him. Another victim. Another stranger he'd rescue and forget.

Sirens were approaching, their wail cutting through the night. Batman moved toward the window—this room had windows, you saw now, high up near the ceiling, broken to allow his entrance.

"Wait," you said, finding your voice. It came out smaller than you wanted, younger. "Will you—do you need to ask me questions? For your investigation?"

He paused, looking back at you, and you thought maybe—maybe—there was something in his expression. A hesitation. A flicker of recognition.

Then: "The police will take your statement. You'll be fine."

And he was gone, cape swirling behind him, up through the window and into the night like he'd never been there at all.

You stood in the red emergency light, surrounded by unconscious kidnappers, listening to the sirens get closer, and felt something inside you finally, irrevocably break.

He'd saved you.

He just hadn't known he was saving his daughter.

And somehow, that was so much worse than not coming at all.

---

Invisible Heart

Part 1 - part 2 - part 3

The week crawled by in its usual blur of half-consciousness and strategic avoidance. You perfected the art of being present but unseen—attending just enough classes to avoid truancy calls that Bruce wouldn't answer anyway, sleeping through the ones that didn't matter, spending lunch periods in the library with your friends while they studied and you pretended your chest didn't feel like it was being squeezed in a vise.

By Thursday, you were down to three pills.

"You look worse," Jasmine observed, not looking up from her calculus homework. The four of you were sprawled in your usual corner, technically supposed to be in the cafeteria but the librarian—Ms. Chen, not to be confused with the attendance secretary—had given up caring months ago.

"Thanks, Jas. Really feeling the love today."

"I'm serious." She did look up then, her dark eyes sharp with worry. "You're like... gray. When's the last time you ate something?"

You tried to remember. Breakfast yesterday? The granola bar Dani had shoved at you during second period? "I ate."

"That's not an answer," Marco said. He was supposed to be working on his English essay but was instead making an elaborate paper football. "That's an evasion. There's a difference."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Dani said quietly. She was the soft one, but that made her observations hit harder somehow. "You haven't been fine in a while. We're worried."

Something in your chest cracked—not physically, though your heart certainly felt like it was trying its best to give out—but emotionally. These three people, these friends who owed you nothing, cared more about whether you'd eaten lunch than your own family cared about your existence.

"I'm just tired," you said, and your voice came out smaller than intended. "It's been a long week."

"It's Thursday."

"A long four days, then."

Marco flicked his paper football at you. It bounced off your arm. "You're deflecting. You're really good at it, too, which is concerning from a psychological standpoint. Like, I'm not saying you need therapy, but I'm heavily implying it."

"Get in line. Pretty sure everyone in Gotham needs therapy."

"Especially people whose families forget they exist," Jasmine muttered.

The words hung in the air, too honest, too close to the bone. Your friends knew—not everything, but enough. They'd been to the manor once, last year, for a group project. They'd seen the empty spaces where you didn't fit, the way Bruce had walked past you four times without acknowledgment, the way the others had their inside jokes and shared history that you weren't part of.

They'd never asked to come back, and you'd never invited them. Some humiliations were better experienced alone.

"I'm sorry," Jas said after a moment. "That was—"

"True," you interrupted. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard, and my uncle's in prison," Marco said.

Despite everything, you laughed. It hurt your chest, made your breath catch, but it was worth it for the way the tension broke.

"Okay, new rule," Dani declared. "We're kidnapping you this weekend. My mom's making tamales on Saturday, and you're coming over whether you want to or not. You'll eat real food, watch bad movies, and remember what it's like to be around people who actually give a shit."

"I can't—"

"Not optional. I'm literally not asking. I'm telling you how your Saturday is going to go."

You wanted to argue, but the truth was you had nothing to go home to. The gala was Saturday night—you'd seen it on the calendar in the kitchen, circled in red with multiple exclamation points in Alfred's precise handwriting. The family would be gone all evening, dressed in their finest, representing the Wayne name for Gotham's elite.

You wouldn't be there. You weren't even sure if anyone remembered you technically shared that name.

"Okay," you said. "Saturday. Tamales and bad movies."

"And actual human interaction," Marco added. "Maybe some vitamin D if we're feeling ambitious."

"Let's not get crazy."

Your phone buzzed. For a second, you thought it might be someone from home—a wild, stupid hope that died as soon as you saw the screen.

Unknown Number: Still alive, Wayne? Or should I start planning the funeral? I'm thinking black roses. Very dramatic.

The same number from earlier in the week. You'd blocked it, but apparently they'd just gotten a new one.

You: Who the hell is this?

Unknown Number: Someone who's noticed you're fading. That's more than your family can say.

Your hands started shaking. Marco noticed immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Spam text." You blocked the number again, but your heart was racing now, that irregular flutter that meant you needed to calm down before something bad happened.

"You're white as a sheet," Jasmine said. "Seriously, what—"

"I need some air." You stood up too fast, and the world tilted sideways. Dani caught your arm as you swayed.

"Whoa, hey—"

"I'm fine. Just dizzy. I need—bathroom. I'll be right back."

You pulled away from her grip and made it to the bathroom on sheer willpower alone. The fluorescent lights were too bright, making your head pound. You locked yourself in the furthest stall and sat on the closed toilet lid, head between your knees, trying to breathe.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

Your heart was doing that thing where it felt like it was skipping beats, lurching in your chest like a car with a dying engine. You fumbled for your phone with shaking hands and pulled up Dr. Mallory's number. You'd saved it months ago and never called.

Your finger hovered over the dial button.

What would you even say? "Hi, I'm dying slowly and I'm down to three pills and I have no idea how to get more without anyone finding out?" That would go over well. She'd probably call Bruce, and then you'd have to explain why you hadn't told him, and he'd be annoyed at the inconvenience, and—

Your phone slipped from your fingers and clattered on the tile floor.

"Dammit," you whispered, and the word came out more like a sob.

You don't know how long you sat there, waiting for your heart to steady, for the world to stop spinning. Long enough that someone knocked on the bathroom door.

"Hey, you okay in there?" Not one of your friends—some girl from your grade whose name you couldn't remember.

"Fine," you called back. "Just period cramps."

"Oh. Okay. Feel better."

Footsteps retreated. You retrieved your phone—screen cracked now, because of course it was—and checked the time. You'd been in here for twenty minutes. Lunch period was almost over.

Three more pills in the bottle. Maybe a week if you rationed carefully. Then what?

You'd figure it out. You always did. Alone, because that's how you did everything, but you'd figure it out.

You splashed water on your face, avoided looking at your reflection because you didn't want to see what Jasmine had seen—the gray tinge, the hollows under your eyes, the visible evidence of a body slowly giving up—and headed back to the library.

Your friends looked up with identical expressions of worry when you appeared.

"False alarm," you said before they could ask. "Just felt sick for a second. I'm good."

"You're not good," Marco said flatly. "Stop saying that. Stop lying."

"I'm not—"

"You are." Jasmine closed her textbook with deliberate care. "Look, we get it. You don't want to talk about whatever's going on. But we're not stupid. Something is seriously wrong, and it's getting worse."

"We can't help if you don't tell us," Dani added softly.

The thing was, they couldn't help even if you did tell them. What were three teenagers supposed to do about your failing heart and your absent family and the slow-motion catastrophe of your life? They were already doing everything they could by just being your friends, by seeing you when no one else did.

Telling them would just burden them with something they couldn't fix.

"I appreciate the concern," you said carefully. "Really. But I'm just tired and stressed about school. It's not that deep."

The bell rang before they could call you out on the obvious lie.

The rest of Thursday and all of Friday passed in a haze. You went through the motions—classes, homework, the pretense of normalcy—while your chest grew progressively tighter and the dizzy spells came more frequently.

Friday night, you took your second-to-last pill and stared at the bottle like it might magically refill itself.

It didn't.

Downstairs, you could hear activity. The family was preparing for the gala tomorrow, and the energy in the house was different—charged with anticipation and the particular chaos that came from getting multiple vigilantes into formal wear.

You stayed in your room.

Around nine, there was a knock on your door. Your heart jumped stupidly. "Yeah?"

Alfred opened the door, carrying a garment bag. "Miss, I took the liberty of having a dress prepared for tomorrow evening, should you wish to attend the gala."

You stared at him. "What?"

"The Wayne Foundation Gala," he said patiently. "Tomorrow evening. I thought perhaps you might like to attend."

"Did Bruce ask you to invite me?"

A pause. A careful, diplomatic pause that told you everything. "I thought it might be nice for you to participate in a family event."

So that was a no. Bruce hadn't asked. Hadn't even thought about whether you'd be there. Alfred, wonderful Alfred who noticed everything, had taken it upon himself to include you.

The kindness of it made your throat tight.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said quietly.

"May I ask why not?"

Because you weren't invited. Because you'd spent all week reading about the gala in the papers, seeing the guest list that mentioned every Wayne except you. Because the thought of standing in a room full of Gotham's elite, invisible even in your own family's event, sounded like a special kind of torture.

Because your heart was giving out and you barely had the energy to make it through a normal day, let alone hours of forced socializing while pretending everything was fine.

"I don't have anything to wear" was what you said instead.

Alfred gestured to the garment bag. "I've taken care of that. It's a simple dress, nothing ostentatious. I believe it will fit."

You didn't want to cry. You'd gotten so good at not crying, at keeping everything locked down where it couldn't hurt you. But Alfred's quiet persistence, his refusal to let you be forgotten, cracked something inside you.

"Thank you," you managed. "Really. But I think I'll skip it. I have a thing at my friend's house anyway."

It wasn't a complete lie. You did have plans with Dani. They just weren't until afternoon, and the gala didn't start until eight.

Alfred studied you with those sharp, knowing eyes. "Are you well, Miss?"

"I'm fine."

"You say that often. It's rarely true."

"I'm fine," you repeated, more firmly. "Just tired of formal events and fake smiles. I'd rather hang out with my friends."

He nodded slowly, and you could see him calculating, weighing whether to push. Finally, he hung the garment bag on your closet door. "Should you change your mind, the option is available. The car will be leaving at seven-thirty."

"Okay. Thanks, Alfred."

He lingered in the doorway for a moment. "Miss? If there's anything you need—anything at all—you need only ask."

"I know."

He left, closing the door quietly behind him, and you were alone again with your racing heart and your almost-empty pill bottle and the suffocating weight of being the least important person in a house full of heroes.

You pulled out your phone.

You: still ok for tomorrow?

Dani: YES. mom's already making extra just for you. she thinks you don't eat enough

You: she's not wrong

Dani: i know babe. that's why ur coming over. consider it an intervention but with better food

Marco: if ur texting the group at 9pm on a friday you need a life

You: rich coming from you

Marco: im doing important research

Jas: he's watching youtube conspiracy theories

Marco: IMPORTANT RESEARCH

You smiled despite everything, despite your failing heart and your cracked phone screen and the garment bag hanging on your closet door like a ghost of an invitation you'd never really received.

You: see you guys tomorrow

You took your last pill at midnight, watching it disappear down your throat with a sip of water, and tried not to think about what would happen when there were no more.

Tried not to think about the gala tomorrow, about your family in their finery, about the empty space where you should be that no one would notice was empty.

Tried not to think about the mysterious texts from someone who saw your invisibility and poked at it like a bruise.

Tried not to think about how your heart felt like it was held together with tape and hope, and both were running out.

Outside your window, Gotham glittered in the darkness, indifferent to one girl's slow fade into nothing.

You fell asleep counting your heartbeats, wondering how many you had left.

Saturday dawned gray and heavy with the promise of rain. You woke to the sound of thunder rolling across Bristol like a warning, and for a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince your body to move.

Your chest felt like someone had parked a car on it.

The empty pill bottle sat on your nightstand, orange plastic mocking you. You'd taken the last one at midnight, which meant you were already running on fumes. Dr. Mallory had been very clear: missing doses was dangerous. Your heart needed the medication to function properly, and "properly" was already a generous term for what your heart was doing.

You forced yourself to sit up, moving slowly because fast movements made the room spin. Your phone showed three missed texts from Dani, two from Marco, and one from Jasmine, all confirming plans for later. The group chat was alive with messages about movies and food and normal teenage things that felt impossibly far away.

Downstairs, the manor was already buzzing with activity. You could hear voices, footsteps, the orchestrated chaos of a family preparing for a major event. The gala was tonight, and everyone would be at their best—beautiful, charming, perfect. Everything you weren't.

You made it to your bathroom and splashed water on your face. The girl in the mirror looked half-dead, gray-skinned and hollow-eyed, like a ghost that hadn't realized it was supposed to disappear. You wondered, distantly, if this was what dying looked like. If it was a gradual fade or a sudden stop.

Either way, you figured you'd find out soon enough.

Getting dressed took longer than it should have. You had to sit down twice, waiting for the dizziness to pass, for your heart to remember its job. By the time you made it downstairs, it was almost noon, and the kitchen was empty except for Alfred, who was coordinating with catering staff for tonight's pre-gala preparations.

"Good afternoon, Miss," he said, glancing up from his tablet. His eyes lingered on your face a moment too long, concern flickering across his features. "You look unwell."

"I'm fine." The automatic lie, worn smooth from overuse.

"Perhaps you should rest today. The weather is rather dreary for going out."

"I have plans. My friend's expecting me."

"I see." He set down the tablet. "Miss, I really must insist—"

"Alfred, please." You didn't mean to sound so desperate, but the walls of the manor were closing in, and the thought of staying here all day, invisible while everyone else prepared to be seen, was suffocating. "I just need to get out for a while. I'll be careful. I promise."

He studied you with those sharp butler's eyes that saw far too much. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. But take this." He handed you a small umbrella and a twenty-dollar bill. "In case you need anything."

The casual kindness nearly broke you. "Thanks, Alfred."

"And Miss? If you need to come home early, simply call. I'll send a car."

"Okay."

You wouldn't call. You never did. But the offer still meant something.

The walk to the bus stop was harder than it should have been. Your legs felt like lead, and your chest kept tightening in ways that made breathing an active effort rather than an automatic process. By the time you climbed onto the bus, you were already exhausted, and you hadn't even made it to Dani's neighborhood yet.

The bus was crowded—Saturday afternoon, people running errands, living their lives. You found a seat near the back and pressed your forehead against the window, watching Gotham scroll by in shades of gray and rain.

Your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Big night for the Waynes tonight. Gala season. You'll look beautiful in that dress Alfred picked out.

Your blood went cold.

You: How do you know about the dress?

Unknown Number: I know lots of things. I know you're not going to the gala. I know your family doesn't know you exist. I know your heart is failing and you're out of medication.

You: Who the fuck are you?

Unknown Number: Someone who sees you. Isn't that what you wanted? To be seen?

Your hands were shaking so hard you nearly dropped the phone. This wasn't spam. This wasn't random. Someone was watching you. Someone knew.

You: Leave me alone

Unknown Number: Can't do that. You're too interesting. The invisible Wayne daughter, dying in plain sight while her family saves the world. It's poetic, really.

You: If you know so much why don't you tell them

Unknown Number: Because it's not my story to tell. Besides, would they even care? They haven't noticed this long. Why would they start now?

You blocked the number with shaking fingers and shoved your phone in your pocket. Your heart was racing now, irregular and panicked, and you couldn't tell if it was fear or your condition or both.

Someone was watching you. Someone knew about your heart, about the medication, about things they shouldn't know. And they were right—if you told your family, would it even matter? Would they care, or would it just be another inconvenience in their busy lives?

The bus lurched to a stop, and you realized you'd missed your transfer. You were three stops past where you needed to be, and the world was tilting sideways, and your chest felt like it was being crushed.

Not here. Not now.

You stumbled off the bus, into the rain that had started falling, cold and harsh against your skin. The umbrella Alfred had given you was somewhere—on the bus, maybe, or you'd never taken it out of your bag. You couldn't remember.

There was a bench. You made it that far before your legs gave out.

Sit down. Breathe. Count to ten.

Your heart was doing that thing again, that stuttering, lurching rhythm that meant something was very wrong. You pressed your hand to your chest like you could physically hold it together, keep it beating through sheer force of will.

Around you, people hurried past, umbrellas up, focused on their own lives. No one stopped. No one noticed the teenage girl falling apart on a bus bench in the rain.

You fumbled for your phone with numb fingers.

Call someone. Dani. Marco. Jas. Someone who would care that you were in trouble.

But the screen was cracked, and your hands were shaking, and you couldn't seem to make your fingers work properly. The contacts list blurred. Numbers swam.

Call Bruce.

The thought came from somewhere deep, some young part of you that still believed your father would come if you needed him. That still wanted him to be the parent he'd never been.

You found his number—third on your list, after your friends but before everyone else who didn't matter. Your finger hovered over the call button.

He wouldn't answer. He never did. He'd be busy with gala preparations, or in a meeting, or in the cave, or any one of a thousand things that mattered more than you.

But you were sitting in the rain with your heart trying to quit, and you were scared, and he was your father, and maybe—maybe this time—

You pressed call.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

"You've reached Bruce Wayne. Leave a message."

Voicemail. Of course.

"Dad," you said, and your voice cracked on the word. "Dad, I need—something's wrong. I'm—" Where were you? You couldn't remember the street name. "I'm scared. My heart, it's—please. Please pick up. Please—"

The voicemail beeped, cutting you off. Thirty seconds. You got thirty seconds to beg your father to care, and he hadn't even been there to hear it.

You tried Dick next. Then Tim. Then even Jason, who you barely knew, who was more stranger than brother.

No one answered.

They were probably all together, getting ready for tonight, laughing and joking and living their lives in the spaces where you didn't exist.

Your vision was starting to blur at the edges. That was bad. That meant your brain wasn't getting enough oxygen, which meant your heart really was failing, which meant—

You: help

You sent it to the group chat with your friends, but your fingers slipped and you weren't sure it actually went through. The phone slipped from your grip, clattered to the wet concrete, screen-up in a puddle.

Should probably pick that up.

Couldn't make your arms work.

Should probably call 911.

Couldn't remember how.

The rain was cold. You were cold. Everything was cold except your chest, which burned like someone had lit a fire behind your ribs.

Someone sat down next to you on the bench. You tried to turn your head, couldn't quite manage it.

"Bad day?" A male voice, young, unfamiliar.

You made a sound that might have been agreement.

"You're Bruce Wayne's daughter, aren't you? I've seen you around. You go to Gotham Academy."

Couldn't answer. Breathing took all your concentration.

"No one ever mentions you. The forgotten Wayne. That's got to be rough." He paused. "You don't look so good."

"Heart," you managed to whisper. "Failing."

"Huh. Does your family know?"

You laughed, or tried to. It came out as a wheeze. "No."

"That's messed up." He stood, and you heard footsteps. Walking away. Of course. Even strangers didn't stick around.

Then: "Yeah, I need an ambulance. Corner of Fifth and Parker. Teenage girl, cardiac distress. She's conscious but barely."

Oh. Not leaving. Helping.

"They're coming," the voice said, closer now. "Stay awake, okay? What's your name?"

You tried to answer, but the world was fading, graying out like an old photograph left in the sun. Your heart stuttered, skipped, lurched.

Someone was holding your hand. When had that happened?

"Come on, stay with me. Ambulance is two minutes out. Don't die on a bus bench in the rain. That's a terrible origin story."

Origin story. Like you were a superhero. Like you mattered.

Funny.

Sirens in the distance, getting closer. Voices. Hands on you, professional and efficient. Questions you couldn't answer.

"We need to know her medical history—"

"Does she have a medical alert bracelet—"

"Can you tell us your name, sweetie?"

Everything was confused, overlapping, too loud and too quiet at the same time.

You felt yourself being lifted, moved. The rain stopped hitting your face. Ambulance, probably. They were taking you somewhere.

Someone should call your family.

Would they come?

Did it matter?

The world faded to black, and the last thing you heard was your own heart, beating its irregular, desperate rhythm—still trying, still fighting, even as everything else gave up.