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Chapter Text

Two years ago, Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham.

At twenty-three, he came home not as the young heir the world expected, but as a man carved out of exile, hardened by the weight of foreign roads and shadows that clung to him like a second skin. The tabloids had imagined a boy who had fled grief, squandering inheritance in gilded corners of the globe. What came back instead was a charming Casanova with less wit and more naivety but hidden beneath the camera flashes was something sharper, darker—something forged in hunger and fear, in fists and firelight, in years of punishing discipline under masters the world had long forgotten.

He had seen cities crumble under corruption, villages ruled by mercenaries, children starving while tyrants fattened. He had studied war not from books, but from within its trenches. He returned to Gotham with scars, some visible, most not. He carried them all the same.

Now he spent his nights differently from any Wayne who had come before him. Not in ballrooms or banquets, but in alleys rank with blood and smoke. A man in black armor stalking criminals who whispered “the Bat” as if it were an old, hungry ghost. Each night was a baptism in violence: broken ribs, shattered teeth, bones ground against pavement. Bruce left them breathing, but only just. Justice demanded that much restraint. Vengeance urged him to go further.

Every night weighed him down. The cowl masked his face, but not the exhaustion burning through his eyes. When dawn broke, he shed the mask, only to wear another—the careless socialite with perfect suits, careless laughter, and half a glass of champagne abandoned on marble floors. Yet when the mirrors caught him off guard, they betrayed him: shadows beneath his eyes, lines already etching themselves across a face too young for them.

Sleep did not come easily. Guilt saw to that. The boy who had knelt in a pool of blood in Crime Alley lived on inside him, whispering all the ways he had failed, all the ways he would fail again.

By day, he turned to the work that grounded him. Lucius Fox, steady as ever, met him with blueprints, prototypes, and half-spoken warnings about the limits of steel and flesh. Together, they built a war chest disguised as innovation: grappling lines spun from carbon-fiber, armor light enough to glide, engines that could outpace the city’s fastest. Each device was a promise—that no child would ever kneel in a pool of blood again, not if Bruce could help it.

At Wayne Enterprises, the boardroom became his battlefield. Seated at the head of long tables under sterile lights, he cut through arguments and balance sheets with the same intensity he carried in the streets. To the public, he was the prodigal heir restored. To those who listened closely, he was something else: a man demanding that the Wayne Foundation funnel millions into shelters, medical aid, and education. He spoke of wars overseas, and how Gotham could not remain blind while the world bled. The directors whispered about idealism. Bruce called it responsibility.

And still, Gotham asked more of him. Commissioner Gordon’s Bat-Signal burned against the clouds, a beacon no gala could dim. Once, Bruce had excused himself from a governor’s speech, tuxedo crisp and tie immaculate, only to vanish minutes later. He left behind confusion, speculation, whispers of eccentricity. The truth was simpler: Gotham needed the Batman, and Bruce Wayne answered.

The city took and took. It demanded his nights, his strength, his very future. Yet Bruce gave it willingly, as if redemption lay hidden in its broken streets.

And Alfred watched.

The butler saw the man his ward had become, and his heart twisted with pride and fear in equal measure. He saw the bruises hidden beneath cufflinks, the glassy stare over breakfast, the dreams Bruce never spoke of because they weren’t dreams at all—they were memories replayed until his soul frayed. Alfred had patched wounds, pressed ice against swelling, mended armor and washed away bloodstains that never seemed to fade.

One night, long after the city had quieted, Alfred stood at the window of Wayne Manor. The moonlight stretched across Bruce’s sleeping form in the chair, head bowed, cowl abandoned on the desk beside him and in front him computer screens displaying unwavering devotion as it shows footage of Gotham's gritty streets, of many unsolved cases left forgotten in the depths GCPD, of the rooms of Arkham Asylums holding insanity at its most primal humane form. His face was gaunt, eyes ringed with dark circles, a young man already bearing the weight of an old weary soul.

Alfred whispered into the silence, his voice thick with sorrow, "I fear Master Bruce has built himself a life with no dawn, only endless nights. And I fear even more that I shall one day bury him far too soon. For though he wears the mask of the Bat, it is the boy I raised who suffers beneath it. I fear Thomas and Martha Wayne’s legacy ends with Master Bruce."

Yet even as he said it, the night carried with it a whisper of change.

Far beyond the Manor’s windows, Gotham’s streets breathed restless, stirring futures that had not yet arrived. Children not of Bruce’s blood, but destined to carry his shadow, would one day find their way to him. Some broken, some angry, some desperate for belonging. They would not save him from the darkness he embraced, but they would share it. They would sharpen it into something greater.

Alfred could not know their names yet, nor the storms they would bring. But the silence seemed to shift, as if fate itself stirred in its sleep.

And in that silence, Gotham waited.

Chapter Text

ACT ONE

THE TINY BIRDS

The grandfather clock struck seven as the last of the evening light bled through the tall windows of Wayne Manor. Alfred Pennyworth stood in the study doorway, hands folded neatly behind his back, watching Bruce hunched over a desk littered with schematics, surveillance reports, and a half-assembled grapnel gun. His ward hadn’t looked up in hours.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, the weight of his tone a mixture of command and compassion. “If you stare at those blueprints any longer, they’ll begin staring back.”

Bruce didn’t move, the shadows pooling under his eyes like bruises. “I can’t afford to stop, Alfred. The city doesn’t sleep.”

“And neither do you, apparently,” Alfred countered, stepping further into the room. “Which, I might add, is quite unsustainable for any man—even one who thinks himself nocturnal.”

Bruce leaned back, rubbing his temples. “There’s too much work to do. The moment I rest, someone else suffers.”

Alfred’s lips thinned into something close to a smile. “Which is precisely why you must remind yourself you are still Bruce Wayne. Flesh and blood. Not just the Bat.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew two slips of paper. “To that end, I’ve taken the liberty of securing us tickets to Hayley’s Circus. They’re performing tonight.”

Bruce blinked, as if the idea belonged to another universe entirely. “A circus.”

“Yes,” Alfred said crisply. “With acrobats, elephants, and sugared almonds. The sort of outing one attends when one wishes to remember that joy exists in the world.”

Bruce’s first instinct was to refuse. To claim that Gotham needed him, that there was crime to stop. But Alfred’s gaze lingered, steady, and Bruce felt the familiar pull of the man who had raised him when no one else could. “Just tonight,” Alfred added gently. “Not for Gotham. For you.”

After a long silence, Bruce exhaled. “Fine. One night.”


---

The big tent rose like a red-and-gold crown on the edge of Gotham’s East End. The smell of popcorn and sawdust clung to the air, laughter bubbling in every corner. Families streamed inside, their chatter bouncing beneath the striped canopy where the air thrummed with the promise of spectacle.

Bruce adjusted his black suit jacket, every inch the stoic billionaire who did not quite belong in this cacophony of color. Alfred carried himself with practiced dignity, but his eyes softened as he took in the wide-eyed children tugging at their parents’ sleeves.

The show began in a burst of light and music. Jugglers tossed flaming torches into the air, clowns tumbled, and horses thundered around the ring with painted riders balancing atop their backs. But it was the acrobats who stole the breath from the crowd.

The Flying Graysons soared above the audience, limbs fluid and graceful, every twist and turn a defiance of gravity itself. At the center of it all was a boy no older than eight —Richard “Dick” Grayson. Small, wiry, but blazing with confidence as he executed a quadruple somersault that drew gasps from every throat.

Bruce’s lips curved, almost against his will. He saw himself in that boy: the courage, the fire, the sense that the world belonged in the palm of his hand.

Then John and Mary Grayson took their place, the proud parents beginning a tandem swing high above the ring. The crowd erupted in cheers as they built toward their finale, soaring out into the void, reaching for one another with perfect trust.

And then—snap.

The rope gave way with a sound too sharp, too final. Gasps turned into screams as John and Mary plummeted, their bodies colliding with the sawdust floor. Silence held for a heartbeat, before chaos shattered it.

Bruce was already moving, instincts honed by years of disaster and loss. But it was too late. The Graysons lay motionless, their son’s cry piercing the tent with a grief so raw it cut deeper than any blade.

“Mama! Papa!” Dick’s voice cracked as he stumbled forward, hands reaching for what was already gone. His small body shook with sobs, his eyes wild with terror.

Bruce knelt beside him, steady and silent. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, anchoring him. For a moment, Dick resisted, thrashing, but then he collapsed against Bruce, burying his face into the lapel of his suit. Bruce held him, heart pounding, every cry echoing the one he had once let out in a blood-stained alley.

He whispered nothing, offered no hollow promises. He simply stayed.

When the GCPD arrived—Commissioner Gordon at their head—Bruce did not move. Even as officers pressed questions, even as chaos swirled, he kept his arm around Dick’s shoulders, refusing to let go until Gordon gently guided the boy away.

And when Dick was led into the back of a squad car, glancing back through tear-streaked eyes, Bruce felt something in his chest twist, an ache sharper than any wound.


---

Days passed, but the image would not leave him. Dick’s scream. His small hands clutching empty air. The raw silence after.

Bruce spent nights patrolling, but in every shadowed alley, he saw the boy’s face. At dawn, when he stripped off the cowl, he still heard the echo of that cry.

Finally, he could endure it no longer. He called Gordon, pressed for answers. The boy had been placed in an orphanage downtown.

Bruce went.

The orphanage was gray and cold, walls peeling, air stagnant with neglect. In the corner of a dim dining hall sat Dick, untouched food before him. His eyes were hollow, rimmed red from days of weeping. His small frame seemed to curl inward, as if to disappear.

Bruce approached slowly, crouching so their eyes met. “Dick.”

The boy blinked, recognition flickering faintly.

“I know it hurts,” Bruce said softly. “More than anything. And I can’t take that away.” He hesitated, the words forming almost against his will. “But… if you want, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Dick stared, uncomprehending at first. Then his lip trembled. “Stay… with you?” His voice hoarse and words stumbling to form.

Bruce without a second of hesitation nods resolutely, “If you’d like.”

For a long moment, silence hung between them. Then Dick gave the faintest nod, as though clutching at the only lifeline offered to him.

That was enough.

Bruce turned to the matron, “I’ll foster him.”

Paperwork blurred into hours, signatures and stamps stacking one after another. City council approvals, social worker interviews—none of it mattered. When the last form was signed, Bruce took Dick’s small hand in his own and led him out into the Gotham night.

For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne did not walk alone.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor was a fortress. Gothic arches loomed over marble floors, hallways stretched endlessly in both directions, and paintings from dynasties long perished and the solemn soul of the artists gazed down from the walls as though silently judging the newcomer. To a eight year old boy, it was less a home, and more of a palace where footsteps echoed like thunder, and even breathing too loudly felt like an offense.

Dick Grayson stood at the threshold of his new room, shoulders tense. The chamber was nearly as large as the entire wagon his circus family had once lived in; the bed, a four-poster draped with a canopy of heavy curtains, a huge French style window sill surrounded by pillows, a carved bookshelf taller than John Grayson had been and beside it, one desk was holding a state of art computer and another desk holding notebooks, an Ipad with pen, a globe and other stationery items.

Down the elevated steps sat a mosaic fireplace near the bedroom door, surrounded with plush couches and soft rugs. Two doors— one pearly white led to the bathroom, a shower that could fit at least 5 people and a tub with a window looking over the weeping willow trees in the back gardens, sinks with faucets that looks suspiciously like gold and a toilet that could be controlled by a remote; the second door with its matte black colour hid the empty closet that was waiting to be filled with clothes. It was too big, too strange, too empty.

“You may decorate it however you wish,” Bruce said from behind, his deep voice steady but strangely careful, as if every word might tip the fragile balance between them. “It’s yours now.”

Dick didn’t answer. His eyes flickered across the room as if trying to shrink it down into something that felt like his own. Bruce placed a hand briefly on his shoulder, then withdrew.

Alfred, ever the silent sentinel, took over where Bruce faltered. He appeared the next morning with a tray in hand—an odd collection of boiled eggs shaped like rabbits, toast cut into stars, and fruit arranged into smiling faces.

“Breakfast, Master Richard,” Alfred announced, as though presenting a royal feast.

Dick blinked, then frowned. “They’re… bunnies.”

“Indeed,” Alfred replied with dignity. “Food should be eaten, not stared at. And if it requires whimsy to tempt a young man’s appetite, then whimsy it shall be.”

For the first time since his parents’ deaths, Dick cracked a small laugh. He ate. And the next day, Alfred returned with sandwiches shaped like owls and cookies stamped into circus animals. Slowly, painfully, the boy began to take in sustenance—not just food, but care.

Still, the nights were harder.

Sometimes Bruce would tuck Dick into bed, pulling the heavy blanket up to his chin. “Sleep,” he would say softly. Then he would vanish, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor. But sleep rarely came easy.

Nightmares tore through the boy’s rest: ropes snapping, bodies falling, screams echoing. More than once, Bruce’s patrols were cut short when a device at his belt hissed faintly—the receiver that picked up every cry or whimper from Dick’s room. He would return at once, cowl cast aside, crouching by the boy’s bed until the tremors passed.

And each time Dick woke, there Bruce was—head bowed, exhaustion written in the shadows under his eyes, but present. Always present.

Six months passed. The pain softened, though it never left. Laughter crept back in, quiet and hesitant. Dick even teased Alfred once, calling him “Sir Bunniesworth,” which earned a rare, indulgent chuckle from the butler. But one thing gnawed at him: Bruce himself.

Bruce Wayne was pale, always tired, forever avoiding sunlight. He drew curtains closed, and when forced to attend daytime functions, sunglasses hid the weary eyes beneath. To a child steeped in myths and fantasy, the answer was obvious.

“Alfred,” Dick whispered one morning, spooning cereal half-heartedly, “is Bruce… a vampire?”

Alfred, to his credit, didn’t choke on his tea. “A vampire, Master Richard?”

“He’s pale, he hates sunlight, and he never sleeps in his bed,” Dick insisted.

Alfred’s lips twitched. “I assure you, Master Bruce is quite human. Though he does share certain… nocturnal tendencies.”


---

One night, a thunderstorm rolled over Gotham, rain slashing at the windows of the Manor. Dick lay awake, listening to the growl of thunder, too restless to stay put. Hours ticked by, and finally he pushed aside the covers. Barefoot, he padded into the hall, clutching his pillow like a shield.

He tried Bruce’s chambers first, easing the heavy door open. The bed was immaculate, untouched, as if no one had slept in it for years. His stomach tightened.

The study, then. He crept through the echoing hallways, heart hammering as thunder rattled the panes. But the study was empty, too—save for shelves upon shelves of books.

Then came the rumble.

The far bookshelf shuddered, gears grinding. With a groan, the case slid open, revealing a hidden passage.

Bruce stumbled out. His black armor gleamed with rain, the bat emblem scarred, cowl tucked under one arm. Blood soaked his side, a deep gash carving across his stomach.

“Bruce!” Dick screamed.

Bruce’s eyes snapped wide, horror overtaking pain. “Dick—”

But the cry had already carried. Alfred came rushing, robe swishing, face pale as he saw the wound. “Good Lord—sit down before you collapse!”

In a blur, Alfred had gauze and needle in hand, stitching with steady precision. Bruce winced but stayed silent. Dick clung to the edge of the desk, eyes wide as the truth unfolded before him.

“You’re Batman,” he whispered.

Bruce closed his eyes, shame flickering across his face. But Dick only stepped closer. “You help people. You fight for them. For children like me.”

That night, when Bruce finally slept under Alfred’s watch, Dick curled into the armchair by his side, refusing to leave. For once, it was the boy keeping vigil over the man.


---

The morning after, Dick’s mind was made up.

“I want to fight too,” he declared at breakfast.

“No,” Bruce said flatly.

“I don’t want to feel helpless again.”

“You’re a child.”

“Then teach me. Please.”

When Bruce still refused, Dick crossed his arms and pushed away his plate. He didn’t eat that day. Or the next. Or the one after.

Alfred fretted, coaxing him with bunnies and owls, but Dick remained firm. Bruce held out, thinking stubbornness would break. But when the boy’s cheeks hollowed and his eyes burned with the same fire Bruce remembered from his own youth, he realized: this wasn’t a tantrum. This was resolve.

Finally, Bruce relented. “If you want this life, you’ll train first. Master every form of martial arts before you even think of patrol.”

Dick’s grin was blinding.

Training began in the caver beneath the Manor, a place Dick immediately dubbed the “Batcave.” What Bruce called the car became the “Batmobile.” The throwing blades, “Batarangs.” The comms, “Batcoms.” With every name, the shadows seemed less daunting, more alive.

And though Bruce pushed him mercilessly, Dick absorbed every lesson like a sponge. Years of acrobatics had built a foundation of flexibility and stamina no child his age could match. He flipped, rolled, and struck with precision that surprised even Bruce.

Months later, with Lucius Fox’s assistance, Dick designed his own suit—bright red, green, and yellow, a burst of color against Gotham’s gloom. He called himself Robin, after the name his mother used to whispered to him under the circus lights.

And when he swung across Gotham’s skyline at Batman’s side, the city gasped. Newspapers christened them the Dynamic Duo.

But for Bruce Wayne, it was simpler than headlines.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy was a place of marble columns, polished hallways, and old portraits of men in powdered wigs that stared down at students as if judging their every step. For the city’s elite, it was a sanctuary of privilege and reputation. For nine-year-old Dick Grayson, it was school—both a challenge and an obstacle.

Challenge as he never received a formal education. Travelling with Haley's Circus through city to city, country to country made it impossible. Dick has been trying his best to catch. To not let Bruce down. To show other rich kids that just because he was adopted, just because he wasn't an actual Wayne didn't make him less worthy of being there.

And an obstacle because even though Robin had debuted in the streets of Gotham, Dick Grayson was only allowed to patrol during weekends. No fighting crime during school nights because apparently he needed a full 8 hours of sleep for his brain to function properly in school. This was absolute nonsense, not that Dick would ever say that to Bruce's face.

---

Handling Gotham Academy was a tiresome event for Bruce as well. Since he was now a guardian of a nine year old, Bruce Wayne had been summoned to attend the annual parent-teacher conference.

He walked through the iron gates in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, black hair combed neatly back, dark circles hidden with copious amount of concealer, eyeliner to pop his steel blue eyes and the pink tint on his luscious lips; the mask of Bruce Wayne the playboy billionaire philanthropist firmly in place. Alfred had reminded him in the morning that today Bruce Wayne, the man, must take precedence over Batman, the symbol.

Inside the classroom, the air buzzed with polite small talk. Parents compared grades and tutors while sipping from catered coffee. Bruce endured it, shaking hands, nodding where necessary, his mind half elsewhere—on rooftops and crime reports, on weapons shipments he meant to intercept that night.

The teachers spoke warmly of Dick. “He’s a dedicated student, Mr. Wayne,” his homeroom teacher said. “Exceptionally talented in the subjects he enjoys. Mathematics, literature, even history, when his attention holds. But he’s brimming with restlessness—so much energy for someone so young. He needs challenge.”

Bruce’s eyes softened. Challenge is something he’ll never lack, not while living under my roof.

The meeting ended, polite applause dismissed the parents, and children spilled into the halls to reunite with them.

That was when Dick darted forward, his small hand slipping into Bruce’s. His eyes were bright despite the lingering shadows of loss that never quite left them. “Bruce! Bruce! Come on, Bruce! I want you to meet Babs. Barbara Gordon—my best friend!”

Before Bruce could prepare himself, Dick pulled him toward a red-haired girl with inquisitive eyes and a smile that reached her freckles. She looked at Bruce curiously, tilting her head as if already trying to figure him out.

“This is my dad,” Dick said proudly, voice ringing clear.

For a moment, the world tilted. Bruce’s breath caught. The word pierced deeper than a knife, deeper than the weight of Gotham pressing down on his shoulders.

Dad. Dad. Dad.

He managed a polite greeting, shook the girl’s hand, exchanged some words—though later he could not recall what he said, nor how he got from the schoolyard back into the car.

On the ride home, Dick chattered beside him about Pokémon battles and circus memories, voice animated, but Bruce barely heard. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Finally, he interrupted, voice low, almost fragile.

“Dick… why did you call me that?”

The boy blinked, puzzled. “Huh? I was talking about Moltres from Pokemon.”

“No, not that... ” Bruce’s jaw clenched, but he pushed gently. “You called me.. I mean... introduced me as your dad.”

For the first time all afternoon, Dick grew quiet. His face scrunched as he considered it. Then, softly, he replied, “Well… that’s true, isn’t it?”

Bruce turned his head slightly, meeting the boy’s earnest ocean blue eyes.

“You were there when Mama and Papa died,” Dick continued. “You stayed with me. You gave me my own room, let me decorate it however I wanted. With glowing lights and Pokemon plushies. When I picked out the designs on the clothes that the tailors disapproved, you silenced them. You let me hang up my Superman poster—even though you didn't like it.”

A ghost of a smile flickered on Bruce’s lips.

“You tuck me in every night. Accompany me when I have nightmares. You built me a whole playground outside—slides, swings, even nets so I can practice my flips. When I broke the chandelier trying to swing on it… you didn’t yell. You were just glad I didn’t stop loving acrobatics. You take care of me. You protect me. You teach me how to fight so I am never helpless. You make me strong, both as Batman and as Bruce. You help with homework, you buy me storybooks, you—” Dick swallowed, voice trembling, “—you make sure I’m not alone. So, yeah. You’re my dad.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. For a man who had faced gunfire, knives, and monsters in Gotham’s streets, nothing had ever undone him like the unguarded love of this child. He had thought fostering was the limit—temporary, protective.

Adoption had seemed like a trespass on the memory of John and Mary Grayson.

But now—how could he deny this truth?

“Dick,” Bruce said hoarsely, “when I first brought you here, I told myself fostering was enough. I didn’t want you to think I was taking your parents’ place. But if you want… if you’d let me… I would be honored to adopt you. To make you my son. My family.”

Dick’s eyes widened, shimmering with tears, then burst into a grin so bright it seemed to banish Gotham’s shadows. “Yes! Yes, Bruce—I mean, Dad—yes!”

---

The paperwork followed swiftly because when the Prince of Gotham demanded things; lawyers, city council approvals, signatures were all given in a blink of an eye.

And then it was official: Richard John Grayson-Wayne.

That evening, Alfred led Dick through a quiet corridor in the manor he had never explored before. At the end stood heavy oak doors, which creaked open to reveal a gallery of portraits. Candlelight flickered against centuries of Waynes—men and women, children and elders, painted in oils that carried the scent of history.

At the far end hung a portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne with young Bruce between them.

“This room,” Alfred said softly, “holds every Wayne who has ever lived. Their names embroidered into the family tapestry.” He pointed toward the golden thread where Bruce Wayne gleamed. “And soon, your name shall be added. You are a Wayne now, Master Richard.”

Dick’s breath caught. The weight of belonging pressed warm against his chest.

“But remember,” Alfred continued gently, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a framed photograph—John and Mary Grayson, beaming in their Flying Graysons costumes, holding a baby Dick. “A new family does not erase the old. You can keep both, in your heart.”

Tears blurred Dick’s eyes as he hugged Alfred tightly. The butler, stiff at first, melted into the embrace.

From now on, Dick thought fiercely, he would protect this family—the Waynes—with everything he had. He was no longer just the boy who lost everything under the circus tent. He was Richard John Grayson-Wayne, son of two families, and Robin who would never let Gotham—or his loved ones—fall without him there to catch them.

Chapter Text

The world outside Wayne Manor had gone still. Winter had settled heavily over Gotham, laying a silver crust of frost across the lawns, frosting the great windows, and turning the city skyline into a glittering crown beneath the morning sun. The Academy gates had closed for the season, releasing its students for Christmas and New Year’s vacation.

Inside, warmth hummed from the old radiators, the scent of coffee and buttered toast filling the breakfast room. Bruce Wayne sat at the head of the long oak table, the Gotham Gazette folded beside his plate. Alfred moved with his usual silent efficiency, pouring tea. And across from Bruce, Richard Grayson-Wayne perched with his legs swinging under the chair, still too small for the ground to catch his heels, though his voice carried enough excitement to fill the entire room.

“Colin said his parents are going to the Bahamas for the holidays, which isn’t fair because he hates the beach. And Jessica says she’s going to get a pony, but I think she’s lying because who gets a pony in Gotham? And David wants a train set, like the really expensive kind that takes up an entire room.” He was talking through mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, his arms waving for emphasis as Alfred frowned at his table manners and Bruce Wayne sipped his coffee, silent and tired-eyed.

“—and Tommy’s family’s going skiing in Aspen, and Janine says her parents got her the new PlayStation, and everyone’s trading lists of what they’re gonna get for Christmas, and—”

Bruce set his cup down, the faintest smile tugging his lips. “And what about you, Dick? What would you like?”

Dick paused mid-bite of scrambled eggs. “Me? I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Bruce’s brow furrowed.

“I never celebrated Christmas before,” Dick said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Mama and Papa were of Romani origin. They followed… well, sort of Hindu traditions, but not really strict. And we were always traveling with the circus. We always had shows on Christmas Eve somewhere. So…” He gave a helpless shrug, his fork clinking against the plate. “I never had Christmas. Never had presents or trees or stockings.”

For a beat, silence fell. Bruce’s eyes flickered down into his coffee, but before the weight could settle, Alfred cleared his throat and spoke briskly.

“Well, that is a most egregious oversight,” the butler declared, folding his napkin with precision. “And one that shall be rectified immediately. If Master Richard has never had a Christmas, then, by heaven, Wayne Manor shall host the finest Christmas Gotham has ever seen.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Alfred set the teapot down gently. His expression softened. “Of course, Master Richard.” he said firmly, “Christmas, my boy, is a tradition in this household. Which means we shall do it properly. A tree, decorations, carols, the works.”

Dick’s eyes sought his adopted father's approval.“Can we?”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, the faintest smile threatening to break through his usual stoicism.“Yes, Dick. We will procure a tree, decorate it properly, and ensure there are presents for you to open on Christmas morning. Traditions must be honored, chum, and if you’ve never had one, then we will begin anew.”

---

The very next day, the Wayne limousine rolled into a snowy lot outside of Gotham proper, where rows upon rows of pine and fir trees stood for sale. Families bundled in scarves trudged between them. Bruce stepped out in his long coat, while Dick bolted out after him, nearly skidding on the ice.

“Whoa—easy there.” Bruce steadied him with one hand.

Dick darted between trees like he couldn’t decide which was grand enough, while Bruce, tall and stoic in his black coat, waited with his hands in his pockets.

“Look at them all!” Dick’s voice rang with awe. He darted between the trees, tugging branches, his breath puffing in the cold. “This one’s too skinny. That one’s too short. This one looks old”

“This one!” Dick finally shouted, arms outstretched at a massive spruce. Snow dusted its branches.

Bruce arched a brow. “That one is twice my size.”

“That’s the point!” Dick grinned, eyes alight. “Christmas trees are supposed to be big. Like—so big you have to ise ladders to place the star at the top!”

“And that just means you fall easily while using the ladders.” Bruce points out.

“But, it’s perfect!” Dick insisted, hugging the trunk as if he could protect it from being rejected. “It’ll fit in the big room with the fireplace. Please, Dad?”

Bruce almost said no. Almost. But then he caught the boy’s grin and sighed. “All right. We’ll take it.”

---

And so the tree came to Wayne Manor, carried by staff into the family hall, where its scent filled the space. Alfred laid out boxes of ornaments that had gathered dust for years along with the news ones that were ordered. The butler had already ensured that the new lights, baubles, and ribbons were of the highest quality; before instructing Dick on gentle placement to avoid bruising the tree’s delicate limbs.

Alfred supervised the decorating, as Bruce strung lights across the branches with meticulous precision, while Dick darted up and down a ladder, hanging shiny baubles, laughing every time something slipped.

For once, even Bruce allowed himself a small chuckle as he watched Dick scampered up and down the stepladder, hanging glass ornaments, his face glowing with laughter.

When the star finally crowned the top, Alfred stepped back, surveying the glowing tree with approval. “There. A proper Wayne Christmas at last.”

---

During the Christmas Eve, the kitchen smelled of pine, cinnamon, and the rich aroma of baking pies. The mansion, normally quiet except for the echo of Bruce’s late-night patrols, hummed with life as ornaments sparkled under the soft glow of lights. Dick, for the first time thinks that this would the start of a new tradition.


---


When Christmas morning dawned, Dick thundered down the staircase in his pajamas. Underneath the glittering tree, presents spilled out in piles.

“Whoa…” His eyes lit up like the ornaments. His hands flew from one to another as he read the tags: To Dick, from Dad. To Master Richard, with all affection.

Alfred’s knitted gloves were warm in his hands, striped in deep navy. “You made these?” Dick asked, eyes wide.

“Of course,” Alfred said smoothly. “Every boy deserves something handmade.”

Morning light filtered through the high windows of Wayne Manor as Dick tore open his presents with unabashed glee. Among the gifts were a LEGO Imperial Star Destroyer, a Millennium Falcon set, a medieval castle, a ninja dojo, two more sprawling LEGO kits (a Gotham City skyline and a Batwing replica), action figures, books, and a box of handmade chocolates.

But it was the last gift that made Dick pause: a red bow tied to a key resting in a small velvet box.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you take a look in the garage?”

---

The gift covered in a tarpaulin in the garage, stole the child's breath. Bruce unveiled a sleek, shining chrome  motorcycle painted in red, green, and yellow trim.

“Your Robin Bike,” Bruce said simply.

Seconds went by in complete silence and then, Dick was screaming with joy, running circles around the sleek, compact motorcycle gleaming under the lights. “It’s—it's amazing! My own—my own Robin bike!”

Dick still smiling, immediately spun around. “Thanks, Dad!” He threw himself into Bruce’s chest with such force Bruce had to take a step back.

---

That evening, Wayne Manor’s dining hall glittered with candlelight. Alfred had outdone himself with a multi-course feast. When the doorbell rang, Bruce ushered in a tall, flame-haired woman with a soldier’s stride and a smile that immediately softened when she saw Dick.

“Kate!” Bruce greeted.

Kate Kane swept in, pulling off her coat. “And this must be my favorite nephew.”

Dick blinked, then grinned cheekily. “I’m your only nephew.”

Kate laughed, ruffling his hair. “That makes you even more my favorite.”

Dinner stretched across multiple courses, Alfred’s finest work: roasted goose, potatoes with rosemary, steaming soup, spiced cake.

Over dinner, Kate and Dick bonded easily. She told stories from her army days, making him gape with wide eyes. He rattled off his gifts, carefully omitting the Robin cycle.

“…and a bike,” Dick finished vaguely.

Bruce cut in smoothly, “She knows, Dick.”

Kate smirked. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice? I’m Batwoman.”

Dick’s fork clattered. “You’re what?!”

Kate winked. “Runs in the family, kid.”

Dick’s jaw dropped. “You—you’re—” He bounced in his chair, thrilled. “That’s awesome! Do you fight crime too? Do you have gadgets? Do you—”

The rest of the meal turned into laughter, stories, and shared secrets. Later, the conversation drifted to holidays.

“What presents did you get as a kid?” Dick asked curiously.

“None,” Kate said, sipping her wine. “We’re Jewish. We celebrated Hanukkah, but not Christmas.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “Wait—if you’re Jewish, and B is your cousin… doesn’t that mean—”

Bruce cleared his throat. “My mother was Jewish, but not practicing. My father’s side was Evangelical, also not practicing. They celebrated Christmas mostly for the occasion, not the faith.”

Dick leaned back, fascinated. “So… we’re kinda everything?”

Kate grinned. “That’s one way to put it.”

---

Later, after Dick was tucked into bed, Bruce and Kate descended into the Batcave, their voices low over batcomputer.

“Scarecrow,”  Commissioner Gordon had said grimly on the rooftop of GCPD when the bat signal summoned them last night. “Planning something for New Year’s. Thought you should know.”

Screens glowed with intel: Scarecrow’s plans, toxin distribution, warehouses across Gotham and Metropolis. The stakes were high—New Year’s Eve could mean thousands dead if the toxin spread.

They prepared. They armed. Kate finally sighed. “We leave tonight.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We’ll dismantle them. Quietly.”

---

Dick’s bedroom was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through drawn curtains. Bruce quietly shook his shoulder.

“Dad…?” Dick mumbled, sleepy and confused.

“Batman and Batwoman are heading out for a mission. I need you to stay here, be a good boy, and continue your training.” Bruce explained.

Dick’s brow furrowed. “You’ll be gone all winter vacation?”

Bruce nodded. “No. I'll return by 28th and we will celebrate New Years together.”

Dick sighed, disappointment clear. “Okay… I understand. It's for everybody's safety.” His voice was small. “Just… come back.”

Bruce touched his shoulder. “I will.”

---

While Bruce was away, Dick trained rigorously in the manor. Acrobatics, new languages, developing research skills—he absorbed every lesson Bruce had imparted with precision.

He practiced martial arts with makeshift dummies in the playhouse, ran obstacle courses, and even began learning rudimentary coding and analysis skills. And yet his eyes kept flicking to the date.

Then 28th came and went. Bruce had not returned. Anxiety gnawed at Dick.

By the twenty-ninth, Dick was pacing the length of the Batcave, the cold glow of monitors throwing sharp shadows across his Robin suit. His chest rose and fell too quickly. It’s been more than a day. What if he’s hurt? What if he’s not coming back?

He stopped, hands pressed against the console, trying to think. And then—like a door creaking open in his mind—memories surged—Bruce’s voice in his head, a lesson drilled months ago.

A training session weeks ago. Him and Bruce in the cave, the night quiet except for the hum of the Batcomputer.

“Pay attention, Dick,” Bruce’s voice had rumbled, low and steady. “This isn’t sparring. This is survival.”

Dick, still flushed from drills, sat cross-legged on the floor. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Bruce leaned against the console, arms folded. “There are other heroes out there. Other vigilantes. Metas. Aliens. Demigods. Creatures from legends. Magicians. Demons; you’ll need to know who they are. Where they operate. How to find them.”

His tone was sharp, almost clinical, but Dick noticed the way Bruce’s eyes softened just a fraction as he looked down at him.

“Metropolis,” Bruce began. “Superman. Alien. Civilian name: Clark Kent. Address—apartment in downtown Metropolis. You’ll recognize him. He doesn’t hide the smile.”

Dick grinned. “He sounds… nice.”

Bruce didn’t react. “National City. Supergirl. Alien. Kara Danvers. Younger, less experienced, but powerful. You’d find her at CatCo Media.”

One by one, the names came. Green Arrow and Black Canary. Vigilantes in Star City who are Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance respectively. Can be found in Queen Residence.

The Flash, a meta in Central City—“Barry Allen, forensic scientist, CCPD.”

Demigod. Wonder Woman—“Diana Prince. Museum curator. Not hard to find when she doesn’t want to be.”

Aquaman. Arthur Curry, King of Atlantis. The way to Atlantis is through Amnesty Bay in Maine.

John Constantine, a magician. Never seek him out.

Green Lantern Hal Jordan in Coast City.

Mr. Terrific, Green Lantern Guy Gardner, Hawkgirl, all operating under Maxwell Lord’s orbit in Washington.


Bruce’s voice was relentless, crisp, but each detail burned itself into Dick’s memory. He listed addresses, contact points, even weaknesses. Because Batman was Batman, and paranoia was his second skin.

“And,” Bruce finished, crouching until his shadow loomed over Dick, “if I ever go missing for more than forty-eight hours… and the tracker doesn’t show my location… you go to Metropolis. You find Superman. He’ll help you.”

Dick had blinked up at him, swallowing the lump in his throat. “…What if he doesn’t believe me?”

“He will,” Bruce said simply. His hand rested heavy, solid, reassuring on Dick’s shoulder.

The memory faded. Back in the present, Dick’s heart thumped faster. His gaze shot to the motorcycle parked under its tarp, Christmas ribbon still dangling from the handlebars.

Forty-eight hours… it’s close enough. I have to find him, Dick thinks. Superman will know what to do.

And with that, he tugged on his domino mask, the decision burning like fire in his chest.

Fear gnawed at him. Dick swung a leg over the Robin motorcycle. The engine roared. Gotham’s streets blurred past, the bridge spanning to Metropolis glowing in the night.

He didn’t tell Alfred. He couldn’t. This was his duty.

By midnight, he was standing outside Clark Kent’s apartment building, heart hammering. He climbed, smashed a window, rolled inside.

---

Clark Kent had just settled with cocoa and a book when the crash came. His window shattered. He whirled around—only to find a tiny figure in red, green, and yellow tumbling onto his carpet.

Clark screamed.

Robin blinked. “Why are you screaming?!”

Clark grabbed the cross from his drawer, waving it. “Be gone, ghost!”

“I’m not a ghost!” Dick snapped. “I’m Robin!”

Clark froze. “…Robin?”

“Yes! Batman told me if he ever went missing, I should find you. And now dad's missing. So—you’re Superman, right?”

Clark’s jaw dropped. Then a warmth spread in his chest. Batman trusted him this much? But also—Batman knows my secret identity.

The farm boy eyes widened into shock. “Batman made me your emergency contact?” Then, muttering, “Of course he did. He knows my identity but—he didn’t even…” Clark groaned. “That man.”

Less than a second later, Superman stood in full suit, arms crossed. “You’re staying here while I look.”

“No way.” Dick planted his fists on his hips. “If you don’t take me, I’ll just go by myself.”

Superman groaned. “You’re impossible.”

Dick crossed his arms. “You can’t stop me.”

Clark rubbed his temple. “…You’re just like him.”

---

Minutes later, Dick was perched on Superman’s shoulders, hands tangled in Clark’s hair as they streaked across the sky.

“Careful with the hair—ow!”

“You fly too fast!”

“You’re pulling my scalp off!”

“You’re Superman, I know it doesn't hurt. Stop being dramatic!”

Thus Robin rode on Superman’s shoulders, fingers tangled in the Kryptonian’s hair, as they soared across skies.

Superman flew over Gotham and Metropolis, with Robin perched on his shoulder, clinging tightly. They scanned rooftops, alleys, and streets with X-ray vision, thermal sensors, and super-hearing, searching for Batman.

Finally, they located him in an abandoned warehouse near the Metropolis-Gotham bridge.

“There!” Clark’s vision pierced through walls. He spotted Batman and Batwoman in a warehouse on the Metropolis coast.

Superman smashed through the roof with zero stealth.

---

Superman crashed in. “Found you!”

Batman’s head whipped around, fury flashing. “What are you—”

But then Batwoman’s voice rang. “Why is Robin with you?!”

Bruce’s headache was immediate. His son dangled cheerfully from Superman’s shoulders. But before the scolding could start, alarms blared and Scarecrow’s men poured in.

Chaos erupted. Gunfire. Shouts. Masked thugs.

The warehouse stank of rust and fear toxin. Dim floodlights buzzed overhead, flickering through the smoke that clung to the rafters. Rusting steel containers lined the walls, each stamped with chemical hazard symbols, pipes running out of them into tanks that hissed with green vapor.

Mercenaries in gas masks and Kevlar patrolled the floor with assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Scarecrow wasn’t there, but his men were ready.

The roof groaned—then exploded inward as Superman dropped like a meteor. The floor trembled with the shockwave, debris scattering in all directions.

“Take him down!” one merc shouted, and chaos erupted.

Gunfire crackled, bullets ricocheting harmlessly off Superman’s chest. He blurred forward, one hand ripping a rifle in half, the other sending its owner sprawling into a wall with a single shove.

But the storm wasn’t his alone.

Batman was already moving, cape billowing like a living shadow. He dropped from a steel girder with silent precision, landing behind two men. His gauntleted fists slammed into the first’s helmet, spinning him to the ground. The second turned—too late. Batman caught his rifle, twisted it free, and smashed the butt across his jaw.

A smoke pellet clattered across the concrete, exploding in a hiss of gray fog. From it surged Batwoman, red wig blazing against the haze. She slid low under gunfire, boot catching an enemy in the knee. Bone cracked. She spun up, elbowing another merc in the throat, then drew her grappling hook and yanked a third off the catwalk above.

Robin—small but fierce—flipped off Superman’s shoulders into the melee, somersaulting through the smoke. He landed squarely on one merc’s chest, fists pounding in rapid jabs before vaulting off with a gymnast’s grace. His heel snapped against another’s helmet, the man crumpling as Robin spun mid-air and landed light as a feather.

“Not bad for a kid,” Batwoman called, ducking a punch.

“I’m the boy wonder!” Robin barked back, swinging into a back handspring that planted both boots in another thug’s chest.

Superman ripped the door off a container, hurling it like a discus across the room. Three mercs went flying, their rifles scattering. He caught a rocket mid-air, crumpled it in his hand, and glared through the smoke. His heat vision lanced out, melting the barrel of a machine gun before its wielder could fire.

Batman grappled upward, landing on the catwalk to cut off reinforcements. A thug swung a pipe—Batman ducked, countered with a brutal headbutt, then locked the man’s arm and hurled him into another charging soldier. Gas canisters clattered dangerously near the ledge; Batman kicked them away, every move calculated to protect the tanks below.

“Cover the toxin!” he barked.

“On it!” Batwoman sprinted to the far side, batarangs flashing from her belt. Each one embedded into pipes and valves, venting green gas safely upward instead of into the room. She ripped open a panel, sparks flying as she cut the main feed with her wrist-blade.

Robin ducked under a wild swing, grabbed a thug’s arm, and flipped him over his shoulder with circus precision. He grinned—until a towering merc charged him with a baton crackling with electricity. Robin froze—

—then Superman appeared in a blur, hand snapping the baton in half. He ruffled Robin’s hair with a quick grin before hurling the merc across the floor.

“Teamwork,” Superman said warmly.

Batman growled from above. “Don’t encourage him.”

Robin only smirked.

The fight raged for another brutal minute. The last merc standing swung his rifle like a club at Batwoman—she sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and used his own momentum to slam him face-first into a steel crate. He slid down unconscious.

Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of vents as the last toxin canisters depressurized harmlessly. Smoke drifted upward in fading coils.

Batman’s cape swirled as he dropped to the floor, eyes scanning the unconscious enemies. His jaw was clenched, his voice cold.

“What is my son doing here?”

---

“What are you doing here?” Batman demanded.


Superman raised a brow. “Young Robin broke into my apartment. Said you were missing. Apparently, I’m his emergency contact. Funny how you never mentioned that.”

Bruce’s mouth was a tight line.

“And another thing,” Superman added, eyes narrowing. “Why are you operating in my city? You don’t allow metas in Gotham, remember? New rule? Seems hypocritical.”

Batman’s glare could have melted steel. Robin, oblivious, tugged at his cape. “Dad, Dad—”

Batman sighed heavily, rubbing his brow. “My son has something to say.”

Robin beamed up at Superman. “Can we take a picture? You’re my favorite superhero.”

Superman’s grin split wide. With microscopic vision, he caught Batman’s lips twitching in displeasure. The Bat was jealous. Deliciously jealous.

Snap.

Robin also wanted his poster to be signed but it currently hanging over the front wall of his bed. Superman leaned down, chuckling. “Next time you yell my name, I’ll come. Even if it’s just to sign a poster.”

Robin gasped. “Really?”

“Really.”

---

Batwoman returned, wiping sweat. “Tanks dismantled. Toxin neutralized.”

Superman shot Batman a look. “You knew my civilian identity. Still won’t tell me yours?”

Batman’s silence was answer enough.

“Typical,” Clark muttered.

Batman straightened. “Batwoman, pick up Robin’s motorcycle at Kent’s apartment. Robin and I are heading back in the Batmobile.”

---

The drive home was dark, city lights streaking past. Dick sat quietly, then whispered, “I was just so worried. I thought—you weren’t coming back.”

Bruce’s hands tightened on the wheel. “…I said if I was gone more than 48 hours. It hadn’t been 48.”

“I forgot.” Dick’s voice cracked. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you not coming home.”

Bruce’s heart twisted. He didn’t scold. Not this time.


---

Back in Wayne Manor, The Batmobile purred into the cave. They climbed the stairs to the manor, only to find Alfred in the study waiting— in robe, pajamas, and a fury that could cow even the Dark Knight.

Bruce leaned toward Dick and mocked whispered, “Did you tell Alfred?”

“…No.”

“Then you’re in deep trouble.”

Alfred’s voice boomed. “Master Richard! You are grounded for the entirety of your winter vacation. No playhouse, no electronics, no patrols. You will assist me in the kitchen with washing and cleaning until further notice.”

Dick opened his mouth to protest.

“Or,” Alfred cut in sharply, “I punish you military style. And you will not like that.”

Dick snapped his jaw shut. “…Yes, Alfred.”

Bruce smirked faintly, unseen in the shadows. Alfred had it handled.

Chapter Text

The chamber smelled of oil and steel. Candles flickered against the stone walls, their glow illuminating a figure tied to a chair—a man whose eyes darted around in terror. His breath came fast, his chest rising and falling like a drumbeat.

Eight-year-old Cassandra Cain stood before him, a little bounce in her tiny being. Her father, David Cain, loomed behind her, his looming presence was a sharp contrast against her.

David Cain handed her a dagger: sharp and heavy. Most children her age would struggle to hold it but not her, never her. Cassandra was a master of holding weight heavier than her. Using others' heavy muscled bodies against them. Defeating them.

“Cassandra.” David Cain's voice was ice cold. That word was the only noise her father ever made in front of her.

David Cain motions his hand in a circular motion, a pattern he only makes when he wishes for Cassandra to annihilate the training dummies completely.


To Cassandra, training had always been movements and strikes, repetition until her muscles remembered what words never taught her. This was a dance that was etched in her very soul.

So she moved, silently but precisely with no hesitation for every time she obeys, her father would give her one those rare blinding smile. A smile that meant she was good and he was proud.

The man squirmed. His body screamed panic—his shoulders tense, his chest heaving, his feet straining against the rope. Cassandra’s entire life had been built on reading the body, on knowing what muscles whispered.

It would tell her; when to move, when to spin, where to fein a hit, where to strike precisely, how to win. For defeat was not an option. Not for her at least.

So when she lunged forward and slashed, she understood the story of fear in every twitch of his frame.

Then—suddenly—it stopped.

No more shifting weight, no more beating rhythm in his chest, no more fear leaking from his posture. Stillness. Horrifying, unnatural stillness.

Cassandra’s wide eyes stared at the fallen man. Her heart thudded wildly as a scream clawed up her throat but never came. This wasn’t training. This was… death.

The knife clattered from her hand as she stumbled back. Cain’s scowl deepened, his hand raised to strike her, but Cassandra was already running.

he command cracked through the training hall like a whip.

“Seize her.”

David Cain’s voice was cold, sharp, and final.

Steel hissed as blades were drawn. Half a dozen assassins fanned out, their black robes whispering against the stone floor. The torchlight carved their masks into snarling shapes.

The first assassin lunged, aiming low to pin her legs. Cassandra vaulted over him, her bare feet slapping stone as she landed and rolled. A second was already there, daggers flashing. She ducked left, the blade kissing her cheek with a shallow cut, then smashed her shoulder into his ribs. The man grunted, staggering back. She didn’t stop to finish him—speed was her weapon now.

“Don’t let her escape!” Cain barked.

Two more blocked the archway ahead, swords gleaming. Cassandra skidded, sandaled feet scraping stone. They came at her from both sides. She dropped flat, their blades clanging above her, then swept her leg in a wide arc. One went down hard. She scrambled up, seized his sword, and hurled it at the torch. Sparks exploded, showering embers, plunging part of the hall into shadow.

The darkness was hers.

A fist grabbed at her tunic. Cassandra twisted, driving her elbow into the attacker’s throat. He gagged, dropping to his knees. Another came from behind, his arm snaking around her neck. She stomped down on his foot, bent low, and flipped him clean over her shoulder. His body crashed against the stone wall.

Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered. Still, she ran.

At the corridor’s end, two assassins barred the way, staffs ready. Cassandra darted forward, feinting left—then spun right. Her foot snapped out in a crescent kick, knocking one staff away. She grabbed the other assassin’s pole mid-strike and used it as leverage to vault herself up onto the wall. For a moment, she ran along the stones like gravity meant nothing, before leaping clear over their heads. She landed light, like a shadow given flesh.

Behind her, chaos reigned.

But Cain’s voice carried through it all, calm and furious. “She belongs to me. Stop her.”

Another assassin sprang at her, twin blades slicing in a deadly X. Cassandra caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted it until the blade clattered away, then smashed her forehead into his mask. He reeled, stunned. She shoved him aside and burst into the courtyard.

The night air hit her like freedom.

Torches burned along the perimeter. More assassins rushed forward, their silhouettes slicing across the moonlit stones. Cassandra’s eyes darted, searching. The gates.

She tore across the courtyard, cutting, dodging, twisting—every motion drilled into her bones but now bent to a new purpose. Not to kill. Not to obey. To escape.

Arrows whistled past her ear. She leapt, rolled, and slammed into the gate with every ounce of her strength. The old iron creaked under her weight. She clawed upward, nails biting rust. Hands grabbed at her ankles, but she kicked free, scrambling higher.

“Cassandra!” Cain’s voice cracked the air.

She didn’t look back.

At the top, she flung herself over the wall. The world tilted, stars spinning above, ground rushing to meet her. She landed hard, pain jolting through her legs. But she was outside.

Outside.

Breathless, battered, bleeding—free.

Behind her, the League roared in frustration. And more shadows followed her retreat.

By the time she burst out of  The mountains of Nanda Parbat and into the desert, her arms and legs were slick with cuts, her breath ragged, but she did not stop. Still, she ran, until exhaustion broke her body and darkness swallowed her.


---

When her eyes fluttered open, the world was brighter, harsher—the desert sun blazing down. She blinked against the light, finding a woman kneeling beside her.

Chestnut hair framed the woman’s sun kissed face, and green eyes, calm but sharp, studied her. She wore a dark green robe, her poise regal even in the dust.

Cassandra scrambled back on all fours, fear crackling in her chest. She thought the woman would drag her back. Her father’s assassin. Another test.

Instead, the woman’s lips curved faintly. Her body language was steady, nonthreatening. “So,” she said in smooth tones Cassandra didn’t understand, “You are the child of David Cain and Lady Shiva. The one who is all.”

Cassandra flinched at the sounds but read the posture: admiration, curiosity. Not anger.

“You impress me,” the woman continued. “To escape them all.”

From her robe, she pulled out a small satchel and dropped it onto the sand—rations, gloves, socks, a muffler. Then, with a small flourish, she whispered something, and a glowing butterfly of pale gold shimmered into existence. It hovered, wings glowing in the sun, then flitted toward the horizon.

Cassandra froze. Magic was not something she had ever understood. But she read the woman’s body—the way her hands spread, the calm of her eyes. Follow. That’s what she meant.

Hesitating only a second, Cassandra snatched the bag and staggered after the butterfly, leaving the mysterious woman behind.

The woman watched the girl disappear into the heat haze. Her expression softened, almost wistful. If my beloved can take in one broken child of assassins… perhaps he may accept another in time.


---


Days blurred into one another. Sand, hunger, cold nights, blistering days. Cassandra chewed dried food from the satchel, sipped water sparingly, and ran whenever she could, because stillness made her remember the man’s body collapsing, the emptiness of death.

By the time the glowing butterfly finally flickered out and vanished, Cassandra stumbled into Gotham City.

The city’s smell was overwhelming—oil, sweat, garbage, smoke. Her matted black hair clung to her face, her clothes torn, her body feral with exhaustion. In the narrow alleys, shadows stretched long and the noise of cars was like thunder.

That was where she saw him.

A boy in red, green, and yellow, swinging down from a fire escape with the reckless grace of a performer.

“Hey!” Robin grinned brightly, stepping forward. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been out here for—”

Too fast. Too loud. His joy startled her like a slap. Cassandra’s instincts flared. Before the boy wonder could finish his sentence, she lashed out. A kick to the chest, an elbow to the jaw. He hit the ground with a grunt of pain.

“Whoa—okay, not friendly!” Robin groaned, scrambling up. “I was just trying to—” Another flurry of blows cut him off, sending him sprawling again.

His comm crackled with his sharp gasps.

Batman’s voice came immediately: “Robin?”

In less than a minute, a dark figure dropped into the alley. Cape sweeping, cowl shadowing his face, Batman seized Cassandra by the collar and hauled her upward. His grip was iron, his eyes narrowed.

But then—shock. Because the girl twisted in his hold, her body shifting seamlessly through sequences of martial arts. Stances and counters Bruce recognized instantly.

League of Assassins.

Her strikes landed on him—weak, starved, but precise. One kick to his ribs, one punch to his jaw. He let her slip past his guard for a moment, gauging her. How does a child fight like this?

She spun, fluid, attacking with desperation. Bruce caught her wrist, blocked a blow, locked her stance. Then, quick as lightning, his fingers pressed into a pressure point at her shoulder.

The fight drained from her. Cassandra’s eyes rolled back, and she slumped unconscious into his arms.

Batman stared at her small, battered frame. Robin groaned from the ground, “Who is she?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He only lifted the girl carefully and looked up into Gotham’s night sky.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a whisper stirred, Alfred feared there would be no more Waynes. But Gotham seems to have other plans.

He carried another child home.