Chapter Text
Morning sunlight streamed through the tall kitchen windows, spilling across the marble counters and catching the faint dust in the air. The manor was quiet except for the sound of the espresso machine whirring and the faint clink of china.
Y/N sat on the edge of the sparring mat in the training room, chest heaving. Damian stood across from her, barely winded, towel slung around his neck like the picture of smug satisfaction.
“You lasted four minutes longer today,” he said flatly. “An improvement.”
She slumped back on her hands, glaring at the ceiling. “Four minutes? I was hoping for five.”
“Ambition is good,” he said, grabbing his water bottle.
“Overconfidence is not.”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “You’d know.”
Damian didn’t dignify that with a reply, which in itself felt like a small victory. When he finally dismissed her, she dragged herself to her feet, every muscle in her body aching.
By the time she reached the kitchen, the air smelled like roasted coffee beans and something buttery. Alfred was already there — as he always was — moving with practiced grace between the counter and the stove.
“Ah, Miss Y/N,” he said without turning. “Training with Master Damian again, I presume?”
“Survived,” she said hoarsely, slipping onto a stool at the long island. “Barely.”
“Survival is an admirable first step,” Alfred replied, setting a small plate in front of her. Warm biscuits, golden and crisp, with a small dish of strawberry jam beside them. A mug of coffee followed, the kind Alfred brewed strong enough to wake the dead but smooth enough to make her forgive him for it.
“Eat,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling the plate closer.
At the far end of the kitchen, Dick sat with one leg folded on his chair, scrolling through something on his phone. Jason leaned against the counter near the fridge, a mug in his hand, steam curling lazily upward.
The sight of him made her slow for a fraction of a second. She and Jason had a strange rhythm: too many sharp words, too many misunderstandings, too little patience on both sides. She never knew which version of him she was going to get: the quiet one who watched everything or the one who provoked on purpose just to see who’d flinch first.
He looked up first. Their eyes met briefly, and instead of the teasing smirk she expected, he nodded once. “Morning, kid.”
Her brain stumbled over the easy tone. “Uh… morning.”
Dick glanced up, flashing his usual grin. “Hey, Y/N. You make it through Damian’s morning death match?”
She sighed, tearing a biscuit in half. “Barely. I think he was disappointed I didn’t collapse faster.”
Jason smirked over his coffee. “He probably was.”
“See?” she said to Dick, half a laugh leaving her. “At least someone gets it.”
Alfred poured more coffee into Jason’s mug, then handed another cup to Dick. “Master Damian is a rigorous instructor,” he said, faint amusement flickering behind his calm. “Though one might suggest his methods lack… subtlety.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Y/N muttered, spreading jam across her biscuit.
Dick leaned his elbows on the counter, eyes locked on Y/N. She shivered, feeling like he could see right through her.
Y/N forced her lips into a small, easy smile and set the knife down carefully, as if deliberate calm might keep the memories from rising. The low hum of the crowd. The look Thomas had given her, too knowing, too close.
“It was fine,” she said lightly. “Lots of fancy food I couldn’t pronounce. People I hope to never see again.”
Dick tilted his head, watching her with that detective’s intuition he’d inherited from Bruce. But he didn’t press.
“Glad to hear it,” he said instead. “You free today?”
She blinked. “I think so? Why?”
He grinned. “Jay and I were heading to the Wayne auto garage. Thought you might wanna tag along.”
Y/N blinked. “The garage?”
Jason’s smirk returned, slow and crooked. “We’re blowing off steam. You look like you could use it.”
She frowned, cautious. “Define ‘blowing off steam.’”
“No guns,” Jason said, holding up a hand as if swearing an oath. “Just engines. Fast ones.”
“Even worse,” she muttered.
Dick chuckled. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Think of it as—what’s the phrase?—exposure therapy.”
Her brow furrowed. “For what?”
“Existing near us for extended periods of time,” he said, deadpan.
Alfred set down another plate of biscuits beside them, his expression mild but his eyes warm. “Perhaps some outdoor air will do you good, Miss Y/N. The manor walls can grow rather heavy after a while.”
She looked at him, at the faint, knowing crease near his eyes, and exhaled softly. He was right. Everything lately felt too close, too loud, too much.
“Alright,” she said finally. “But if either of you try to make me race, I’m walking home.”
Jason smirked. “It’s a long walk.”
“Then you’ll have time to think about your choices,” she shot back.
Dick laughed, already pushing away from the counter. “That’s the spirit.”
As they started for the door, Alfred called after them. “Please do return in one piece, Master Jason.”
“No promises,” Jason called back, slinging his jacket over one shoulder.
The morning haze had burned off by the time they left the manor, sunlight spilling through the windshield in sharp gold streaks. The road to the Wayne auto track stretched long and clean ahead, winding through forest and open hills that seemed far removed from Gotham’s chaos.
Y/N sat in the passenger seat beside Dick, the faint hum of the engine vibrating through the floorboards. Jason followed behind them on his motorcycle, a flash of black and chrome that darted in and out of view between the trees.
Dick’s playlist was a weird mix: old and new pop alike, something from the 80s, and a few instrumental tracks she didn’t recognize. It filled the space between them without crowding it, the kind of sound that made it easy to breathe.
Y/N leaned back, watching the trees whip past. “This place doesn’t even feel like Gotham,” she said.
“That’s the point,” Dick said, his hands steady on the wheel. “Bruce built the track years ago for stress relief. Or that’s what he told Alfred. I think it was more about control.”
She smirked faintly. “You all talk about control a lot.”
“That’s because none of us have any,” Dick replied easily, flashing her a grin.
For a few moments, the silence between them settled into something almost comfortable. The wind tugged at her hair where it fell loose around her face, and the hum of the tires against the road was steady, grounding.
Then Dick spoke again, quieter this time. “So, what’d you think of Kory last night?”
Y/N blinked, turning her head toward him. “Kory?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes still on the road. “You two talked for a bit at the gala, right? I saw her corner you before dinner started.”
She thought back to the tall woman with fiery hair and a smile that felt like sunlight, the one who’d somehow managed to make Y/N feel both seen and safe in a room full of people she didn’t know.
“She was…” Y/N’s lips curved slightly. “She was great. Really nice. Confident, but not in that fake, rich-people way. She made me laugh.”
Dick chuckled softly. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”
Y/N hesitated, then added, “You two looked good together. Like… balanced, somehow.”
He grinned at that, a genuine grin, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, brow furrowing.
Dick shrugged, still smiling. “Before things with Kory get too serious, I wanted everyone’s take. The family, I mean. You, the guys, even Alfred. She means a lot to me, and you’re all kind of a package deal now.”
Y/N laughed under her breath. “So I get a vote in the Grayson relationship council?”
“Obviously,” Dick said. “You’re part of the family. Gotta make sure she passes the sibling test.”
Y/N smiled softly, choosing not to comment on the family part; instead, her eyes fell to her hands. “She passed. With flying colors.”
Dick’s grin lingered, but there was something fond in the way he looked at her, like he’d just decided she’d passed her own test, too.
The car curved along the narrow road, sunlight flashing across the windshield. Jason’s motorcycle roared behind them, keeping pace like a restless shadow.
“Good,” Dick said, easing back in his seat. “I’m glad you liked her. You could use more people like Kory around, she’s got that kind of warmth that burns through all the Gotham fog.”
Y/N glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You really love her, huh?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”
Something about that hit her harder than she expected, maybe because it was the first time in a long while someone had said it without fear, without pain attached to it—just a simple, certain truth.
She looked back out the window, the trees blurring into green streaks. “She’s lucky,” she said softly.
“Maybe,” Dick said, a small smile still tugging at his mouth. “But honestly? I think I’m luckier.”
The moment lingered, quiet, genuine, before Jason’s engine revved behind them, cutting through the peace.
Dick sighed. “And there goes our quiet drive.”
Y/N smirked. “You sound surprised.”
“I shouldn’t be,” he said, pulling into the long stretch leading to the Wayne auto track. “Jay’s allergic to silence.”
As they turned onto the paved entry road, the space opened up, acres of clean asphalt glinting in the sun, bordered by trees and low fencing. The garage itself loomed nearby, a sleek concrete building with its doors wide open, revealing a lineup of cars that looked like they’d been built for gods, not mortals.
Jason was already there when they parked, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his hair. “About time,” he called. “I thought you two were on a Sunday stroll.”
“Not all of us need to break the sound barrier to feel alive,” Dick shot back.
Jason grinned. “Boring people say that.”
Y/N climbed out, stretching her legs. The sun's heat hit her skin immediately, along with the faint smell of oil and fuel.
She followed Dick toward the cars, eyes widening as she took them in, shining curves of metal and glass, the kind of machines that looked like they’d eat lesser vehicles for breakfast.
“Pick your poison,” Jason said, sweeping his arm dramatically toward the lineup.
Y/N gave him a side-eye. “You mean pick which car you’ll terrify me in?”
“Exactly.”
Dick snorted and tossed her a helmet. “You’re with me first. Ease into it before he tries to kill you.”
“Hey,” Jason said, mock-offended. “I only kill criminals and time.”
“Not reassuring,” Y/N said, strapping the helmet on.
They climbed in, Dick driving, Y/N in the passenger seat, and the car purred to life beneath them, a sound smooth enough to feel alive. The first turn came fast, but Dick’s control was effortless, every movement precise, and before long, Y/N found herself laughing, the sound raw and bright in her throat.
When they slowed to a stop, she couldn’t stop smiling.
Jason whistled. “You didn’t even scream. Impressive.”
“Give me time,” Y/N said. “You’ll get your chance.”
Jason smirked. “I plan on it.”
The three of them spent the next couple of hours trading cars, engines roaring, laughter echoing through the open track. It was fast and reckless and alive, the kind of day that reminded her what it felt like to move without fear.
When the adrenaline finally settled, they sat on the hood of one of the cars, passing a shared bottle of water between them. The sun hung low in the sky, glinting against the curve of metal and glass.
For the first time since the gala, Y/N’s chest felt light.
Jason took a slow sip of water, gaze drifting over the horizon. “You ever notice,” he said quietly, “when you go fast enough, everything stops screaming in your head?”
Y/N turned her head toward him.
“That’s why I drive,” he said, voice softer now. “Out there, you can’t control much. But here… you can pretend you can.”
Y/N looked down at her hands, feeling that same old ache, the one that came with pretending you were fine long enough to make it true.
“Pretending’s better than nothing,” she said finally.
Jason’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”
The wind moved across the track, carrying the smell of metal and dust. For a moment, it was just the three of them, quiet, alive, and breathing.
And for once, that was enough.
The drive home from the track started out light.
The sun had dipped low, washing the sky in shades of amber and violet, and the air in the car still carried the faint smell of burning rubber and gasoline. Dick hummed softly along with the radio, one hand on the wheel, his posture loose. Jason sat in the passenger seat, tapping his thumb against his knee in rhythm with the music.
Jason had begrudingly left his motorcycle at the garage for a tune-up, and Dick promised to bring it to him first thing tomorrow when it was finished. And Y/N sat in the back, still feeling the echo of the day’s adrenaline humming in her veins.
It had been loud, fast, chaotic, and for once, not terrifying.
She’d laughed more than she’d expected to. Jason had even cracked a smile that wasn’t tinged with sarcasm, and Dick had looked genuinely proud.
It almost made her forget the twisting feeling in her stomach. Almost.
It pressed around her too tightly.
She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek before she said, “I saw Thomas at the gala.”
The words dropped like a stone in still water.
Jason froze mid-scroll. Dick’s fingers tightened on the wheel.
The hum of the engine suddenly felt deafening.
“…Who?” Jason asked, slow and sharp.
Y/N swallowed hard. “Thomas. My stalker.”
The car lurched as Dick jerked it to the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires. Y/N was thrown forward against her seatbelt, heart hammering.
Jason twisted around in his seat, eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”
Y/N’s throat went dry. “I saw him,” she repeated quietly. “At the gala.”
Dick stared at her in disbelief. “The same guy you told Damian about? The one who left you that note?”
She nodded.
Jason swore under his breath, rubbing his hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”
Dick turned to face her fully, the sharp edge of panic cutting through his usually calm tone. “You should’ve told someone immediately. We were all there, Y/N. He could’ve…”
“I didn’t want to cause a scene,” she said quickly, voice cracking under the weight of their anger. “There were people everywhere. Bruce was making some speech, and I just… I panicked.”
Jason let out a harsh breath, shaking his head. “You can’t freeze like that, not with a guy like this around. What if he tried something?”
“I know,” she whispered, guilt clawing up her throat. “I know, I just… didn’t think straight.”
Dick rubbed his temples, trying to pull himself together. “Okay, okay,” he said after a moment. “Let’s just… start from the top. When exactly did you see him?”
“Near the end of the gala,” she said. “People were starting to leave. I was by one of the tables near the dance floor.”
“And what did he say to you?” Jason asked, his voice low now, quieter, but heavier.
Y/N hesitated, glancing down at her hands. “He asked why I’d been avoiding him. He talked like nothing had happened. Like it was all just… normal.”
“And the note?” Dick pressed. “Did you ask him about it?”
Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I asked if he sent it.”
Jason’s gaze sharpened. “And?”
“He didn’t know what I was talking about,” she said softly. “He looked confused. Like genuinely confused.”
Jason scoffed. “Come on. He’s screwing with you.”
“I thought so too,” Y/N said, voice trembling, “but Thomas… he’s not like that. He’s obsessive, yes, but not a liar. He likes owning what he does… he twists it into meaning. If he’d sent that note, he would’ve admitted it. He would’ve tried to make it poetic.”
Dick frowned, leaning back against the seat. “So someone else sent it.”
Y/N nodded weakly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Jason’s jaw tightened, and he turned forward again, staring out at the dark stretch of road. “You should’ve told us the second it happened,” he muttered.
“I’m telling you now,” she said, almost pleading.
Dick sighed, softening slightly. “You’re right. You are. But next time, don’t wait, not with him involved.”
The car fell into silence again, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of passing cars.
Y/N leaned back in her seat, staring at her reflection, faintly visible in the window. The lights of Gotham flickered across her face like ghosts.
No one said another word for the rest of the drive.
But the air in the car was different now, heavier, charged.
Because no matter how fast they drove, none of them could shake the feeling that Thomas wasn’t finished with her yet.
Y/N excused herself quietly after they got home, murmuring something about needing rest. No one tried to stop her. The weight of the car ride still clung to the air like fog.
Her footsteps faded up the grand staircase until the only sound left in the manor’s cavernous halls was the ticking of the old grandfather clock and the faint hum from the kitchen.
Inside, the soft golden light from the sconces spilled over stainless steel and polished marble. Alfred stood by the counter, preparing tea the way he always did when he sensed tension brewing; the ritual steadied him as much as it steadied the family.
Tim was seated at the breakfast bar, scrolling through a holographic feed projected from his tablet, his brow furrowed. Damian was across from him, expression unreadable, methodically cleaning the blade of one of his throwing knives with a small cloth.
When Dick and Jason entered, both still tense from the drive, the air shifted immediately. Jason’s jaw was tight, and Dick looked like he was fighting to hold his composure.
“Evening, Masters Richard, Jason,” Alfred greeted, glancing up from the kettle. “How was your outing?”
Jason let out a low, humorless laugh. “Fine, until the ride home.”
Tim looked up, frowning. “What happened?”
Dick leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Y/N talked to Thomas, her stalker, at the gala.”
The room went still.
Alfred’s hand froze on the kettle handle. Tim blinked, not quite processing. Damian’s grip on his cloth stopped mid-motion.
“…I’m sorry,” Tim said after a beat. “What?”
Jason exhaled sharply. “Yeah, that was our reaction too.”
Dick’s voice dropped, the anger threading through it now. “She said she talked to him near the end of the night. Damian, you were supposed to have eyes on her. What the hell happened?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp and defensive. “That’s impossible. Timothy was beside her nearly the entire evening. I monitored from the floor, and at no point did she leave his proximity. If Vale was there, we would have seen him.”
Tim shook his head. “She was never alone long enough for someone to approach her without me noticing.”
But Damian’s confidence faltered for the briefest second. He looked down at the counter, fingers drumming once before stilling.
“…Unless,” he muttered, almost to himself, “Vale was never there at all... at least... to us."
Jason’s eyes snapped toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Damian hesitated. It was uncharacteristic, and that alone made Dick’s stomach twist.
Damian finally set the knife down and looked up. “A few nights ago, I went to an address linked to Thomas Vale. A confirmed residential match near Gotham State University. But when I got there… something wasn’t right. The neighbor claimed Vale lived in apartment 5D. I went there. The man who answered insisted no one by that name lived there — but it was 5D. The neighbors confirmed he lived at 5D. Of course, I asked the resident of 5D where Thomas Vale lived. He responded 5D.”
Tim frowned. “You’re sure?”
“I double-checked the number,” Damian said. “The building layout, the resident list, everything matched. But when I searched later, all digital records of Vale vanished. His faculty page at GSU, his ID, even the database photo I saved, all gone.”
A stunned silence settled over the kitchen.
Jason was the first to speak, his tone low and sharp. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“I was verifying my findings,” Damian snapped, his composure cracking. “I don’t report conjecture.”
“Conjecture?” Jason barked, incredulous. “This isn’t some random perp! This is Y/N’s stalker, and you went rogue on it?”
Dick’s voice was quieter, but colder. “You should have told us, Dami. We could be dealing with a meta. A mimic. Something that slipped through the cracks.”
“I know what we could be dealing with,” Damian shot back, standing now, shoulders squared. “But this is my case. Father trusted me with it.”
“Trusted you?” Tim repeated, voice rising. “This isn’t about a case! This is our sister, Damian!”
Damian slammed his hands onto the counter, the sound sharp against the polished surface. “You think I don’t know that?”
His voice cut through the air, raw and defensive. For a moment, the old fire, the stubborn, unyielding pride of the youngest Wayne, was replaced by something quieter.
He looked away, lowering his voice. “If Father hears any of this before we have proof, Y/N’s life will only get worse. You know how he operates. He’ll use her to draw Vale out, turn her into bait, just another piece on his chessboard. He already tried that at the Gala, and look at how that ended. She’s already barely keeping herself together. You want to see what happens if she realizes she’s being used?”
That silenced even Jason.
Alfred was the one to break it, his voice calm but grave. “Master Damian isn’t wrong about Master Bruce’s… methods. But keeping secrets among yourselves is hardly the solution.”
Tim exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it in frustration. “So what then? If Vale’s records are scrubbed clean and he’s showing up like a ghost, we’re not dealing with a normal stalker.”
Dick nodded grimly. “Then we treat it like we would any other meta case. We start local. Reconstruct what data was deleted, pull surveillance from the gala, cross-reference sightings.”
Jason leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, tension still rolling off him. “Maybe we bring Duke in. If we’re looking at a meta, he can…”
Alfred shook his head firmly before he could finish. “No. Master Duke has relocated to Metropolis. His presence here for the gala was temporary. Until there is clear evidence of metahuman involvement, involving him would only draw unnecessary attention.”
Jason scoffed. “So we sit on our hands?”
“Hardly,” Alfred said, setting a cup of tea in front of each of them. “You’ll need clarity, not chaos. Find what you can about Mr. Vale, what hasn’t been erased. Begin there.”
Tim’s jaw clenched as he stared at the steaming cup, the reflection of the kitchen light flickering in his eyes. “We’ll have to go off memory,” he muttered. “Whatever Damian remembers from that profile.”
Damian nodded once. “He was in his late thirties. Brown hair, glasses, soft build, professor at GSU’s finance department. Unremarkable.”
Jason huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Real unremarkable, except for vanishing into thin air.”
The brothers exchanged a look, one heavy with unspoken worry.
Alfred straightened his vest, glancing toward the staircase that led up to Y/N’s room. “For now, let her rest. The poor girl’s been through enough.”
No one argued.
But as the light above the kitchen flickered, faint and brief, Tim couldn’t help but glance toward the dark hallway.
If Thomas Vale wasn’t human, if something else had taken his place, then maybe Y/N wasn’t just being watched anymore.
Maybe something was already here.
The manor kitchen still smelled faintly of coffee and Alfred’s biscuits, but all warmth had long since drained from the room. The air felt tight, charged, like the calm before one of Gotham’s endless storms.
Tim’s laptop sat open on the counter, its glow cutting harsh lines across tired faces. Endless browser tabs. Empty search results. The quiet rhythm of keys clicking filled the space until even that gave way to silence.
“No database has him,” Tim muttered finally, frustration creeping into his voice. “City records, university faculty lists, DMV, phone directories, bank statements, all blank. Every trace ends in a loop or an error code.”
Dick’s brow furrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair, “it’s like the name deletes itself.”
Damian stood rigid near the counter, gloved hands resting on the marble, his jaw set in frustration. “That’s what I said earlier. The moment I pulled up Vale’s file, the system glitched. Picture, address, metadata, everything vanished. Not erased. Consumed.”
Jason paced along the edge of the room, boots dragging lightly against the tile. “So what? We’re hunting a stalker with an invisibility complex now? One that wipes his own digital footprint?”
Dick crossed his arms, leaning back against the island. “If he can do that, he’s not some random stalker. This takes resources — or power.”
Tim exhaled. “Power’s more likely. I ran encrypted scans. The traces that come up look like interference, like static in the system.” His voice lowered. “It’s not natural.”
Jason stopped pacing, eyes narrowing. “You’re saying meta.”
Damian didn’t hesitate. “It’s possible. And if it is, that would explain the apartment incident. He’s not operating under normal rules.”
Jason’s laugh came out sharp and bitter. “Fantastic. Another Gotham freak with a god complex. Just what we needed.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the chill that crept up his spine. “So what now?”
Dick looked between them, serious now. “We go back to what we can touch. That apartment. Damian, you said you found something strange there before everything vanished?”
Damian nodded once. “The layout was wrong. Space didn’t add up. The walls were off by at least two feet compared to the blueprints.”
Jason straightened. “Then I’ll go. I’ll check it myself.”
Tim frowned. “You sure? That place gives off—” he paused, searching for the word— “weird energy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m good with weird.” Jason gave a half-smile, more shadow than humor. “Besides, less likely to spook the locals if I go solo. Vale’s expecting someone in a suit, not the family screw-up. Dick, give me your bike keys.”
Dick opens his mouth to protest, but there wasn't much Dick could do in this situation. So he sighs and acquiesces, struggling to take the bike key off his key ring and toss it over to Jason.
Jason caught the key effortlessly and grinned at Dick, wagging the keys in his hands before stalking out.
Alfred slid a steaming mug of coffee across the counter to Dick, but made sure to call out to Jason before he exited the kitchen, “Do try to bring yourself back in one piece, Master Todd. And perhaps remember that impulsive heroics rarely yield clarity.”
Jason snorted, taking the mug. “Clarity’s overrated.”
He downed half the coffee he snatched from Dick's hands and gave a two-fingered salute toward the group before disappearing through the doorway. The manor’s silence swallowed him whole.
The night pressed down heavy and wet. Rain drizzled in lazy lines across Jason’s helmet visor as he parked Dick's bike outside the apartment complex Damian had flagged. The building loomed above him, skeletal and tired, with the kind of forgotten architecture that Gotham seemed to breed.
Jason killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching the windows; most were dark. A single one flickered with the bluish glow of a TV.
He pocketed his helmet and headed inside. The stairwell smelled of mold and cigarettes, the kind of rot that settled deep into old carpet. His footsteps echoed on cracked tiles as he climbed to the fifth floor.
5A. 5B. 5C.
Then — 5E.
He froze.
Jason frowned, turning back. 5A. 5B. 5C. Then a seamless expanse of wall, then 5E. No gap. No odd door. No 5D.
“Damian wasn’t hallucinating,” Jason muttered. He rubbed a gloved hand along the wall. Solid. Cold. Seamless. “Cute.”
He checked the floor plan Damian had uploaded to the shared drive. Apartment 5D, right between C and E. But the wall in front of him was flawless if it had never existed.
A door creaked behind him. Jason turned fast, hand brushing instinctively toward his holster. An elderly woman in a lilac robe squinted out from 5E, her hair in curlers.
“Lost, sweetheart?” she rasped, voice rough from years of cigarettes.
Jason hesitated, lowering his guard. “Yeah. I’m looking for Thomas Vale. He’s supposed to live here — 5D.”
The woman blinked. “Course he does. Right there.” She gestured lazily toward the wall. “Been here longer than me.”
Jason’s voice tightened. “There’s no 5D.”
Her brows knitted, confusion wrinkling her forehead. “What’re you talking about? I just saw him this morning. Headed out early, same as always. Nice young man, professor type. Stupid sweater, little brown messenger bag.”
Jason swallowed, eyes darting back to the blank stretch of wall. “You sure?”
She gave him a look like he was crazy. “Honey, I’ve lived here thirty years. I know who lives on my floor. If you’ve got a delivery, leave it by his mat right there.”
Jason stared at her. “Right. Got it.”
The door clicked shut again. He was alone.
The silence in the hallway was suffocating. He exhaled slowly, ran a hand down the back of his neck, and crouched near the baseboard. The wall was cold: not just cold, but biting, as if it had been pulled from somewhere else. Somewhere wrong.
He took a picture. The flash bounced harshly, catching something —a faint shimmer like oil on water —before disappearing. Jason stared at the image, at the warped pixels on his screen.
Then came the guilt.
Heavy. Inevitable.
He’d seen this pattern before: denial, avoidance, disbelief. Bruce’s greatest hits. How many times had he tried to warn Bruce? How many times had Bruce waved him off? Told him to “stand down”? To “not make it personal”?
He’d begged to go after the Joker. Begged to be taken seriously. And Bruce hadn’t listened.
He’d died for it.
And now, he’d done the same thing — to her.
Jason leaned against the cold wall, eyes shut, jaw locked tight. You’re doing it again, he thought. You’re him.
He remembered Y/N’s expression at the gala, that faraway look, the way she laughed like it hurt. She’d been screaming for someone to notice. He hadn’t. He’d been too busy convincing himself she’d get over it, that she was just anxious. That she didn’t need someone to feed the fear.
That’s what Bruce would’ve said.
And Bruce had been wrong about a lot of things.
Jason’s chest ached with something ugly and familiar — shame. Regret. A quiet, burning kind of anger that turned inward this time.
“You stupid bastard,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against the wall. “You should’ve listened.”
He thought about the night he died, the sound of the ticking bomb, the weight of betrayal. He thought about how, afterward, he swore he’d never let anyone fall through the cracks again.
And yet here he was, still the exact broken reflection of a man who couldn’t save anyone in time.
Jason stepped back, taking one last look at the blank wall. His chest felt tight, not fear, not really. Just that old familiar anger that had nowhere to go. He turned to leave. The hallway light flickered once behind him, the hum of the bulb faltering. And for half a heartbeat — just long enough to make him freeze, a brass “5D” shimmered on the wall. Then it was gone. Jason’s fists clenched.
“Yeah. Thought so.” He headed down the stairs, the sound of his boots echoing through the corridor. Behind him, the faint scent of ozone lingered in the air, and somewhere, beyond the concrete, something knocked back.
He turned and walked away, boots echoing down the hall. Behind him, the air hummed one last time — like something just beneath reality exhaling — and then all went still.
By the time he hit the street, the rain had turned to a downpour. Jason stood beside his bike, staring up at the building through the sheets of water. His reflection stared back at him in the window, tired, haunted, still chasing ghosts.
He clenched his jaw, whispered to no one, “This time, I won’t screw it up.”
Then he got on the bike, revved the engine, and tore off into the night.