Chapter 1: W is for Wayne
Notes:
Hi there! Enjoy the rewritten ver. of Night Terrors!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Generally speaking, Y/N wasn’t the type to believe in divine interference.
Sure, she thought there might be something out there, up above, down below, maybe lurking somewhere in between, but without proof, it all felt like background noise. The universe didn’t care enough to make sense, and she didn’t care enough to argue.
At least, not until this morning.
Because as many horrors as the universe had faced, it had never been quite this dramatic.
A knock, just one, before a voice followed.
“Master Y/N? I’ve made breakfast if you would like to come down.”
The voice sounded old, but not frail, measured, polite, and confident in a way that made her hesitate. Still, there were worse questions than who was behind the door.
The most glaring being, how did he know her name?
A second knock, gentler.
“Y/N?”
“Yes! Sorry!” she blurted. “I’m still waking up. Do you mind if I skip breakfast this time?”
A pause, too long. She could almost hear him thinking through the door.
“As you wish,” he said finally, and his footsteps faded away.
Y/N waited another heartbeat before exhaling. Her pulse felt misplaced—too fast, too loud.
The room she stood in didn’t match the idea of a place with a butler. It was small and impersonal. Neat, yes, but cold, books stacked in lifeless symmetry, furniture that existed to fill space rather than comfort. A photo frame sat face down on the desk. The dresser smelled faintly of cedar and dust.
Whoever lived here was young. And careful.
She searched, half out of curiosity, half out of fear. Drawers, closet, under the bed. The piggy bank startled her, a childish relic with actual money inside. Then the bundles of cash, the suitcase, the apartment lease dated only a few weeks out. Someone had been planning to leave.
Now it seemed she was the one left behind.
When she finally stepped into the hall, the quiet pressed down on her like a weight. The mansion stretched endlessly, dark marble, portraits with gold frames, air that hummed with the kind of stillness money could buy.
Outside, the wrought-iron gates gleamed faintly under morning light.
The letter W was etched in their center.
And the world beyond it?
Gotham.
She saw the name first on a billboard, cheaply printed, too bright against a gray sky:
HURT? CALL GOTHAM’S PREMIER LAWYER!
Her stomach dropped. The skyline confirmed it: jagged towers, fog like smoke, shadows that moved when she wasn’t looking.
No. Impossible.
Gotham was fiction. Gotham was a comic book. Gotham was danger.
But the wind stung her cheeks, the pavement scraped her shoes, and the sirens echoing from somewhere in the distance were unmistakably real.
Hours passed in a daze. She wandered until hunger forced her into a corner store, and the clerk didn’t even glance at her. At least that meant whoever’s life she’d stumbled into wasn’t famous.
She sat on a park bench until the sky bruised purple, tears coming without warning. She cried for everything familiar, her world, her family, her bed, and for the terrifying thought that maybe this wasn’t a dream.
When she looked up again, the city itself seemed to shift. The buildings leaned too close. The clouds rolled in strange patterns. Even the light felt wrong, like a film reel playing half a second out of sync.
By the time she found shelter, she’d convinced herself she was asleep. It was the only explanation that didn’t break her.
The sign above the building flickered weakly: THE HOLLOW MOTEL.
She hesitated, then pushed open the door.
The bell chimed once. Then again. Then stopped abruptly, as if it had changed its mind.
Behind the counter stood a woman dressed entirely in red. Not just red—crimson, the kind that demanded attention. A tailored coat cinched at the waist with a black satin belt, the hem falling just below her knees. A matching pillbox hat sat neatly atop hair the color of burnished copper, curled and pinned like it belonged in another decade. Her gloves were the same blood-red shade, fitted perfectly around slender fingers tipped with black polish. A glint of gold jewelry peeked from her collar, just enough to suggest money, or something that looked like it.
But it was her eyes that caught Y/N off guard. Pale gray, like fog over glass. Eyes that didn’t blink enough.
“Well now,” the woman said, voice warm as tea and sharp as a knife’s edge. “You look like you’ve been running for miles.”
Y/N blinked. “Something like that.”
“First time in Gotham?”
A nod.
“Oh, I can tell.” The woman smiled, and her lipstick, dark cherry, didn’t smudge when she spoke. “You still look up when you walk. Locals learn not to.”
Y/N tried to smile. “Right. Just… looking for a place to stay.”
“Of course you are.” She turned a little, the light catching the faint shimmer of her earrings, tiny red teardrop-shaped stones. “You can call me Agatha Hollow. But everyone here calls me Aggie.”
Her name suited her, old-fashioned and soft, but something about it rang like a warning bell.
Y/N reached for her wallet. “How much for the night?”
Aggie slid a brass key across the counter instead. The tag attached to it read Room 7 in curling handwriting.
“On the house,” she said sweetly. “Just remember, not every shortcut gets you home.”
Y/N frowned. “Sorry?”
Aggie only smiled wider, as though Y/N had said something funny without realizing it. She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, an old map, yellowed at the edges.
“Here. Gotham can be tricky for newcomers. Streets don’t always stay where you left them.”
Y/N hesitated before taking it. The map felt warm, almost soft, as if it had been handled too many times.
Aggie leaned forward just slightly, perfume curling through the air—something floral with a bitter, smoky note underneath. “And one more thing, darling.” Her tone dropped low, almost playful. “If the mirror starts talking—don’t answer.”
“The mirror?”
But when Y/N looked up, Aggie was already gone.
Her humming drifted faintly from the back room—an old melody, something that made the lights flicker in rhythm.
The hallway to Room 7 was narrow, lined with faded wallpaper that peeled like molting skin. The floorboards creaked beneath her, groaning as though they remembered too much.
Inside, the air was stale but still. The room was small, with furniture arranged in unnervingly perfect symmetry. Everything had its place, except her.
And then she saw it.
The mirror.
Tall, cracked down the center, bolted to the wall opposite the bed. The surface wavered faintly, as if something behind it were breathing.
She froze, pulse racing.
“Nope,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”
She tossed the map on the bed and sank down beside it. The lines of the city twisted under the dim light, streets winding like veins, names shifting when she blinked. The Hollow Motel sat near the edge of the map, though she could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there a second ago.
“This isn’t real,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound convinced.
Outside, Gotham pulsed. The shadows seemed to breathe. Even the silence in the room felt aware.
And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or if she’d finally woken up.
Y/N didn’t sleep.
Not once.
The walls of the motel felt too close, the air too still. It smelled faintly of lavender and cigarette smoke, but beneath that, there was something else, something metallic, like blood or rain left too long on concrete.
Every sound in the room seemed magnified. The tick of the clock. The faint hum of the old radiator. Her own breath, uneven and shallow.
She told herself it was fine. That it was just a dream, some strange, vivid hallucination she’d eventually wake from. The logic should’ve been comforting, but her heartbeat refused to slow.
At one point, she sat up, staring into the cracked mirror on the wall. Her reflection stared back through a thin web of fractures, slightly delayed, as if the glass needed a moment to remember her shape.
Her throat tightened. “It’s not real,” she whispered.
But the room seemed to breathe in reply.
And Y/N, too afraid to blink too long, began to realize: this place didn’t need monsters to feel haunted.
Alfred Pennyworth stood before the main computer, the glow from the monitors casting a pale sheen across his face. His reflection stared back at him in the black glass between feeds, older than he remembered, thinner, lonelier.
He had been there since dawn. Still waiting.
No message. No call. No sign of her.
He’d gone through every rational explanation — bad reception, lost phone, late study night — but none of them settled right. He knew Y/N. She was thoughtful, steady. Even when she was late, she was never gone.
She’d always been that way, the constant in a house built on chaos.
He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest heavy and old. Raising her had been different than raising Bruce’s sons. There were no bruises to tend, no wounds from rooftops or training exercises. Y/N was gentle, inquisitive. Her battles were small, human, and Alfred cherished that.
She’d been his bright corner of normal. His reminder that life could still be kind.
He remembered teaching her to bake when she was seven, the kitchen full of flour and laughter. He remembered her sneaking down the stairs late at night, asking if Gotham ever got quiet, and how he’d told her the truth: no, but some nights it sounded almost like it wanted to.
She wasn’t supposed to grow up in this world. And yet somehow, she had.
And now, the silence around her name felt wrong. Final.
He straightened his shoulders and turned toward Bruce.
“Master Bruce,” he said quietly.
Bruce was seated at the console, still suited from patrol, his eyes locked on a case file. “Hmm?”
“It’s about Y/N.”
Bruce didn’t look up. “What about her?”
“She hasn’t been in contact. Not since yesterday morning.”
A faint furrow appeared between his brows. “She’s away at university, isn’t she?”
“She was,” Alfred said. “But her dormmates say she hasn’t been back in over a day. Her phone is off. No messages. No sightings.”
Bruce’s gaze finally lifted, just for a second. “She’s not a child anymore, Alfred. She doesn’t need to be coddled.”
“I’m not coddling,” Alfred replied, the tremor in his voice barely contained. “I’m worried.”
Bruce exhaled, weary. “How old is she now? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty-three,” Alfred said softly.
“Then she can take care of herself.”
The words landed like a blow. Alfred’s hands tightened behind his back. “You don’t even remember her age.”
“That’s not fair,” Bruce said, turning back to the screen. “You’ve made her dependent on your attention. She’s grown now. She’ll come home when she’s ready.”
Alfred stared at him for a long moment. “If she can.”
The silence stretched.
When Bruce didn’t respond, Alfred turned away, not to leave, but because he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.
From the far side of the cave, a soft shuffle of boots echoed.
Dick Grayson had been leaning against a stone pillar, watching the exchange. He’d seen Alfred anxious before, but never like this, not trembling, not pale with restrained panic.
“What’s going on?” Dick asked carefully.
Alfred didn’t turn. “It’s Y/N. She’s missing.”
Dick blinked. “Missing? As in…?”
“She’s been gone all day,” Alfred said. “No contact. No trace.”
Dick frowned. He knew the name. He’d met her years ago, in passing, when she was a teenager. His memory offered a vague image: soft voice, big smile, maybe dark hair. But the details were gone, like an old photograph left out in the rain.
“I’ll send you her Instagram,” Alfred said, already pulling out his phone. “She’s active on there. At least she was.”
Moments later, Dick’s screen lit up with the link. He opened it, scrolling slowly.
Y/N Wayne.
Her feed was filled with color. Sunlight on coffee cups. Smiling faces. Autumn leaves at a pumpkin patch. Piles of open textbooks. Photos with friends, tagged locations near her university, and a dog wearing a hat.
It was so painfully normal it hurt to look at.
This was the life none of them had ever gotten to live. A small, ordinary world untouched by shadows.
Dick didn’t feel much —not yet —but he did feel curious. How did she do it? How did she stay untouched when the rest of them were made of scars and sleepless nights?
He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll find her.”
Alfred nodded once, but his jaw trembled with quiet gratitude.
Dick opened comms. “Tim, you there?”
Static crackled, then Tim’s tired voice came through. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Need eyes on Y/N Wayne. She’s gone dark.”
“Y/N?” A pause. “Give me a sec.”
The sound of rapid typing filled the line.
“Got her,” Tim said finally. “Street cams picked her up near East End Park around eleven. Walking alone. She’s got a backpack, looks tired.”
“Can you track her route?”
“Trying. Wait, damn. Lost her near the bridge. Feed cut out.”
Dick sighed. “That’s all you got?”
“For now, yeah.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Bruce hadn’t looked up again. Alfred stood motionless in the low light, face hollowed by the monitors’ glow.
Dick watched him for a moment longer, then quietly said, “I’ll go.”
Alfred blinked once, like he hadn’t heard him right. “You’ll…?”
“I’ll find her,” Dick repeated. “If nothing else, it’ll keep you from killing Bruce.”
Alfred gave a ghost of a smile, weary, grateful. “Thank you, Master Dick.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dick said under his breath.
By the time he reached the street, Gotham was deep in its nocturnal haze. The air hung heavy with fog, the sky bruised and low. Streetlights flickered like faulty nerves.
He followed Tim’s coordinates to the park, a small, half-forgotten patch of concrete and grass.
He circled twice. Nothing. No footprints, no scent of blood, no sign of struggle. Just quiet. Too quiet.
He sat down on a bench, elbows on his knees, scanning the empty paths ahead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “She’s probably holed up in some café, phone dead, eating waffles.”
But even as he said it, something in his chest refused to relax.
He thought about Alfred again. The way his voice had cracked when he said her name. The way he’d looked at Bruce, not like a butler addressing his employer, but like a father speaking to a son who’d lost his way.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not doing this for her,” he murmured to himself. “You’re doing it for him.”
And when the fog shifted, just slightly, like something unseen had exhaled, he stood.
Because in Gotham, even the quiet was a sign.
The first light of dawn crawled across Gotham like a bruise turning pale. Y/N hadn’t slept. Not even for a second. The walls of her motel room had felt alive all night, expanding, contracting, whispering faintly when she tried to close her eyes. By the time the first threads of morning filtered through the blinds, her nerves were frayed down to a wire.
She packed quickly, clutching Aggie’s wrinkled map as she descended the narrow stairs.
Aggie sat at the counter in the same red dress as before, sleeves rolled to her elbows, lipstick a fresh shade of crimson. The steam from her mug curled around her like smoke.
“Early start,” she said, voice lilting.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Y/N mumbled.
“Few people do in this city,” Aggie replied, smile too knowing to be casual. “Try to keep your wits about you, dear. Gotham eats the distracted.”
Y/N hesitated. “That’s comforting.”
Aggie chuckled. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
The door chimed softly as Y/N stepped out, the fog curling thick around her ankles.
She wandered with no real plan, tracing half-remembered turns from yesterday. The air smelled like wet iron and rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Every corner felt slightly different than before, like someone had taken the city apart and put it back together wrong.
When she reached the park, she stopped under the lamppost, unfolding Aggie’s map again. The paper was creased and damp, street names fading into nothing.
She turned it upside down, squinting. “Okay,” she muttered, “left at the creepy church or right at the sketchy deli?”
“Neither,” a voice called from behind her. “Try turning around.”
Y/N froze.
She turned slowly, heart stuttering as she saw him.
Dick Grayson stood a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed in that way people practiced, like he’d been trained to make calm look commanding. The morning light caught in his dark hair and the faint scruff along his jaw.
For a second, Y/N forgot how to breathe.
Her brain glitched straight back to childhood, to Teen Titans, Saturday mornings, and that stupid crush she’d never quite grown out of. Robin, the acrobat, the leader. Her favorite. She’d even practiced Starfire’s lines in the mirror when she was eight, smiling too wide and pretending she belonged in his world.
And now, somehow, she’d walked straight into it.
He was staring at her expectantly. “Y/N Wayne, right?”
Her brain short-circuited. “Um. Yeah. That’s me.”
He exhaled, relief and irritation tangled in the sound. “You have any idea how worried Alfred’s been? He’s been calling since last night.”
“Oh. Yeah, I...uh—lost my phone,” she said weakly.
“Convenient,” Dick muttered, glancing at her hands like he half-expected to see it appear there anyway. “You can’t just vanish like that. Not in Gotham.”
Y/N tried to focus on his words, but her thoughts were busy doing gymnastics. Play it cool, she told herself. You’re fine. He’s just a guy. A very attractive, fictional guy who’s somehow real. Totally fine.
“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “Just needed air.”
He frowned. “For twelve hours?”
“I walk slow,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
She realized belatedly that he was still talking, asking something about Alfred, probably, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears. The city buzzed faintly around them, unreal and dreamlike, and all she could do was stare.
God, stop staring. Stop being you.
Dick sighed, rubbing his temple. “Okay, clearly something’s off here.”
“No! I’m listening,” she said, forcing a smile. “I just, um, process conversations differently. With my eyes.”
He blinked. “That’s not a thing.”
“It could be.”
“Right.” He crossed his arms. “You sure you’re not concussed?”
“No, just… existentially confused.”
That earned her a long look. The kind he probably used when dealing with chaotic siblings.
Finally, Dick huffed out a laugh, tired, half-amused, half-defeated. “You’re exactly as Alfred described,” he said.
Y/N blinked. “He described me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Said you’re the only person in this family who can worry him without getting shot at.”
Her face went hot. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Dick said again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Congratulations, that’s your superpower.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize, so she just stared again, caught somewhere between mortification and awe.
He shook his head, pulling his phone from his pocket and swiping quickly through his contacts. “Alright, before you spiral any harder, talk to Alfred. He’s been pacing holes in the floor over you.”
He held the phone out, the faint sound of Alfred’s voice audible through the speaker.
Y/N hesitated, taking it carefully, her fingers brushing his.
“Go on,” Dick said softly. “He deserves to know you’re safe. And I deserve a nap.”
She managed a shaky nod. “Right. Talking. To Alfred. Totally normal.”
“Good,” he said with a faint smirk. “Maybe after that, we’ll work on listening.”
Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but all that came out was a weak laugh.
Because she still couldn’t believe she was standing here, in Gotham, in front of Dick Grayson, and for one impossible second, it almost felt like she belonged.
The phone felt heavier than it should have. Warm from Dick’s hand, cold from the air. Y/N pressed it to her ear, hesitant, her stomach curling with a strange guilt that wasn’t hers.
“Miss Y/N,” Alfred’s voice burst through before she could speak, clipped and trembling all at once. “You have precisely no idea the panic you’ve caused. Vanishing without a word? In this city? I expected such recklessness from your brothers, perhaps, but you-”
“Alfred-”
“I had to call the police! The hospitals! I nearly went down to the morgue myself!”
Y/N winced. Dick’s brows lifted slightly beside her, but he kept walking, hands in his pockets, pace slow enough for her to match.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, fumbling over the words. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just needed...some air.”
“Air,” Alfred repeated, like the word personally offended him. “Air, she says, after wandering Gotham at night with no phone, no light, no sense of self-preservation whatsoever! You could have been killed!”
Y/N grimaced. “Technically, I wasn’t, though.”
“Miss Y/N!”
“Right, not helping. Sorry.”
They passed the edge of the park, stepping into the city’s thinning fog. Y/N’s shoes scuffed the pavement. She felt painfully aware of Dick’s silent presence beside her, steady, patient, but clearly holding back a dozen things he wanted to say.
Alfred’s voice softened, only barely. “You cannot simply disappear, my dear. Not here. You must tell me if you leave the manor, especially at night. I don’t care if you need air or space or the moon itself, I expect a message. A note. A sign of life.”
Y/N swallowed. His words landed somewhere deep in her chest, too heavy, too intimate.
The girl who used to live in this body —his girl —would have known what to say. She would’ve known how to soothe him, how to sound contrite but sweet, how to make him forgive her with a small laugh and a promise.
But Y/N wasn’t her. Not really.
She forced a small smile, voice gentler than she felt. “I know. You’re right. I should’ve told you. I just… lost track.”
“Lost track?” Alfred echoed sharply, but there was relief in it now, relief that she was safe enough to scold. “You have me quite undone, Miss Y/N. This household is chaotic enough without you joining the roster of missing persons.”
Dick snorted quietly beside her. “She fits right in, then.”
Alfred ignored him. “You’re walking back with Master Richard, I trust?”
“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, glancing at Dick, who gave her a slight, approving nod.
“Good. He’ll see you home.”
There was a pause, so faint she almost missed it, and when Alfred spoke again, his tone softened into something fragile. “You are my daughter as much as any of them. Don’t make me bury another one.”
The words hit harder than anything else had. Y/N’s throat tightened, a sting forming behind her eyes.
“I won’t,” she said quietly. “I promise.”
“See that you don’t.”
The line clicked dead, the sound of it final and echoing.
Y/N lowered the phone slowly, exhaling. Her reflection glinted faintly in the dark screen, unfamiliar eyes staring back at her, like she’d borrowed someone else’s life and was trying to fit inside it.
She handed the phone back to Dick. “He’s still mad.”
“He’ll calm down once he sees you,” Dick said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “You scared him, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Seems to be a theme around here.”
They walked in silence for a while. The world was soft with early light, the roads slick from last night’s rain. Gotham looked almost peaceful like this—like it hadn’t spent decades bleeding under its own weight.
Y/N glanced sideways at Dick, his profile sharp against the pale dawn. He looked tired, older than she remembered him being on screen. But there was something kind in the exhaustion, something human.
“I really didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she said finally.
“You didn’t,” he replied. “Trouble’s kind of a family business. You just… joined in.”
She huffed a weak laugh. “Guess I’m a natural.”
“Guess so.”
The walk back to the Manor was quieter than either of them expected. Y/N tried to focus on the gravel crunching beneath her shoes instead of the fact that Dick Grayson. Nightwing, former Robin, walking Gotham legend, was beside her like this was the most casual thing in the world. Her earlier starstruck haze had faded a little, though every time he glanced at her, her mind still short-circuited.
“So…” Dick started, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, voice carrying that easy charm that felt almost practiced. “Emergency management, huh? That’s what you’re studying?”
“Yeah,” Y/N said, tugging at her sleeve. “Feels kind of silly compared to what you guys do.”
He tilted his head, curious. “Why’s that?”
“I mean, you save people every night. I just… plan for things that might go wrong and make sure people are ready when they do.”
Dick’s smile softened, and for a second, something flickered behind his eyes. A memory, faint, old, of a small girl sitting cross-legged on the Manor floor, eyes bright, holding up one of Alfred’s tea towels like a cape. He remembered her laughter echoing in the hall. He almost said I remember when you were that kid who followed Alfred everywhere, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. The distance between that memory and the young woman walking beside him felt like too much.
He cleared his throat. “That’s not silly. Half of Gotham could use someone who plans ahead. Trust me, we’re not exactly known for being prepared.”
Y/N gave a small laugh at that, but she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly. “Maybe I’ll send you a risk management plan next time you jump off a roof.”
“Please do,” Dick said, chuckling under his breath. “We could use a few fewer broken bones.”
The air between them eased a little after that. The walk felt less tense, more like two people trying to fill a gap too many years wide. Still, Dick couldn’t help glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked so much like her younger self, the same sharp eyes, the same way her nose scrunched when she thought too hard. He wondered how many birthdays he’d missed, how many family dinners she’d been at while he was somewhere in Blüdhaven chasing a lead.
He opened his mouth again, almost to say I should’ve visited more, but stopped himself, shoving the thought down deep. Some things were better left unspoken.
By the time they reached the Manor gates, the early morning light painted the sky pale gold. Alfred was already standing outside, arms crossed, the kind of frown that could stop even Bruce mid-sentence carved deep into his face.
Y/N froze immediately, guilt flashing across her features. “Oh no.”
Dick smirked slightly. “Yeah, I’d brace for impact.”
Y/N instinctively tried to turn around, muttering, “Maybe if I just-” but before she could bolt, Dick caught her collar with one hand, pulling her back toward the path.
“Nice try,” he said, his tone teasing but his grip firm. “You’re facing the music. Alfred’s scary, but he’s earned it.”
“I was really hoping I could make it to my room first,” Y/N whispered.
“Not a chance.”
And as Alfred started toward them, his voice sharp and full of worry, Y/N sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable. Beside her, Dick stayed quiet, but there was a faint, almost fond smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it was time to stop letting distance define family.
Alfred didn’t even let them get through the door before he started.
“Miss Y/N, I have half a mind to revoke your right to ever leave this property again,” he said, guiding her and Dick firmly into the foyer. “Do you have any idea the panic you caused? Vanishing without a word, not a message, not even a note left behind? I should have called in a search party!”
“I told you I was fine,” Y/N said, wincing as her voice came out small.
“Fine?” Alfred’s brows shot up. “In Gotham? That word does not exist here, my dear. Not when people vanish between blocks.”
He herded her and Dick into the kitchen, the edge of his worry sharpening every movement. “Sit. Both of you. If I’m to lose years off my life, you’ll at least have a hot breakfast while I do so.”
Dick obeyed immediately, smirking as he slid into a chair. “Yes, sir.”
Y/N sank into the stool beside him, feeling like a child caught sneaking in past curfew. “I said I was sorry,” she muttered.
“Sorry does little for my heart rate,” Alfred said crisply, spinning a spatula like a weapon. “You could have been mugged, kidnapped, or simply gone missing in this city, and no one would have known until it was too late.”
Y/N groaned softly, rubbing her eyes.
“I missed these lectures,” Dick said, grinning over his coffee mug.
“Then perhaps I’ll include you next time,” Alfred shot back, plating eggs with militaristic precision.
Dick held up a hand. “Pass.”
The smell of breakfast filled the kitchen, warm and familiar despite the tension. Y/N felt that small flicker of safety, the kind that only Alfred could conjure, even while he was mad enough to burst a vein.
Alfred turned to the stove, muttering under his breath about “reckless children” when the kitchen door creaked open. Damian entered, already dressed from training, hair damp, expression unreadable.
He paused when his eyes found Y/N.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, Y/N’s eyes wide, Damian’s sharp and assessing, like he was trying to place her.
Oh no, she thought. He’s even more intense in person.
Then, as her brain tried to fill in the silence, she remembered the younger version of him from the Harley Quinn series, the bratty kid on a hoverboard, demanding respect in a high-pitched voice.
The image popped into her head so vividly she nearly snorted out loud. She clamped her sleeve over her mouth, shoulders shaking slightly.
Damian’s brow furrowed. Alfred noticed the motion and turned sharply, voice clipped. “And just what do you find so amusing, Miss Y/N?”
“Nothing,” Y/N said quickly, trying to smother the laugh that kept threatening to escape. “It’s... just nothing.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed further, assuming the worst. “I’m thrilled you find my distress entertaining.”
“I don’t!” Y/N groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I’m not laughing at you, Alfred, I swear.”
Across the counter, Dick was doing a terrible job hiding his grin.
Damian, unimpressed by all of them, grabbed the breakfast Alfred had already packed for him and muttered, “This household is absurd,” before disappearing back down the hall.
Alfred exhaled through his nose, clearly restraining himself. “One day, this family will put me in an early grave.”
Dick chuckled. “You’ve been saying that since I was twelve.”
“Perhaps because it’s true,” Alfred muttered darkly.
He turned back toward Y/N and pointed his spatula at her with the precision of a sword. “And you, young lady, are not leaving this house again today without telling me first.”
“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, voice muffled behind her hands.
Alfred went back to the stove, still muttering about “reckless children and thankless nights.” Dick leaned close, grin tugging at his lips.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
Y/N sighed, her face still red from trying not to laugh. “Feels like boot camp.”
“Yeah,” Dick said, leaning back with his coffee. “That means you’re officially part of the family.”
Notes:
Confused about a character? Cheat Sheet Below!
MC (Y/N) Wayne: 23 yrs, Female, Biological Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Master’s Student in Emergency Management, Average Civilian (no alias- other than Leyla) , No day job
Bruce Wayne: 51 yrs, Male, Also known as Batman, Father to Y/N, Damian, Dick, Cassandra, Stephanie, Tim, Duke, and Jason
Alfred Pennyworth: 70 yrs, Male, Former British spy turned Butler
Dick Grayson: 30 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Nightwing, Cop
Barbara Gordon: 30 yrs, Male, Daughter to Jim Gordon, Retired Batgirl, Also known as Oracle, Head Librarian
Jason Todd: 28 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Red Hood, No day job
Tim Drake: 24 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne. Also known as Red Robin, COO to Wayne Enterprises
Stephanie Brown: 24 yrs, Female, Adopted Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Batgirl, Corporate Job
Cassandra Cain: 22 yrs, Female, Adopted Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Black Bat, Ballet Teacher
Damian Wayne: 20 yrs, Male, Biological Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Robin, Student in college (Medical)
Chapter 2: You Saved Me
Chapter Text
Alfred had waited an entire day for this.
Twenty-four hours of Y/N slipping through rooms like a ghost, barely saying a word, timing her movements so she never crossed his path for long. He’d watched her from the corner of his eye as she tiptoed between conversations, smiling awkwardly when Dick tried to coax her into joining breakfast, disappearing again whenever footsteps echoed down the hall.
Now it was morning again, and Alfred Pennyworth was done pretending patience.
He stood in the kitchen, hands folded behind his back as the kettle hissed to life. The Manor was just beginning to stir, the faint creak of pipes, the whine of the old floorboards, a soft hum of morning light cutting through fogged windows. The smell of eggs and toast filled the air, familiar, grounding, but his stomach stayed tight.
She’d come home yesterday morning half-delirious, clothes rumpled, looking like she’d been lost in another city altogether. He hadn’t scolded her then, just ushered her inside, too relieved to do anything but make sure she was safe. She’d apologized softly, promising to talk later. But later never came.
Now, as he set another plate on the table, the weight of it hit him.
He’d raised her better than that.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him straighten.
Y/N appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair pulled back loosely, sweater hanging off one shoulder. She looked like she hadn’t slept again, with faint shadows under her eyes, expression wary. She stopped short when she saw him, shoulders drawing in like she’d been caught sneaking into somewhere she didn’t belong.
“Morning,” she said cautiously.
Alfred didn’t move. “Morning,” he returned evenly. “How nice of you to join us at last. I was beginning to think you’d developed a fear of kitchens.”
She winced a little at his tone and took a hesitant step inside. “I… wasn’t avoiding you.”
“Of course not,” he said dryly. “Simply avoiding the possibility of conversation.”
Dick was already at the table, half-leaning back in his chair, coffee cup in hand. He gave Y/N a sympathetic look that did nothing to help her.
Y/N sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to make you worry again.”
“That’s precisely the trouble, my dear,” Alfred replied, turning off the stove and facing her fully.
“You didn’t mean to. You seldom do. Yet somehow, I always end up one heartbeat away from a coronary.”
Y/N groaned softly, sinking into a chair. “I’m sorry, Alfred.”
“Sorry doesn’t change the fact that Gotham is a vile, unpredictable city,” Alfred said, voice firm but trembling slightly around the edges. “You may think yourself grown, but even the most capable of adults find themselves in peril here.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Yes, by sheer luck.” Alfred paused, then exhaled through his nose. “You cannot simply wander off without so much as a text. Not when you know what this family has endured. Not when you know what it does to me.”
His words softened near the end, the anger giving way to something more fragile, something like fear.
Y/N opened her mouth, closed it again. She didn’t know what to say.
The real Y/N, the one who’d grown up under this roof, would’ve had an answer. Would’ve hugged him, apologized better, maybe promised to stay in. But Y/N wasn’t her. She could only nod weakly, eyes stinging from guilt that wasn’t entirely hers.
“I’ll do better,” she murmured.
Alfred studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded once, turning back to the stove.
Breakfast went quietly after that. The tension settled into the background, more felt than spoken.
Dick kept trying to break it, with small talk about the news and some city repairs — but it never landed. Y/N pushed her food around her plate, pretending to listen, pretending not to feel the weight of Alfred’s gaze every time she fell silent for too long.
When Bruce finally appeared in the doorway, all calm efficiency and quiet command, Y/N stiffened. He looked exactly as she remembered from the show: broad-shouldered, rumpled from lack of sleep, still carrying that aura of something other.
She wanted to say something, anything, a greeting, a joke, but the words died when he brushed past her without so much as a glance.
“Alfred, the Gotham Harbor contract files,” he said, tapping his phone. “I need them before noon.”
“Yes, sir,” Alfred said curtly.
Bruce paused just long enough to glance toward Dick. “Saw the case you closed in Bludhaven.” Then he left again, footsteps fading into the hall.
The silence that followed was almost physical.
Y/N stared down at her plate, throat tight. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected: a smile, a hint of recognition, something human. But he hadn’t even looked at her long enough to remember she existed.
He didn’t even say anything about her being gone.
Dick leaned back, muttering under his breath. “He’s always like that before noon.”
Alfred gave him a sharp look. “That’s no excuse.”
Y/N tried to swallow the ache crawling up her chest. She reminded herself that this wasn’t her world, that Bruce Wayne wasn’t her father figure, no matter how her heart panged seeing him like this.
But it didn’t help much.
Later, when Dick left to help with something downtown, Y/N retreated upstairs. She needed quiet. Needed to breathe.
The manor felt like it was holding its breath, too. Every hallway looked the same, every framed photo of people she half-recognized watching her with ghosts behind their eyes.
She tried to focus on practical things — her emergency management coursework, her notes, the illusion of normalcy — but the unease lingered.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, faint images began to flicker.
Memories that weren’t hers, laughter in the kitchen, tiny shoes lined up by the stairs, Bruce smiling once in a rare moment of warmth. They came and went like whispers through fog.
Y/N pressed her palms to her temples. “Not again,” she muttered.
She needed to keep her footing in this world. Needed to stay herself.
But lately, she wasn’t sure which self even was.
By mid-afternoon, Y/N had grown restless. She had spent the morning in her room, trying to study, but the silence and monotony gnawed at her. With a sigh, she slipped quietly down the halls, past the silent portraits, until she reached the cave entrance.
The hum of computers and machinery grew louder as she descended, and when the vast space opened before her, Tim Drake was there. He sat hunched over a bank of monitors, fingers flying across the keyboard, a half-empty coffee cup teetering on the desk.
He glanced up sharply as she stepped closer.
Tim’s eyes flicked over her, scanning her face as if trying to place her. “Alfred’s apprentice?” he asked next, curiosity and caution mixed in his voice.
“No,” Y/N said sourly, crossing her arms. “I’m unfortunately a Wayne.”
Tim leaned back in his chair, letting out a sharp exhale. “A new one? You seem older than what he usually adopts. How old are you?” he asked, tone clipped.
“Twenty-three. Also, I’ve been here; you’ve just never noticed. So much for being bright.” Y/N replied, muttering the last part. Tim’s eyebrows furrow in annoyance, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“I’m taking a break from my master’s classes,” Y/N continues, keeping her tone polite but cautious.
Tim’s gaze softened slightly, but his annoyance remained. “Because sneaking into the Batcave is a totally normal way to take a break from school?”
Y/N blinked, biting back a smirk. “I wasn’t planning on touching anything,” she said softly.
“Yeah?” Tim shot back, eyes flicking over her. “You do realize this isn’t some dorm study lounge, right? One wrong move down here and…”
“I get it,” she said quickly, raising her hands slightly in mock surrender. “I get it. I’m just looking.”
He huffed, muttering under his breath as he turned back to the monitors. “Looking. Right. Makes perfect sense.”
Y/N hesitated, her eyes drifting over the glowing screens, the tangle of wires and computers, and the faint reflection of herself in the metal surfaces. It was surreal, like stepping into a world she had only ever imagined.
She cleared her throat. “You… you really work like this all the time?”
Tim didn’t look up. “Yes. All the time. Because apparently being the smartest Robin and the guy Bruce trusts to manage the Batcave means I don’t get weekends or naps.”
Y/N barely casts him a glance, completely over how Tim has been addressing her.
Tim’s eyes flicked back to the monitors, fingers moving again. He shook his head and muttered under his breath. He should tell Bruce one of his wards made it down to the Batcave. That would annoy him, and probably Alfred too.
He thought back to the last time he had even talked to her in the house. It must have been years ago if he had mistaken her for Alfred’s apprentice. Maybe he had never really noticed her at all. How had he missed her entirely?
“Well, enjoy your study break while you can,” he said finally, not looking up. “Don’t touch anything. Seriously. Don’t even think about it.”
Y/N backed away slowly, suppressing a laugh. “Got it. Crystal clear.”
She started the climb back up toward the manor, the faint buzz of the Batcave lingering in her ears. Tim Drake might not have been what she remembered from childhood memories, but he was every bit as intimidating in real life. And definitely not the nicest Robin.
As soon as she disappeared from view, Tim allowed himself a long exhale.
Y/N trudged back up the stairs to her room, the soft creak of the wooden steps matching the irritation that had settled in her chest. She closed the door behind her with a quiet click and leaned against it, arms crossed.
Her mind replayed the encounter with Tim over and over. How could he mistake her for Alfred’s apprentice? She could almost hear the real Y/N, if she existed here, clawing at him verbally, indignation sparking from every syllable. But she wasn’t that Y/N, not really. She just felt the dull, heavy throb of disappointment.
Not disappointment in Tim himself, exactly. No, it was broader than that, more abstract. It was disappointment in the idea of the Batman world she’d conjured in her mind since childhood. She had imagined Bruce as untouchable, commanding, larger than life. She had imagined the rest of the Bat-family as skilled, disciplined, almost mythical, heroes who carried their burdens with grace, each flaw carefully hidden.
Now, faced with them in reality, it was… smaller, less impressive. Tim’s jittery energy, Alfred’s quiet panic, Bruce’s indifferent sharpness. They were competent, yes, but also exhausting, distracted, and oddly human.
Y/N let out a long, quiet sigh, sinking onto the edge of her bed. The map she had been studying yesterday remained folded on her nightstand. She stared at it, tracing her finger over the routes she had taken, as if mapping herself through the reality she had stepped into could make sense of it all.
No matter how she tried, the grandeur she had built up in her imagination was crumbling. And she couldn’t stop the bitter taste in her mouth at the realization.
The heroes of her childhood weren’t heroes in the way she wanted them to be. They were people. People with quirks, frustrations, and blind spots. People who were—she realized with a slight, reluctant pang, disappointingly ordinary.
Y/N lingered in the doorway of the Manor, glancing back at the quiet rooms. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, brushing the polished floors in gold. She hesitated, thinking of Alfred and the stern look she’d received the last time she vanished for the evening.
Pulling out her phone, she typed quickly:
“Leaving. Will be late. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
She hesitated only a second before hitting send, the familiar ping of Alfred’s acknowledgment already fading in her mind. With a deep breath, she stepped out into the cool Gotham air.
She had a vague plan to see Aggie again, but as she turned down the alley near the corner café, movement caught her eye. A man, hood pulled low, shoved a middle-aged gentleman roughly against the brick wall. The man’s glasses were comically oversized, slipping down his nose, yet the rest of him was impeccably clean: a neatly pressed suit, polished shoes, and a tie that had barely moved despite the scuffle.
Y/N froze, heart racing. The middle-aged man didn’t scream; he didn’t fight. Instead, he seemed oddly… composed. Something at the edge of her vision flickered: a shadow, long and thin, just beyond the older man’s shoulder, nudging him subtly, almost imperceptibly, as if guiding him. She blinked, and it was gone.
Taking a cautious step closer, Y/N pulled out her phone and started recording. The mugger noticed her immediately. “Hey! What are you-”
“I’m recording this,” Y/N interrupted, stepping fully into the alley. “But I’ll delete it if you let him go. Right now.”
The mugger froze, frowning. “What?”
“I said I’ll delete it. No cops, no reports. Nothing. Just let him go.” Y/N’s voice was firm, unwavering.
The older man coughed, adjusting his glasses. “Quite… brave of you,” he said, his tone calm, almost rehearsed. The shadow shifted behind him again, brushing his shoulder lightly, and he straightened, tilting his head toward Y/N.
The mugger’s frustration bubbled over. “You’re serious? Who even are you?”
“I’m serious,” Y/N said, leveling the camera. “I want to delete this recording. That’s it. Let him go, and it’s gone.”
For a tense moment, the mugger’s eyes flicked between the older man and Y/N. The man, oddly smiling, straightened his tie as though performing a small ritual. “Most would panic. Few act. You… you chose wisely,” he said quietly, his oversized glasses catching the light.
The mugger shoved the older man again, this time less forcefully. “Move, old man!”
Y/N stepped closer, voice raised. “Let him go, or I keep the video. Your choice.”
After a long pause, the mugger muttered under his breath and backed off, disappearing into the shadows.
Y/N exhaled, lowering her phone. She rushed forward and put her hands gently on the man’s elbows. “Are you okay?”
He smiled at her, wide, almost unnervingly calm. “Yes, yes. Thanks to you. You… you acted.”
Y/N’s brow furrowed. “I just, didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just… watch.”
He chuckled softly, brushing the fabric of his suit, adjusting his tie again. “Calmness… it’s a choice. Most flee, some freeze. You… you acted.”
There was something in his eyes, something polite but strange, that made her stomach tighten. The shadow flickered at the edge of her vision again, just a whisper, just a movement, unseen yet felt.
“I… I’m glad you’re okay,” Y/N said, hesitating. “I don’t know why, but you seem… different. Almost like you knew what would happen.”
The man’s smile widened slightly, almost unnervingly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps… I simply waited for the right person to intervene. You… were ready.”
Y/N helped him straighten fully, brushing a stray bit of dust off his sleeve. “Here, let’s make sure you’re steady.”
He accepted her hand lightly, like a formality, and gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “Thoughtful. Most wouldn’t.”
The alley felt colder now as the sun dipped lower. Gotham’s pulse quickened, shadows deepened, and Y/N realized she was no longer a tourist in the city’s streets; she was a participant. Somewhere unseen, a shadow lingered, nudging, testing, shaping what had just happened.
Y/N had had enough. Gotham’s grime, the shadows brushing at the edges of her vision, the mugger, the strange older man with glasses too big for his face—it was all too much. She turned straight back to the Manor, hoping for some semblance of calm.
By the time she reached the kitchen, she felt a flicker of relief. The kettle hissed softly on the stove, steam curling into the quiet air, and for a moment, the city seemed impossibly far away. She started making herself tea, hands working on autopilot, trying to push the day’s tension out of her mind.
And then she saw Damian.
He didn’t greet her, didn’t move. He was just there, sharp and still, perched on the stool like a statue, his eyes scanning her as if calculating every step she might take next. Y/N’s stomach clenched. She’d seen him in action before, an assassin before he became part of Batman’s world, and the memory made her pulse spike.
For a fleeting moment, she almost remembered him differently, thanks to the cartoonish version she’d seen in Harley Quinn; goofy, whiny, almost harmless. Her chest tightened at the absurdity of the memory, but the truth returned immediately. He might have been funny on a screen, but he had been raised as an assassin, trained to be lethal, precise, and utterly cold. The contrast made her heart hammer even faster.
Her instincts screamed at her to move, to get away before he could corner her or interrogate her, or worse. The silence in the kitchen pressed down on her, heavier than any berating she’d endured from Tim. Almost everyone in the Batfamily she’d met so far had been nothing like she expected. Bruce was inscrutable, Tim could be infuriatingly judgmental, and Damian… Damian was something else entirely. Dangerous, precise, lethal, and utterly unpredictable.
Somewhere, faintly, she felt a subtle tug at the edges of her awareness, like a shadow brushing along the corners of the room, nudging events just slightly. She didn’t know if it was her imagination or something else, but it thickened the tension, made every glance from Damian feel sharper.
She skittered toward the stairs, clutching her tea, avoiding his gaze, heart hammering. Damian’s eyes flicked up just slightly, tracking her, and she felt a prickling at the back of her neck. She darted past him, nearly stumbling, and bolted up the stairs, finally letting herself exhale once her door was safely closed behind her. Leaning against it, she pressed her forehead to the wood and let the quiet wash over her, though the sense of being watched, of being tested, lingered.
Even in the Manor, even away from the city’s grime, the shadows had a way of reminding her: nothing was truly safe, not outside, not inside.
After Y/N slipped upstairs, the kitchen fell into silence. Damian stayed where he was, one hand resting on the counter, his reflection faint in the polished marble. The air still smelled faintly of tea and something sharp, something out of place. He could hear her footsteps fade above him, quick and uneven, like she was escaping rather than walking away.
He found himself staring at the doorway she had vanished through, his jaw tightening. She looked pathetic, in his opinion. Always slinking around corners, too quiet for her own good, as if she was afraid the walls might judge her. She moved through the Manor like a guest who had overstayed her welcome, and he could not understand why Alfred tolerated it, why he went so far as to defend her.
Damian turned to rinse his cup, watching the water swirl down the drain. He didn’t understand why a civilian, of all people, had become such a point of concern lately. The others spoke about her in hushed tones. Alfred fussed, Bruce brushed it aside, and even Grayson seemed oddly watchful. It made no sense.
She was no fighter. She was no detective. She had no purpose here.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more it irritated him. Alfred’s concern was one thing, but the entire house adjusting its mood around a single person was another. Damian was used to commanding attention through skill, through presence, through fear if he had to. Y/N, on the other hand, did nothing but exist and somehow managed to bend the energy of the Manor around her.
He had not even known she was missing until the following day. The realization had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. They were blood, technically—half-siblings, born of the same tangled history. And if anyone had a right to know what happened to her, it should have been him.
But he had not noticed.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, though he refused to name what it was. Guilt. Frustration. Disinterest. He pushed it aside and looked out the window. The grounds stretched long and empty, the sky growing darker at the edges. Somewhere out there, the world moved at a different pace. Gotham buzzed and burned, and here he stood, surrounded by silence and questions he could not shake.
Damian leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. He told himself it did not matter. That she did not matter. But the curiosity lingered all the same. There was something strange about her, something that did not fit with the quiet, harmless image she tried to project.
It was not anything obvious. More like a faint pull, a wrong note in an otherwise familiar song. Something about the way she looked at people, like she was seeing something they weren’t. Something about the way she carried herself, uneasy yet stubborn, as if she was fighting a battle no one else could see.
Damian frowned, trying to shake the thought, but it stayed with him as he left the kitchen. Maybe Y/N wasn’t just a civilian. Maybe there was more to her than even Alfred realized.
And for the first time, Damian felt a small, unwelcome flicker of curiosity twist beneath his calm.
His history of indifference towards her pushed it back down until another time.
The next morning started quietly. Gotham was gray and wet, light bleeding through the manor’s tall windows in dull stripes. Somewhere below, the faint hum of conversation floated up, Alfred and Bruce, probably.
By midmorning, Bruce had retreated into his office, the door half shut, voice clipped as he spoke into the comm. Tim stood in the doorway, nursing his third cup of coffee.
“She came down to the cave yesterday,” Tim said casually, like mentioning the weather. “Looked like she was sightseeing.”
Bruce paused mid-sentence, looked up once. His eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Y/N?”
“Yeah.”
Bruce hummed in acknowledgment, eyes already dropping back to the papers on his desk.
“Make sure she doesn’t touch anything.”
That was it. No other comment. Not even a hint of interest. Tim rolled his eyes and left, muttering something about misplaced priorities.
By noon, Dick returned from Blüdhaven, shoulders dusted with rain, his smile easy as always. Y/N was surprised to see him standing in the doorway of the living room, jacket slung over his shoulder, casual but sharp in that way that made him feel like a movie scene.
“Hey, you eaten yet?” he asked.
She blinked, closing the book she wasn’t really reading. “Um… not really.”
“Good. I’m starving. Come on, let’s grab something. There’s a diner ten minutes away, Alfred won’t feed me until dinner.”
He grinned, and she found herself agreeing before her brain could remind her that this was weird.
The drive was quiet at first. Rain tapped against the windows, and Y/N watched the blur of Gotham pass by, gray buildings, yellow cabs, puddles reflecting the washed-out sky. She caught her reflection in the window and sighed.
The diner smelled faintly of coffee and grease. The chrome edges of the table caught the pale light filtering through the rain-streaked windows. Dick sat across from her, stirring his mug absently, a faint hum under his breath as if he were trying to fill the silence.
“So,” he said finally, looking up. “How’s the master’s program going?”
Y/N blinked, realizing she hadn’t really been paying attention. “It’s… going,” she said after a beat. “Studying’s fine, I guess. I’m mostly tired.”
He smiled; that easy, polite kind of smile that felt practiced. “I hated studying when I was younger.”
Y/N gives her own polite smile back, “Yeah, dozing off over FEMA manuals is not how I’d like to conduct my free time.”
Dick gave a short laugh, then nodded, like he wanted to keep the conversation alive but didn’t know how. The quiet stretched between them again, broken only by the clatter of dishes and the murmur of other customers.
Y/N stabbed her sandwich with her fork, trying not to cringe at how forced this felt. He was trying, she could see that, but it didn’t make it less awkward. This wasn’t the kind of moment she ever imagined she’d share with Dick Grayson.
He probably never did this with the real Y/N. And now here she was, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, sitting across from a man she used to have a crush on, trying not to think about how surreal it all was.
Dick cleared his throat. “You, uh… like being back at the Manor?”
“It’s quiet,” she said, voice flat. “Different from the city.”
“That’s one word for it.” He grinned faintly. “Sometimes I think the walls in that place could use therapy.”
Y/N chuckled softly despite herself, tracing a pattern on the table with her fingertip. “Guess they’ve seen a lot.”
Before Dick could reply, his phone buzzed. He glanced down, and his expression shifted, the lightness gone in an instant. His whole posture changed, shoulders straightening, eyes sharpening.
“Sorry,” he said, already sliding out of the booth. “Something came up.”
Y/N blinked. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a few bills, and dropped them onto the table. “For the food. Call a cab, alright? I’ve gotta move.”
She stared at him, not sure what to say, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He gave her a small, distracted smile before heading for the door, jacket half on, phone pressed to his ear. The bell above the diner door jingled once and then fell silent.
Y/N sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty seat across from her. The pancakes were half-eaten. His coffee cup still steamed faintly.
She sighed, pushing the bills back toward her side of the table, and waved down the waitress.
“Check, please,” she murmured.
At least he’d sort of tried.
The meal wasn’t bad, but her mood soured with every passing second. She paid, left a tip, and stepped outside. The rain had stopped, but the air felt heavy and cold, the kind that clung to your skin.
She sighed, shoulders slumping. He had tried, awkwardly, yes, but still. The conversation had been stiff, both of them stumbling over small talk about her master’s program. He’d asked how studying was going, and she’d given the most bland answer imaginable. Fine. Busy. Then silence. He’d smiled that easy, practiced smile of his, the one that looked like it belonged on a billboard, but it didn’t make things less uncomfortable.
Now, standing alone on the sidewalk, she wished she’d just stayed home.
Still, she didn’t want to go back yet. She needed air. Something normal. She dug into her bag, pulling out the folded map Aggie had given her. The paper was soft at the creases from how many times she’d opened it. Maybe she’d explore a few blocks, walk off the heaviness that lunch had left behind.
She was tracing a line with her finger when someone brushed against her shoulder. Hard.
“Sorry,” she said automatically, half expecting a rude response.
Instead, there was a pause, and then a smooth, familiar voice.
“Ah, what a coincidence.”
She froze.
It was him, the mugging victim from the alley.
He looked different in daylight, but only slightly. His hair was neatly combed, his dark suit pressed and spotless, and those same glasses, too big for his face, sat perfectly on his nose. They made his eyes seem a little off, magnified just enough to feel unnatural. He smiled warmly, like they were old friends.
“Divine fate,” he chirped. “We meet again.”
Y/N forced a small smile. “Yeah. What are the odds?”
“I owe you dinner,” he went on, clasping his hands behind his back. “For helping me that night.”
“Oh, that’s not—”
He interrupted with a light chuckle. “Please. Don’t be modest.”
“I really shouldn’t,” Y/N said. “I just ate.”
“Then tea,” he countered smoothly. “Or water. Humor me. I insist. It’s not often the universe hands us a second meeting.”
His tone was easy, polite, even charming, but something about it made the back of her neck prickle. Still, after a pause, she sighed and followed him.
The café was tucked between two aging brownstones, a place called Ink & Steam, its shelves stacked high with secondhand books. The smell of espresso and paper filled the air, rich and old, and the low hum of conversation floated beneath a jazz record spinning in the corner.
They sat by the window, where the light was softer and rain was beginning to speckle the glass.
“Do you come here often?” Y/N asked, mostly to fill the silence.
“Sometimes,” he said. “When I want to think. It’s quiet here, and the books keep good company.”
She nodded, not sure what to say.
He tilted his head slightly. “May I ask your name?”
Y/N hesitated for a moment, then said, “Leyla.”
He smiled, clearly pleased. “Leyla,” he repeated, testing the sound of it. “That’s a lovely name. Turkish, isn’t it? It means ‘night.’”
Y/N blinked. “Yeah. Something like that.”
He extended his hand across the table. “Thomas Vale.”
She shook it, his grip firm but too deliberate, like someone copying a gesture they’d seen others do.
When their drinks arrived, Thomas leaned forward, his voice lowering slightly. “You know, Leyla, books are the only things that really outlast us. Not money, not buildings, not names etched in stone. Just words, the marks we leave behind in someone else’s story.”
He gestured to the shelves around them. “These all belonged to someone once. People who wanted to be remembered. Isn’t that fascinating? That something as small as a sentence can make you immortal?”
“Yeah,” Y/N said, her pulse picking up. “It’s… interesting.”
“I want to be like that,” he continued softly. “To leave an imprint. To linger in someone’s memory. The way these stories do.”
Y/N forced a small smile. “That’s… poetic.”
Thomas chuckled under his breath. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just honest. I’d like my name to stick on your page, perhaps. The man you saved.”
The words hung too long between them. His tone was polite, but his eyes didn’t match.
Y/N cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t really keep a list.”
“Then maybe you should start,” he said, still smiling. “Some of us remember kindness very deeply.”
That was her cue to leave.
When she stood, Thomas rose with her, nodding once. “Until next time, Leyla.”
Not if, she noticed. Until.
Outside, the drizzle had turned into a fine mist, catching in her hair as she hurried down the street.
She didn’t look back, but in the window’s reflection, she could see him still sitting there, untouched coffee in front of him, eyes following her until she disappeared around the corner.
For the first few days, Y/N told herself it was a coincidence.
Gotham wasn’t small, but maybe his office or apartment was nearby. Maybe he just liked coffee. Maybe she was being paranoid.
But the second time she saw him, she wasn’t anywhere near that café.
She was at a bookstore downtown, flipping through a fantasy romance when she felt someone watching her. She looked up, and there he was, Thomas Vale, standing by the door with that same too-wide smile.
“Leyla,” he said warmly, as though greeting an old friend. “Fate again.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped. “Hi. Uh… funny running into you here.”
“I could say the same. You have a fondness for books, I see.”
“I guess.” She closed the book and took a step back. “Well, I should…”
He nodded, letting her pass, but as she brushed past him, she could feel his eyes on her all the way out the door.
That night, she locked her window for the first time since moving into the manor.
The third time was worse.
It was raining, and she had stopped at a small market to buy tea, Alfred’s favorite kind, a quiet peace offering after disappearing for hours last week. When she turned to leave, umbrella in hand, she saw him again across the street. No smile this time. Just watching.
She froze, heart hammering.
He didn’t move.
A car passed between them, and when it cleared, he was gone.
Y/N’s throat tightened as she hurried home, drenched by the time she reached the manor gates.
She told herself she was imagining things. Gotham was full of people who looked alike, and Thomas Vale was just one of them.
But then it started happening too often to ignore.
At the bus stop.
Across from the library.
Once, standing by the park entrance while she walked to Aggie’s.
Always at a distance. Always looking directly at her.
It was never enough to call the police. Never close enough to accuse him of anything. But every time she caught his gaze, it felt like a cold hand brushing the back of her neck.
By the end of the week, Y/N stopped going out altogether.
She made excuses to Alfred, saying she was studying or tired. She lingered in her room until the manor went quiet, sometimes peeking through the curtains to make sure no one was standing by the gate.
Her phone buzzed once, a message from an unknown number:
“It’s strange, isn’t it? How fate keeps us near.”
No name. No reply. Just that.
Y/N stared at the screen, heart thudding so loud she could hear it in her ears. She deleted the text immediately, then turned off her phone and sat in the dark, knees pulled up, trying to breathe past the lump in her throat.
When she finally crawled into bed, the shadows along the wall seemed to stretch longer than usual, reaching almost.
And for a flicker of a second, she thought she saw something move just outside the window.
Chapter 3: My World is Shrinking
Chapter Text
It had been two weeks since Y/N saved that man in the alley, and one week since she’d stopped stepping foot past the manor gates.
Her world had shrunk to the size of her bedroom.
The curtains stayed drawn. The lights dim. The only time she left her room was to grab tea or a sandwich when she was sure no one else was in the kitchen. It was easier that way, to avoid the looks, the awkward greetings, the sense that she didn’t belong.
She told herself she was just being cautious. Careful. Sensible. But the truth was more straightforward.
She was scared.
The message on her phone had been the breaking point. The feeling of his eyes, of something following her every time she left the manor. The way the city itself seemed to close in around her.
So she did what any rational person would do: she cut herself off.
She broke her phone first, deliberately dropping it on the marble floor until the screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. When Alfred heard, she put on her best embarrassed smile and muttered something about clumsiness. Then she asked, almost offhandedly, if she could get a new one. New number, too. “In case of spam calls,” she’d said. Alfred had given her a curious look but agreed.
The new phone sat on her nightstand, turned off most of the time.
She didn’t want to hear from anyone.
She’d called her old landlord the next day. Said there was a family emergency and she had to vacate immediately. The man was sympathetic but firm; she’d lose the deposit, and by contract, she owed three months’ rent.
Y/N didn’t care.
She wired the money and hung up before he could ask questions. Later that night, she found someone on a tenant board who agreed to take over the lease. Problem solved.
The apartment was gone. Her number was gone. Anything the previous Wayne girl had worked hard for, neatly erased.
Now there was only the manor.
And even here, the silence pressed too close.
When she passed a mirror, she avoided her own reflection. It was easier not to look at herself, not to see the dark circles beneath her eyes or the constant, nervous tension in her shoulders.
Sometimes she swore she heard things, faint movements in the hall when she knew she was alone, a soft creak near her door, a whisper that might have been her imagination.
She told herself it was an old house. Ancient pipes. Drafty walls.
Every sound became suspect. Every flicker of movement made her breath hitch.
Even the manor, with all its marble and chandeliers, felt smaller now.
Every time she looked toward the window, the shadows seemed a little darker. A little heavier.
She’d chosen this. She reminded herself of that every day.
Staying in a house where everyone ignored her was better than walking out into the city where someone, or something, was waiting.
Better than dying.
It had been almost three weeks since Y/N had truly gone outside. The manor’s silence was a strange kind of punishment, a living thing that wrapped around her until even the sound of her own voice felt too loud. Her days blurred into one another, marked only by the dull hum of her laptop and the hollow ring of professors calling her name during online lectures.
She still did her coursework. Still wrote papers and logged into seminars. Still smiled when classmates joked over video calls. But when her screen went dark, the smile always vanished with it.
Alfred had noticed the shift long before anyone else. The first few days, he had assumed she was simply tired, that the chaos of city life, of moving, of juggling graduate work had worn her down. But the longer he watched her slip through the manor’s halls like a ghost, the more uneasy he became.
She barely went to the kitchen anymore, barely ventured past the library. Her meals were smaller, her laughter gone entirely.
“Perhaps lunch out might do you some good,” Alfred had tried one afternoon, his tone light, hopeful. “The bistro on Fifth, the one you swore had the best pastries in Gotham.”
Y/N didn’t even look away from her laptop. “Maybe next time, Alfred. I have class.”
He smiled kindly. “You’ve had class three times this week.”
“I’m ahead,” she said softly, the words brittle.
The next morning, he tried again. “You could come into the city with me. I’ll need help with a few errands. You can choose the music, perhaps?”
Y/N hesitated; she always used to insist on picking the music, forcing him to listen to her playlists full of old rock, weird niche bands, and dramatic film scores. But now, she shook her head. “I have an assignment due soon. Sorry.”
When Alfred left her doorway, he sighed quietly. Y/N had always been full of restless energy, the kind that made her insist on tagging along to do the groceries or spontaneously convince him to stop for pastries or horror movies. Seeing her so small, so withdrawn, stirred something heavy in him.
That night, he took his concern to Bruce.
“She hasn’t gone out in weeks,” Alfred said, standing at the base of the Batcave’s stairs. “Not even to the gardens. I know when something’s wrong.”
Bruce didn’t look up from his screens, eyes scanning data. “She’s adjusting, Alfred. She’s taking her courses, isn’t she?”
“She’s existing,” Alfred corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Bruce’s reply was a distracted hum, the kind that meant he was listening but not hearing.
Alfred exhaled sharply through his nose. “You used to notice these things before they got worse.”
That, at least, made Bruce pause. His eyes flickered toward Alfred, tired, but unmoved. “If you think she needs company, maybe ask one of the boys to check in.”
The sound of keys clacking filled the silence again. Alfred said nothing more. He’d fought this battle too many times before, seen too many bruises passed off as training accidents, too many sleepless nights ignored in favor of another case.
But Alfred wasn’t the only one listening.
In the far corner of the cave, Tim lifted his eyes from his own screen. He’d been analyzing encrypted data, half-focused until Alfred’s voice cut through the monotone hum of machinery.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, but his mind caught on the conversation.
Y/N not leaving the house.
Fear.
A month.
He stored it away like a note in one of his case logs. He wasn’t close to her, never had been, hell, he thought she was Alfred’s apprentice at first - but patterns fascinated him. And anything that broke a routine was worth investigating, at least in his world.
The next morning, Dick found Alfred waiting for him in the kitchen, pouring coffee. “If you’re not on shift tonight, I’d like you to take Miss Y/N out to eat. Somewhere nice, somewhere quiet. She needs a change of scenery.”
Dick leaned on the counter, brow raised. “She’s been that bad?”
Alfred’s eyes softened. “She’s been… unlike herself.”
Dick nodded, a flicker of concern crossing his face. He had always tried to bridge the gaps between his siblings, the quiet ones, the angry ones, the ones who never asked for help. But Y/N had always been the hardest to read. He hadn’t seen much of her lately, either, though when he did, she’d smile politely and retreat just as quickly.
That afternoon, he caught her in the hallway. She was holding a mug of coffee, her posture slumped, eyes tired behind her glasses.
“Hey,” Dick greeted, with that trademark warmth he always carried. “Alfred says you’ve been hiding out in the manor. Thought I’d check if Gotham scared you off already.”
Y/N gave a quiet laugh, short and unconvincing. “No, just… a lot of coursework.”
He tilted his head. “You sure? Because I was thinking of grabbing lunch. You, me, the city, maybe some sunlight. Could do you good.”
Her fingers tightened around the mug. She hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet his; kind, concerned, but far too perceptive. “Thanks, Dick. But I think I’ll pass today.”
He smiled, undeterred. “Come on, it’s lunch, not a stakeout. I’ll even pay.”
“I’m fine, really,” she said, taking a step back. “Just tired.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Dick’s smile faded slightly, his gaze lingering on her face — the dark circles beneath her eyes, the slump in her shoulders, the way she flinched when footsteps echoed from down the hall.
“Alright,” he said finally, tone softer now. “But if you change your mind, I’m around.”
Y/N nodded quickly, grateful for the out. “Thanks.”
She retreated down the hall before he could say anything else. Her door closed quietly, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the manor.
Dick stood there a moment longer, staring after her. There was something wrong, something he couldn’t name. The way she’d looked at him wasn’t irritation or distance. It was fear.
When he returned to the kitchen, Alfred didn’t have to ask how it went. He could tell by the heaviness in Dick’s expression.
“She said no,” Dick murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t even look like she wanted to be asked.”
Alfred nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “I see.”
He turned away, pouring tea with steady hands. But his mind was racing.
Something had frightened that girl, and she wasn’t ready to say what.
And Alfred Pennyworth had learned long ago that silence in this house was rarely harmless.
It was late when Dick came down to the cave again, still in jeans and a gray hoodie, his hair damp from the drizzle outside. Tim was the only one there, hunched over one of the secondary terminals, scanning reports and adjusting footage from Gotham’s East End.
Dick dropped heavily onto the steps, his sigh echoing in the cavern.
“She brushed me off again,” he muttered, half to himself.
Tim didn’t look up. “Y/N?”
“Yeah.” Dick rubbed the back of his neck. “Alfred asked me to take her out. Lunch, coffee, anything. I figured it’d be nice, you know? She looked awful the last time I saw her. I thought getting out might help.”
Tim kept typing. “And?”
“She said she was tired. Closed the door before I even finished asking.”
Tim didn’t respond, but that flicker of curiosity he’d buried the other day crept back in.
Bruce had brushed off Alfred’s concerns. He always did when things couldn’t be quantified, when there wasn’t a criminal or data trail to follow. But Tim had been around the manor long enough to recognize patterns. When Alfred started asking for help and Bruce didn’t listen, things tended to unravel.
Before he could say anything, footsteps echoed from the far end of the cave. Jason strolled in, still half in his gear, helmet tucked under one arm. He caught the tail end of the conversation and smirked.
“Let me guess. Golden boy here’s upset because Little Miss Civilian doesn’t want to hang out with him?”
Dick looked up sharply. “She’s not just some random civilian, Jason. She’s family.”
Jason snorted, leaning against the workbench beside the Batmobile. “Please. Civilians have their own lives, their own problems. We don’t belong in that world, and they don’t belong in ours. You trying to play big brother of the year isn’t going to change that.”
Dick stood. “You ever think maybe that’s the problem? We shut everyone out until there’s nothing left but the job. And now she’s stuck in this house full of ghosts, trying to pretend it’s normal.”
Jason shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it? Take her shooting? Talk about my fun post-death hobbies? She doesn’t need that, Dick. She needs space.”
“She needs someone to give a damn!” Dick snapped, the words cutting sharper than he meant them to. “Alfred’s worried, Bruce won’t listen, and the rest of you are acting like it’s not your concern.”
Jason’s smirk faltered, just slightly, but he recovered fast. “You don’t get it. Civilians don’t think like us. They don’t live like us. You can’t just swoop in and play the caring brother because it makes you feel better about all the time you weren’t here.”
Dick’s jaw tightened. “At least I’m trying.”
“Trying doesn’t mean fixing,” Jason shot back. “You want to help her? Stop pretending you can relate. You live in Blüdhaven half the time. What do you really know about her?”
The air grew thick between them, neither willing to back down.
Tim finally looked up from his screen. “He’s got a point,” he said quietly, and both of them turned toward him.
Jason’s eyebrow lifted. “See? Kid gets it.”
Tim leaned back in his chair, his voice calm and analytical. “You can’t force her to open up. If she’s shutting down, it’s for a reason. But…” He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the darkened stairwell that led back to the manor. “Alfred’s not wrong. Something’s off.”
Dick ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I just don’t want her to feel like she’s alone here.”
Jason crossed his arms. “She’s not alone. She’s just smart enough to keep to herself.”
Tim glanced at them both before turning back to his monitor. He didn’t say it aloud, but that unease in his chest was growing. The manor was predictable; their dysfunction had a rhythm, but this felt different—a break in the pattern.
Maybe Jason was right, maybe she just needed time.
Or maybe, Tim thought, as he reopened the surveillance feed from a case he was following two days ago, a serial killer on the loose, there was a reason she was staying hidden.
The manor was quiet that morning, wrapped in a kind of heavy stillness that made every creak and breath sound too loud. Y/N padded into the kitchen, barefoot, hair pulled up, eyes half-open from another night of restless sleep. She needed caffeine, something normal, something that reminded her she was still human.
The coffee machine sputtered to life, filling the silence with a low hum. The smell was comforting, familiar, but it wasn’t enough to settle the unease in her chest.
Footsteps broke the quiet. Heavy ones.
Jason.
He walked in looking like he hadn’t slept, wearing a scowl that matched the dark circles under his eyes. His jacket was still dusty from patrol, his hair uncombed, and the way he moved carried an undercurrent of tension, like he hadn’t fully stopped fighting even though he was home.
Y/N froze mid-sip.
She’d seen him around the manor before, but mornings were dangerous—he was unpredictable then, raw, like something wild that hadn’t decided whether to bite.
She used to like him. Used to admire him, even.
Jason had been her favorite Robin, sure, her massive crush on Nightwing was nothing to laugh about, or maybe it was, but Jason was the one who felt the most human out of all of them; brash, funny, messy, the kind of hero who wasn’t clean-cut or untouchable.
But standing here now, watching the way his eyes flicked over her with irritation and barely disguised suspicion, she realized how wrong she’d been.
This Jason wasn’t charmingly reckless. He was real—too real. Too sharp. Too feral.
And he looked at her like she was something he didn’t trust.
“Morning,” he muttered. Y/N was surprised he even spoke to her at all.
“Morning,” she said, careful, quiet.
He didn’t move. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You planning to stay holed up in your room forever?”
The words hit like a slap. “What?”
Jason tilted his head. “You heard me. Alfred’s been worried sick, and Dick keeps trying to drag you out of whatever cave you’re hiding in. You barely talk to anyone, won’t answer texts. What’s your deal?”
Y/N set her mug down a little too hard. “I don’t have a deal. I’m just tired.”
Jason snorted. “You’ve been tired for weeks.”
“Maybe I needed a break,” she snapped.
“From what? Sitting around doing nothing?” His tone was biting, casual in a cruel way. “You’ve got everything handed to you. You don’t even have to work for it. Meanwhile, Alfred’s running himself ragged worrying about you.”
Her pulse spiked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure I do,” Jason said, pushing off the counter. “You’re bored. You’re moping. You’ve got a mansion to yourself, an entire staff, and you act like you’re in hell. You’ve got it easy, sweetheart.”
The word made her flinch. “Don’t call me that.”
He smirked. “Then stop acting like a kid.”
Her stomach twisted, anger rising fast. She could feel all the sleepless nights, the paranoia, the guilt, the weight of being stuck in a world that wasn’t hers, all of it bubbling up at once.
“You think you know me?” she said, her voice shaking. “You don’t know anything about me. You think just because I live here, that I belong here? You think that’s easy?”
Jason’s expression didn’t soften. “You’re the one making it hard. Nobody’s asking you to do anything, but you act like you’re carrying the world on your back.”
“Maybe that’s because none of you see past yourselves,” she shot back. “You all think the world revolves around your trauma. God forbid someone else doesn’t fit into your perfect little system.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “You done?”
“Not even close,” she hissed. “You come in here every day acting like you’re better than everyone else, like no one can possibly understand your pain. You died, Jason, we get it. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat people like garbage.”
The air snapped with tension.
Jason’s eyes darkened, but his voice stayed cold. “You don’t have the slightest idea what I’ve been through.”
“And you don’t have the slightest idea what I’m going through,” she threw back, her throat burning.
They were standing too close now, neither willing to back down.
Jason’s voice dropped low, almost a growl. “Then maybe start talking instead of acting like a ghost.”
“I don’t owe you anything!”
“Then stop wasting everyone’s time!”
“Maybe I would if any of you acted like I existed!”
“Maybe you’d exist if you acted like part of this family instead of a stranger squatting in it!”
The words hit hard enough that she froze. Her vision blurred for a second, the kitchen spinning, her breath coming out too fast.
Before she could say anything else, a voice cut through the air.
“Enough!”
Both turned. Dick stood in the doorway, eyes sharp, tension radiating from him. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Jason muttered something under his breath, shaking his head. “Ask her.”
“I didn’t start it,” Y/N said immediately, though her voice was smaller now, the adrenaline fading into something heavier.
“Doesn’t matter who started it,” Dick said, stepping between them. “Both of you need to calm down before Alfred hears.”
Jason scoffed. “He already knows she’s losing it.”
“Jason,” Dick warned.
Jason shot Y/N one last look, cold, cutting. Then he grabbed his jacket from the counter and stalked out of the room, the sound of his boots echoing down the hall.
Silence fell again, thick and stifling.
Y/N’s hands were trembling. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, every word from Jason replaying in her mind like a bruise she couldn’t stop touching.
Dick sighed softly, running a hand through his hair. “What’s going on with you, Y/N? You’ve been... different lately.”
She swallowed hard, staring at the half-finished cup of coffee. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Y/N.”
She shook her head, her voice low. “Dick, you barely knew my name a month ago. Drop it.”
Then she brushed past him, leaving the kitchen behind. The hallway felt colder than before, emptier somehow.
She didn’t stop until she was back in her room, door closed, lights off.
The quiet felt safer than any conversation could.
But even then, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Jason had been right about one thing.
She was turning into a ghost.
Y/N told herself she was done hiding.
Two weeks of paranoia had eaten her alive, each shadow whispering her name, every creak of the manor stretching into something menacing. She’d smashed her old phone just to stop waiting for a message that never came. She’d lost an apartment, a deposit, her nerve.
And still, every night, she dreamed of a man with a too-pleasant voice and a stare that didn’t blink enough.
But she couldn’t let him own her. Not anymore.
So she got dressed, jeans, hoodie, hair up, and tucked the small can of pepper spray into her pocket. The one Alfred had slipped in weeks ago when he noticed her unease. She’d rolled her eyes at the time, but now it felt like armor. She turned her phone’s camera on, hit record, and set it to face the open zipper of her bag. Proof, she told herself, just in case.
Wayne Manor’s doors closed behind her with a sound that echoed too loudly. The air outside was sharp and alive. Her hands were trembling, but she didn’t stop walking.
By the time she reached Ink and Steam, her heartbeat had steadied.
The bell over the door chimed gently, and the smell of roasted beans and rain-soaked paper hit her. Everything was exactly how she remembered it: students tapping at laptops, murmurs, the hum of the espresso machine. Safe. Normal.
She picked a table near the back and ordered a latte. She watched the door. She waited.
No Thomas.
She stayed an hour, then two. Her coffee cooled, and her shoulders slowly loosened. The tightness in her chest began to ease. Maybe he’d moved on. Maybe she wasn’t interesting anymore. Maybe this whole nightmare was over.
By the end of the week, she started to believe it.
She went grocery shopping with a hood up and sunglasses on. Took short walks outside. Even stayed up late one night watching the city lights from her window, daring the shadows to move.
They didn’t.
And that small victory made her bold.
So when Alfred mentioned a downtown bakery he liked, La Chanterelle, a quiet little place with good croissants and terrible parking. She decided she’d go, perhaps a peace offering, she thought, something sweet to make up for worrying him.
The bell above the door jingled when she stepped in, and the smell of butter and sugar wrapped around her. The shop was warm, lit with soft yellow light. Customers chuckled at small tables, powdered sugar dusting the air.
For the first time in weeks, she smiled without forcing it.
She ordered a small box of pastries and leaned against the counter while they packed them. Her phone buzzed with a notification, a school update, and she found herself thinking how absurdly normal it felt.
And then a voice came from behind her.
“Leyla?”
Her muscles went rigid. The sound sliced through the hum of chatter like glass.
She turned slowly.
Thomas was standing a few feet away, holding a small paper bag, the corners neatly folded. His smile was polite, familiar — the same one she’d seen in the bookstore weeks ago.
“I thought that was you,” he said easily, like they were old friends meeting by accident. “It’s been a while.”
Her throat felt dry. “Yeah,” she managed, forcing a small, practiced smile. “I’ve been busy.”
He chuckled. “Busy’s good. Better than disappearing completely.”
Something in the way he said it made her pulse jump. She clutched the strap of her bag tighter, her mind racing. Don’t show fear. Stay calm.
Thomas glanced at the pastry display, pretending to study it. “You always struck me as more of a coffee person than a dessert one. Guess I was wrong.”
Y/N’s mouth went dry. “What can I say? I like sugar.”
“Of course.” His gaze flicked toward her. Sharp, precise. “I feel the same, Leyla.”
She hated the way he said the name, slow, deliberate, the L curling like a smirk.
“I… didn’t think you’d remember me,” she said carefully.
“How could I forget?” His tone softened, almost fond. “It’s not every day someone saves your life.”
He took a small step closer. Not enough to alarm the crowd around them, but enough that she could smell his cologne again; subtle spice, faintly sweet, like old paper and cedar.
“You know,” he went on, “I thought about you after that. A lot. About how strange it was that a stranger would help me. Especially in a rotten city like Gotham. About how certain things happen for a reason. How we keep meeting.”
Her heartbeat thundered in her chest. She nodded vaguely, her mind screaming leave, leave, leave.
“Well,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone, “it was nice running into you, but I have to…”
Thomas tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “Leyla,” he said softly, “is that really what you want me to call you?”
The words landed like a blow.
Every instinct in her body froze.
Her fake name, the one she’d given him without thinking, had become something fragile, a thin veil between her and him. And now, with a few quiet syllables, he’d torn a hole straight through it.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He smiled again, gentle but wrong. “I always thought names were like stories,” he murmured. “The ones people choose for themselves say so much more than the ones they’re given.”
Her stomach turned. “I think you have me confused with someone else. That is my real name.”
“Maybe.” His eyes glinted behind his glasses. “But then again… maybe not.”
The barista called her order number. Y/N nearly tripped over herself to grab the pastry box, fumbling for her wallet.
“Have a nice day,” she said too quickly, clutching the bag like a shield.
Thomas stepped aside with an elegant, slight motion, letting her pass. “You too, Leyla,” he said softly. “Or whatever name you’re wearing today.”
Her breath caught.
She didn’t look back. Not once.
Outside, the cold air hit her face like a slap. Her legs moved on autopilot, each step faster than the last, until she turned a corner and leaned against the nearest wall, gasping.
The world spun slightly. The sound of the city —car horns, footsteps, and laughter —blurred into a distant hum.
She reached into her bag with shaking hands, fumbling for her phone. The recording was still going. The red timer blinked steadily at the corner of the screen.
Proof.
But proof of what?
He hadn’t touched her and hadn’t said her real name.
Yet the way he said Leyla, that mocking edge, told her he knew.
Knew she’d lied. Knew she was scared.
And worse, he knew he could still find her.
Her reflection stared back at her in the dark shop window, pale, trembling, small.
Thomas hadn’t needed to follow her home to remind her he was close.
He’d already gotten under her skin.
The ride back to the manor was a blur.
Y/N didn’t remember calling the cab, or the drive through the long stretch of trees, or even handing over the fare. All she knew was that her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
The manor loomed ahead, distant and cold, the kind of quiet that never felt safe anymore.
She steadied her breathing as she walked through the front doors, forcing her voice into something normal when Alfred appeared in the hall.
“Miss Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm but weary, as though already bracing for another half-truth. “You’ve been gone for quite a while. I was beginning to worry.”
Y/N smiled, or tried to. Her lips barely moved. “I just went into the city,” she said, holding up the pastry box like a peace offering. “I brought you something.”
Alfred’s expression softened a fraction, though his eyes flicked over her with that unerring precision only he possessed. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, taking the box from her. “Though I do wish you’d mentioned your plans beforehand. You’ve been rather elusive lately.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. She looked down, pretending to untie her shoes. “Yeah. Sorry. I just… needed some air.”
“Air, or distraction?” Alfred asked lightly.
The question cut closer than he probably intended. Y/N froze for half a second, then laughed under her breath. “Bit of both, I guess.”
Alfred didn’t press. He simply nodded and motioned toward the dining room. “In that case, you’ll join me for tea. You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” Y/N said quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”
She turned before he could argue, muttering something about finishing an assignment. Her voice wavered near the end.
Alfred watched her go, the pastry box still in his hands.
Upstairs, Y/N shut her door softly and leaned against it, her breath shuddering out in slow, uneven gasps. The silence of the manor closed around her, thick and stifling.
Her phone sat on her desk, screen still black, the recording stopped. She had barely managed to click record while sitting at the table, waiting for her order. She knew she should delete it, listening again would only make it worse, but her fingers hovered anyway.
She pressed play.
Thomas’s voice filtered through the small speaker, calm and quiet.
“You know,” he said, the faint hum of the café behind him, “I always thought names were like stories. The ones people choose for themselves say so much more than the ones they’re given.”
Y/N stopped the playback, her stomach twisting. The audio distorted for a moment, the sound warping like something whispering beneath his words. She pressed pause, then shook her head, convincing herself it was nothing. Just noise. Just nerves.
She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the phone tight enough for her knuckles to ache.
From downstairs, she heard the faint clatter of porcelain, Alfred setting the pastries out, maybe humming softly under his breath like he always did when the house felt too big.
Y/N tried to breathe in time with the sound.
In. Out.
Everything’s fine. You’re safe. You’re home.
But the shadow in her chest refused to lift.
When she finally looked out her window, the night had deepened, the world outside framed in gray and blue. For a moment, she thought she saw someone standing by the treeline near the edge of the property, but when she blinked, the shape was gone.
Just trees.
Just wind.
Just paranoia.
She turned away from the window, but her reflection lingered there, pale, wide-eyed, and small.
And behind her, in the faint reflection of the glass, something darker seemed to move.
Alfred had been with the Waynes long enough to recognize when someone was lying, and Y/N’s smile had been brittle. Her hands trembled even when she tried to hide them behind her back, and her eyes never quite met his.
He let her go, of course. He always did. But the unease that took root in his chest refused to settle.
That night, while the manor drifted into its usual half-silence, Alfred stood by the cave’s entrance. The hum of computers echoed faintly from below. He waited until he saw Tim’s reflection flicker across one of the monitors before speaking.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred began softly.
Tim didn’t look up right away. “Something wrong?”
Alfred’s hesitation lasted only a moment. “Miss Y/N went into the city this afternoon. She seemed… disturbed upon returning. I have reason to believe she may have been followed or, encountered someone unsettling.”
Tim swiveled in his chair. “Unsettling how?”
“I’m not certain,” Alfred said, lowering his voice. “But I’d like to be sure. The shop she went to was La Chanterelle. Would you be able to access nearby CCTV?”
Tim sighed, rubbing his eyes. “You’re asking me to invade her privacy, Alfred.”
“I’m asking you to make sure she’s safe,” Alfred corrected, tone firmer than usual.
That, at least, earned a nod.
Tim turned back to his console, fingers flying across the keyboard. Within minutes, half a dozen grainy feeds filled the monitors, the warm, golden tones of the pastry café flickering across each one.
“There,” Tim muttered. “Timestamp matches when she said she was out.”
Alfred stepped closer, gaze fixed on the screen as the footage rolled. There was Y/N, seated across from a man in a dark suit. Mid-forties, maybe older. His glasses caught the light, but the rest of his face…
Tim paused the video, leaned forward, and frowned.
The overhead lights shifted oddly; not flickering, exactly, but warping. Shadows from the hanging lamps stretched and recoiled as if caught in a slow tide. Each time the man moved, the space around his head seemed to blur, like the lens couldn’t focus on him.
“Footage quality’s too low, no sound,” Tim muttered, though it sounded more like an excuse. “Might be compression artifacts.”
Alfred said nothing. His eyes stayed on the screen.
They watched Y/N’s body language, the stiff posture, the forced smile, the nervous glance toward the door. The man leaned in once, too close, and her hands tightened on the edge of the table. Moments later, she stood abruptly, fumbling to gather her things before leaving.
The man didn’t move. He just sat there, head tilted slightly, until she was gone. The camera caught a faint reflection in the café window beside him, a dark shape behind the glass, twisting as if following her retreat.
Tim rewound, zoomed in, and froze the frame. The distortion worsened with each enhancement until the man’s face was almost entirely lost in static shadow.
“Looks like he’s wearing something reflective,” Tim said slowly, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Could explain the glare.”
“Reflective?” Alfred asked. “Or deliberate?”
Tim hesitated before replying. “I’ll send you the file.”
He transferred the footage to a drive, then handed it over. His expression was neutral, but his eyes betrayed something, curiosity mixed with unease.
“I’ll run it through some filters later,” Tim said. “See if I can get a better image.”
Alfred nodded, pocketing the drive carefully. “Thank you, Master Timothy.”
As he turned to leave, Tim called out quietly, “Alfred… if something’s wrong with her, do you think she’d tell us?”
Alfred stopped. His voice came out softer than before. “No,” he said simply. “She would not.”
When Alfred left, Tim turned back to the monitor, the screens bathing him in a pale, flickering light. Everyone else had gone for the night, either on patrol or deep diving into case files. It left Tim with nothing but the low buzz of machines and the faint drip of water echoing through the cave.
He told himself he wasn’t obsessing. He was just checking. Making sure the café footage was as useless as it seemed.
The video flickered onto the monitor. The same footage he showed Alfred. Y/N sat by the window, a coffee cup half-raised. Across from her sat the man.
That man who turned Y/N to stone as soon as their eyes met.
The footage was too grainy to tell anything. Every time Tim tried to sharpen the frame, the face blurred further. The café lights hit strangely, flattening the man’s features until they became little more than shadow and outline.
He adjusted the exposure. No change. The distortion stayed centered on the stranger, like the camera itself refused to look at him.
Tim leaned closer. His reflection warped in the screen’s glare, his tired eyes mirrored back at him.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s try spectral filters.”
Lines of data streamed down the screen, translating color to temperature. Y/N showed up clearly, warm and human. The man across from her barely registered. The shape flickered in cold blues, at times fading entirely from the scan.
Tim frowned. He checked the timestamp. The distortion only worsened the longer the footage went on, the pixels warping more each time Y/N smiled, as if reacting to her movement.
Something about that bothered him.
He scrubbed through the video again. Halfway through, the café lights flickered. For a fraction of a second, the camera caught something. An outline too tall, too still, seated just behind the man. But when Tim rewound, the shape wasn’t there.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, trying to convince himself he had imagined it.
Peripheral illusions, that’s all: long nights, tired eyes.
Still, his pulse wouldn’t settle.
He hit pause on the final frame. Y/N stood, coffee unfinished, bag slung over her shoulder. The man’s head was tilted toward her, his face still lost to distortion. For a moment, the light from the window caught in the glass, reflecting the two of them.
Tim thought he saw movement in that reflection, as if someone else were shifting just behind the glass.
He blinked, and it was gone.
He sat back, rubbing his eyes. “Glare,” he whispered to himself. “Just glare.”
The monitor hummed faintly. The static from the paused video filled the silence, a low hiss that started to crawl beneath his skin. He muted it, saved the file, and queued it for encryption. When he did, a brief flicker ran through the corner of the screen.
A shadow, small, quick, meaningless, crossed his own reflection.
He turned sharply, but the cave behind him was empty.
Tim exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. His rational mind caught up to him, cataloguing the obvious: the movement of the bats, the shifting lights from the computers, the sound of water dripping behind him.
Perfectly normal things.
Still, he powered off the console and backed up the footage to an external drive, tucking it into his pocket. The habit was automatic. Caution. Redundancy.
When he looked back at the monitor one last time, his own reflection seemed slightly misaligned, as if lagging half a second behind his movement.
He stared at it until the screen went dark.
Then he turned off the lights and left the cave, pretending the chill following him up the stairs wasn’t real.
Maybe he needed a nap.
Chapter 4: A Note for Me?
Chapter Text
The kitchen felt too full the moment Y/N walked in.
Jason was leaning back against the counter, coffee mug in hand, one boot propped against the cabinet. Dick sat at the island with a plate of toast he hadn’t touched, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. The quiet wasn’t comfortable; it was the kind of silence that thrummed under the skin, electric and suffocating.
Y/N hesitated at the doorway before stepping in, ignoring the two altogether.
Neither cared to start a conversation anyway.
Jason’s eyes flicked up just long enough to acknowledge she was there before returning to his coffee. Dick gave her a brief, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It felt worse than being ignored.
She moved to the fridge, pretending she didn’t notice the tension, pretending she didn’t care. The fridge hummed, the coffee machine sputtered, the clock ticked, each noise sharp against the silence.
When Alfred came in, adjusting his cufflinks, the atmosphere seemed to lighten for a moment. But Y/N could feel the weight still pressing down on the back of her neck.
“Good morning,” Alfred said smoothly. “Miss Y/N, might I have a word?”
She blinked, holding the orange juice carton halfway out of the fridge. “Uh… sure?”
Alfred’s tone was calm, but there was something under it, something careful. “Who was the gentleman you met at the café yesterday?”
The carton slipped slightly in her grip. “…What?”
“The man,” Alfred clarified, stepping closer, eyes soft but concerned. “The one you spoke with. Who was he?”
“I… how do you know about that?” she asked, voice rising slightly.
Jason looked up now, alert. Dick straightened in his seat.
Alfred folded his hands. “Tim and I checked the CCTV footage. You seemed uneasy when you left.”
Y/N froze. Then: “You what?”
Jason whistled low under his breath. Dick frowned.
Alfred continued, “We only wanted to make sure you were safe, my dear. You appeared—”
“You had no right!” she snapped, slamming the fridge door shut. The sound made Jason flinch and Dick sit forward. “You can’t just… just spy on me like that!”
“Spy?” Alfred’s composure wavered, just a fraction. “Miss Y/N, we were concerned. You should have told us who you were meeting.”
“I didn’t need to tell you anything!”
“Perhaps not,” Alfred said tightly, “but it would have spared us quite a bit of worry…”
Jason’s voice cut through, sharp and low. “Hey. Don’t talk to him like that.”
“Jason—” Dick warned, but Jason ignored him, setting his mug down with a hard clink.
“She’s losing it because someone actually gives a damn? Real mature.”
“Stay out of it,” Y/N hissed.
“Make me,” Jason shot back, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, not mocking, but defensive, ready for a fight.
“Jason!” Alfred barked, but the tension had already snapped.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Y/N threw back, voice shaking. “Everyone in this house, you all think you can just… watch people, monitor them, control them!”
Jason scoffed, pushing off the counter. “Oh, cry me a river. You’re living in a mansion, being fed by Alfred Pennyworth himself, and you’re complaining about too much attention?”
“Jason…” Dick started again.
“No,” Jason said, pointing toward Y/N. “She needs to hear this. You think you’ve got it rough? You’re not out there getting shot at. You’re not patching yourself up in a filthy alley while Alfred’s praying you make it back in one piece.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of this family!” Y/N shouted.
“Then stop acting like a brat when people try to protect you!”
“Enough!” Alfred’s voice cracked through the room like a thunderclap, louder than anyone had ever heard from him.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Dick stood, trying to play mediator, hands raised. “Okay, everyone needs to calm down before we say something we regret-”
“Oh, don’t start with your therapy voice,” Jason snapped. “You’re the one who told me to check in on her in the first place!”
“I told you to talk to her, not interrogate her!” Dick shouted back.
“Could’ve fooled me!”
“Boys!” Alfred’s voice rose again, but it was too late; the argument had splintered into chaos.
Jason and Dick were talking over each other, voices overlapping. Alfred was scolding both of them at once, trying to maintain control that was slipping fast. Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears; it felt like the walls were closing in.
“Everyone’s watching me… following me… like I’m some experiment!” Y/N yelled, voice breaking. “You don’t know me! You don’t even want to!”
“Miss Y/N,-” Alfred tried, but she was already moving.
She pushed back from the counter, chair legs screeching across the tile, and stormed out.
“Let her go,” Dick said quietly as Jason started to move. His tone was tired now, drained. “You’ve done enough.”
Jason scoffed but didn’t argue.
The slam of her bedroom door echoed through the manor. The silence that followed was thick, raw, and ugly.
Alfred’s hand trembled slightly as he set his tea down. “You two…” His voice was sharp with disappointment. “Have done this family no favors this morning.”
Dick sighed, rubbing at his temples. Jason said nothing.
Upstairs, Y/N collapsed against her door, sliding to the floor. Her breath came in shaky bursts.
She didn’t want to cry, but she couldn’t stop it.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to lose her temper. Alfred had only been worried, and she’d screamed at him. Jason had only… been Jason. And she’d exploded.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
She didn’t belong here. Not in this house full of ghosts and legends, not in this story that wasn’t hers. Alfred’s kindness wasn’t hers to claim. Dick’s patience wasn’t infinite. Jason’s anger was real. Too real.
She wanted her world back.
A knock came at the door.
She sniffed, turning away. “Yeah?”
“Hey,” Dick’s voice came, quiet, careful. “It’s me.”
The door creaked open. He stepped in, leaning on the frame.
Y/N didn’t look up, pretending to scroll on her phone.
He hesitated. “Jason’s an idiot.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
“He didn’t mean what he said,” Dick went on, his voice low, gentle. “He just… doesn’t know how to deal with fear unless it’s someone bleeding out in front of him.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she murmured.
“Okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to.”
He lingered a moment longer, eyes flicking to her tear-streaked face, before quietly closing the door behind him.
When he left, the silence returned, thicker this time, wrapping around her like fog.
She didn’t know how much longer she could stand being in this house.
Tim sat at the main console, posture tight, blue light reflecting in his eyes. The footage from the café replayed again and again, the same warped blur of the man’s face, the same slithering darkness that shouldn’t have been possible.
Jason leaned against the nearest support beam, arms crossed. Dick stood beside him, still restless from the chaos upstairs.
Tim’s voice broke the silence. “It’s not compression. The data’s fine. This isn’t corruption, it’s something else.”
“Or,” Jason said, his tone cutting through the air, “it’s just a crap Gotham café camera. Take your pick.”
Tim ignored him, zooming back in on the footage. The shadow shifted in unnatural rhythm, darker than any normal shade of light. Even Barbara sounded uneasy as she spoke through the comm. “I’ve worked hundreds of surveillance cases, Tim. This… doesn’t make sense. The light’s acting like it’s drawn to him. It’s absorbing rather than reflecting. That’s not how shadow physics work.”
Jason raised a brow. “So we’re saying what, he’s allergic to lighting fixtures?”
Barbara sighed. “Jason.”
Her voice sharpened, losing its usual playfulness. “You three need to take this seriously. A young woman feels unsafe. Someone is following her, and now that person doesn’t even register correctly on video. You can roll your eyes all you want, but if this were me, or Steph, or Cass, you’d already be tearing Gotham apart looking for him.”
Jason shifted slightly, his expression hard to read. “You know that’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth,” Barbara replied evenly. “You’re all so used to seeing fear through a crime scene, not through someone’s eyes. You don’t know what it’s like to walk home and keep glancing over your shoulder, to feel someone’s gaze on your back and not be able to prove it. To wonder if it’s in your head, or if you’re being hunted.”
Her words hung in the air.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face, guilt flickering across his expression. Tim looked back at the screen, jaw set. Jason’s sigh came low, heavy, reluctant.
“Alright,” Jason said finally. “I get it.” He pushed off the pillar, running a hand through his hair. “Look, protecting women, kids, anyone who can’t fight back, that’s kind of my thing. I’m not saying she’s lying. I just don’t like chasing ghosts.”
Barbara’s voice softened. “I know, Jason. But if she’s scared, then someone, or something, made her feel that way. And that’s not nothing.”
Dick nodded, determination tightening his posture. “Then we go check it out. Jason and I can hit the café. Maybe someone there saw something.”
Jason didn’t argue this time. “Fine. I’ll drive.”
Tim glanced back at them. “Want me to tell Steph and Cass? Duke, too? Damian?”
“No,” Barbara cut in before either of them could answer. “We don’t need to get everyone worked up over this. Not yet.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “You just gave me a lecture about taking it seriously, and now you don’t want backup?”
Barbara exhaled. “I said take it seriously, not turn it into a circus. Right now, all we have is a scared woman and a glitched video. Until we know what we’re dealing with, it stays quiet.”
Tim hesitated. “But if this guy’s dangerous-”
“Then you’ll know soon enough,” Barbara interrupted. “And when that happens, we’ll loop in the rest. For now, she’s shaken, not in danger. We have bigger fires to put out in the city tonight. This stays between us.”
Jason and Dick exchanged a look. Tim didn’t like it, but he nodded, watching the image flicker one more time.
On the monitor, the frozen frame showed Y/N sitting across from the man in the café, the faintest curve of his smile still visible beneath the living blur of shadow crawling over his features.
Jason muttered, “Let’s go before this turns into another one of Gotham’s ghost stories.”
Dick glanced at the screen one last time. “It already feels like one.”
Barbara’s voice crackled softly before fading out, “Then make sure it doesn’t end like one.”
The connection died with a faint click.
As Jason and Dick walked away toward the elevator, their footsteps echoing up the ramp, Tim stayed seated at the console, staring at the grainy still image. The shadows over the man’s face almost seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the cave’s hum.
For a fleeting second, he could’ve sworn the head in the footage turned slightly toward him.
Then it was still again.
La Chanterelle smelled like sugar and safety.
The golden light spilling through its windows made the marble counter gleam, and the scent of almond, coffee, and burnt caramel hung thick in the air. It was the kind of place that made people lower their voices, with soft music playing and pastries displayed like art behind glass.
Jason hated it on sight.
He leaned against the wall near the door, gloved fingers drumming on the wood as Dick talked to the cashier. His jaw clenched with every polite word that left Dick’s mouth. They’d been here for twenty minutes already, and no one, not a single person, remembered anything.
“You’re sure?” Dick asked again, his tone still friendly, though his patience was starting to thin. “She was here around lunchtime, maybe ordered pastries to go. Brown hair, quiet voice, a guy talking to her near the register-”
The woman behind the counter shook her head, nervous under his calm blue eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. We get hundreds of customers every day. I don’t remember anyone like that.”
Jason let out a short, sharp laugh, humorless. “Hundreds of customers,” he muttered. “Yeah, guess that makes it real easy for creeps to blend in, huh?”
The barista frowned. “Excuse me?”
Dick immediately turned, giving Jason a warning look. “He didn’t mean…”
Jason pushed off the wall and crossed his arms. “I did mean it. You work here, right? You see people every day, sure, but a guy bothering a woman, hovering too close, staring too long… you’d notice that. Unless you just didn’t care enough to.”
“Jason,” Dick hissed, stepping in. “That’s enough.”
The cashier’s expression went tight. “You need to leave. Both of you.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, fine. Didn’t wanna be here anyway.”
Dick apologized under his breath, slipped a card onto the counter —one of his “Wayne Foundation” contacts —and ushered Jason out the door before they were thrown out entirely.
Outside, the crisp November air hit hard, the wind carrying the smell of roasted coffee and city dust. Jason kicked the curb, muttering curses under his breath.
“This is a waste of time,” he snapped. “We’re chasing a damn ghost. Nobody saw him. Nobody remembers her. The cameras are trash. What are we even doing, Dick?”
Dick shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, watching the steady stream of pedestrians. “There’s always something, Jay. We just haven’t found it yet.”
Jason gave a short, bitter laugh. “Sure. And when we do, what then? She’s terrified to even talk about it. You really think she’s gonna give us anything?”
Dick’s jaw flexed, eyes narrowing slightly. “We have to try. We can’t protect her if we don’t know who we’re protecting her from.”
Jason scoffed, glancing toward the café window, where the reflections of laughing strangers shimmered in the glass. “If this morning was any clue, she’s not exactly jumping to tell us anything. You saw her. You heard her.”
Dick didn’t answer right away. He exhaled, tension drawing his shoulders back. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean we stop trying.”
Jason didn’t respond. He just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket and started walking toward the car.
By the time Jason and Dick made it back home, Tim was still fumbling with the footage, clearly displeased to have been bested by faulty camera equipment.
Or maybe the man himself.
The footage played in silence, Tim and Barbara rewatching the film like something new would pop out every time they hit rewind.
Tim leaned forward, one elbow on the desk, fingers tapping as the cursor slid along the timeline. “Here,” he said quietly. “Watch this part.”
On the main screen, the video from La Chanterelle café flickered to life. The view was a wide-angle shot from the entrance camera.
Y/N appeared from further in the cafe into the lens, her expression tense, one hand clutching a small paper bag as she burst through the cafe doors.
Then, just a few seconds later, the man stepped into frame.
Even with the clear footage, something about him didn’t look right. His movements were steady and measured, but the light around him warped just slightly —the faint distortion Tim had already pointed out. He walked out the door, stopped just outside, and turned down the way Y/N rushed off to, waving at her until she was out of sight. Then, he turned and left.
Tim slowed the footage. The smile never sharpened into focus.
Jason muttered under his breath, “That’s him, huh? The guy who’s been creeping her out.”
“Yeah,” Tim replied, still staring at the distorted image. “He followed her out right after this. I checked the city feed, traffic cams, every single one glitches when he’s near. Like the camera can’t decide how to process him.”
Dick crossed his arms. “So what we’ve got is a stalker who knows how to hide. Great.”
The elevator doors opened with a low chime, and Alfred stepped out, his presence as steady as ever despite the tension that clung to the room. He adjusted his cuffs before approaching the monitor.
“Tim,” Alfred said, voice quiet. “Anything new?”
Tim nodded. “We’re looking at the outside camera. Followed her out, waved. No sign of him after that.”
Alfred’s brow furrowed, his calm slipping for just a moment. “She did not mention this to me.”
Jason snorted. “She didn’t mention it because she can’t accept outside help. Like everyone else in this goddamned family. And now we’re sitting here watching her get stalked on tape while she pretends everything’s fine.”
“Enough, Jason,” Dick said sharply.
Jason ignored him, pacing in front of the console. “No, seriously. She’s scared out of her mind, that’s obvious. We can’t just keep waiting for him to show up again.”
Dick rolls his eyes. Just the other day, he was preaching about staying out of a civilian's life. What changed?
Alfred straightened, his tone deliberate. “And what do you propose?”
Jason stopped pacing, arms folded. “Simple. You convince her to leave the manor, errands, coffee, whatever excuse works. Alfred - I know you won’t like this, but you’ll need to get her outside alone, say you’re too busy and you really need the help. One of us tails her. If he’s watching, he’ll make a move, and we’ll catch him.”
Dick frowned. “You want to use her as bait?”
Jason gave him a look. “We don’t tell her, obviously. She’s already locked herself in that house like it’s a bunker. We need to know if he’s still following her. It’s the only way.”
Tim sat back, expression grim. “It’s risky. But he’s right, the guy only ever shows up when she’s alone.”
Alfred remained silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on the frozen image of the man waving on the monitor. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and controlled, though it carried an edge that betrayed his unease.
“Very well,” he said. “I will see if she might accompany me into the city. If she refuses…” He exhaled through his nose. “We will need another plan.”
Jason nodded, jaw tight. “Good. Because this thing, whoever he is, he’s not going to stop.”
The room fell quiet again. The video still hung frozen on the screen, the blurred man, mid-wave, smiling faintly, as if he knew every one of them was watching.
And for a moment, even the hum of the computers seemed to fade beneath the uneasy sense that somewhere out there, he still was.
It was the next morning when Alfred put the plan in motion.
Y/N sat curled up on her bed, laptop open but untouched, the blue glow painting tired shadows under her eyes. She hadn’t slept much. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the pastry shop, the blur of Thomas’s face under the café lights, the way her heart had stopped when he’d said Leyla.
She’d snapped at Alfred yesterday, actually snapped.
The thought made her stomach twist.
He didn’t deserve that, not after everything he’d done, the tea outside her door, the soft reminders to eat, the quiet patience when she barely said more than a few words some days. He’d been kind, and she’d thrown that kindness back at him because she’d been scared.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
“Miss Y/N?” Alfred’s voice came muffled through the door. “If you’ve a moment.”
She froze. Her throat went dry. Then, hesitating, she closed her laptop and forced herself to answer, “Yeah… just a second.”
She grabbed the hoodie hanging off her chair, slipped it on like armor, and cracked open the door. Alfred was standing there at the top of the stairs, posture perfect as always, though his eyes were softer than usual.
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said lightly. “But I was wondering if I could impose upon your good nature for a small favor.”
Y/N blinked. “A favor?”
“Yes,” he said, tone warm but deliberate. “The grocer neglected to include a few things I’d ordered this morning, nothing critical, mind you, but rather necessary for tonight’s dinner. I’d go myself, but I’m expecting a delivery shortly.”
She hesitated at the threshold. “You… want me to go into town?”
Alfred gave a small nod, as though it were the most ordinary request in the world. “Only to Crestwood Market. They already have the items bagged and waiting under my name.”
Her stomach clenched. The last time she’d gone into town…
But she owed Alfred.
She really did.
Alfred added, quietly, “You’ve been cooped up in this house for quite some time, my dear. Plus, I could use a little help around here, I already expect the other Wayne children to not help.”
Y/N’s face burned. The guilt hit her like a punch. “Alfred, I… about yesterday…”
He raised a hand gently. “You needn’t explain, Miss Y/N. We all have our moments. I simply wish for you to know I bear you no ill will.”
His calm only made her feel worse.
Her throat ached as she managed, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You didn’t deserve that. I just… I panicked.”
Alfred smiled softly, the kind of smile that forgave before words could. “Then perhaps you might grant me this favor as penance, hm? A short trip to make it up to an old man?”
She tried to smile back, but it came out shaky. “You’re not old.”
“I’m afraid the mirror would argue otherwise,” he said dryly, which managed to pull a weak laugh from her.
It was enough to make her nod. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go.”
“Excellent.” Alfred handed her a neatly folded slip of paper. “They’ll have this list ready for you. Take the small sedan, it’s less conspicuous in town.”
She glanced at the list: bread flour, fresh herbs, and some specialty cream from the French deli near Crestwood, all things Alfred could have easily ordered again. A tiny, sensible part of her wondered why he was so insistent, but the guilt in her chest drowned out the suspicion.
“Thanks, Alfred,” she murmured, tucking the note into her hoodie pocket. “I’ll… I’ll be back soon.”
He inclined his head. “There’s no rush, Miss Y/N. Do take your time. Perhaps stop for a cup of tea while you’re out. La Chanterelle does an excellent chamomile blend.”
At that name, her fingers froze against her zipper.
La Chanterelle.
He wants her to go back? Didn't he look at the footage himself?
Her pulse jumped. She forced a nod anyway. “Maybe.”
He gave her that look, the one that saw more than he let on. But he didn’t push. “Be safe,” he said simply.
Y/N grabbed her keys and bag, trying to act normal as she stepped toward the front door. She didn’t notice Alfred’s subtle glance toward the small microphone in his cufflink or the quiet click that followed when the door shut behind her.
He stood there for a long moment, gaze fixed on the door. Then he spoke under his breath, tone all business now.
“She’s on her way,” Alfred murmured into the comm. “Jason, Richard—follow at a distance.”
Jason’s voice crackled through, rough with fatigue. “Copy that. Red Hood’s mobile.”
Dick’s voice followed, calmer, but tense. “I’ve got aerial view. We’ll keep it quiet.”
Alfred’s eyes softened again, just slightly. “Make sure she’s safe. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let her see you.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen, the silence of the manor pressing in around him again. He’d seen enough fear in his lifetime to recognize when someone was running from it, even when they were pretending they weren’t.
And Y/N, for all her quiet bravery, was running as hard as she could.
Y/N didn’t want to go. Every nerve in her body told her to stay put, to lock her door, to disappear into the quiet safety of the manor. But Alfred had asked so gently that she couldn’t bring herself to say no. He had been nothing but kind, and she still felt guilty about snapping at him the day before. If this one errand could make it up to him, she could manage that. Just one trip. Just groceries.
She dressed quickly, tying her hair back and slipping into her shoes. Alfred was waiting in the foyer, holding a small list. His expression softened when he saw her. “You’re certain you’re up for this, my dear?”
Y/N forced a small smile, clutching the list a bit too tightly. “It’s just groceries, Alfred. I’ll be fine.”
He studied her face for a moment, the way her eyes flicked toward the door and back again, before nodding. “I would appreciate it greatly. And perhaps you might treat yourself to something sweet while you’re out.”
Y/N promised she would, knowing she probably wouldn’t. The moment the front door closed behind her, her pulse quickened. The air felt different outside the manor; colder, sharper, alive with sounds she’d forgotten how to tolerate. She took a deep breath and started toward the car, repeating the list in her mind like a mantra.
What she didn’t know was that a few streets over, another car idled quietly, keeping pace just far enough not to be seen. Inside, Jason sat behind the wheel, tapping his gloved fingers against the steering wheel. “She drives like she’s eighty,” he muttered, adjusting his seat.
“Maybe because she’s scared,” Dick said, watching the traffic ahead, eyes narrowing as Y/N turned onto Crestwood Avenue. “Don’t rush her.”
Jason snorted but didn’t argue. He’d been against this whole plan from the start, but Alfred had insisted. Someone needed to make sure she was safe, and Bruce was busy. Jason had rolled his eyes but taken the keys anyway. He wasn’t good at subtle concern, but he knew how to follow a trail.
Y/N didn’t notice them. She kept her focus on the road, one hand tight on the wheel, the other resting protectively on her bag. Inside, her phone was recording again, camera pointed toward the street through a gap in the zipper. The pepper spray Alfred had given her sat within reach.
At the grocery store, she parked close to the doors, her heart still racing as she stepped out. The automatic doors whooshed open, flooding her with warm air and the scent of produce and detergent. It was strangely grounding. People brushed past with carts and baskets, kids argued about snacks, and someone’s phone played tinny pop music in another aisle. For a moment, Y/N could almost pretend things were normal.
She moved slowly down the aisles, ticking items off the list: tea, fruit, bread, cream, and a few canned goods. She smiled at the cashier when she checked out, and even made small talk about the weather. It felt good to act normal again, even if the tension in her chest hadn’t really left.
When she stepped outside, the sunlight made her blink. She balanced the paper bag in her arms, looked around the parking lot, just cars, just people, no one watching. She exhaled and unlocked the car.
Across the street, Dick leaned back against the seat, watching her through the windshield. “She looks better,” he murmured.
Jason grunted. “Better doesn’t mean safe.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Yet.” Jason’s voice was low, almost bored, but his eyes were sharp.
They both fell quiet as Y/N started the car. Instead of turning back toward the manor, she drove straight past the intersection that would’ve taken her home.
Jason frowned. “That’s not the way back.”
“Maybe she’s making another stop,” Dick said, though his voice was uncertain. “Let’s see where she goes.”
The city gave way to quieter streets, the buildings older and closer together. The paint peeled off the shop signs here, and weeds crawled through the cracks of the sidewalks. It wasn’t unsafe, exactly, just forgotten. Y/N slowed the car as a familiar, sagging building came into view, its faded sign hanging crooked: The Hollow Motel.
Jason let out a low whistle. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That place looks condemned.”
Y/N parked near the front and turned off the engine. She hesitated, staring at the chipped door, then got out and walked toward it.
“Who the hell lives there?” Jason muttered.
Dick squinted, watching as an older woman stepped out onto the porch. The woman wore a long shawl, her silver hair tied up in a loose bun, a cigarette hanging from her fingers. When she spotted Y/N, her face broke into a grin, and she opened her arms like she’d been expecting her.
Y/N couldn’t help smiling back. “Hey, Aggie.”
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite runaway,” the woman said warmly, tossing her cigarette into a rusted tin can. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”
Y/N shrugged, shifting the grocery bag to her other arm. “I just needed to get out for a bit. Figured I’d stop by.”
Aggie eyed her closely, her sharp gaze softening when she saw the tension in Y/N’s shoulders. “You look like you’ve been carrying ghosts around. Something happen?”
Y/N hesitated, looking down. “There’s this guy. He’s been showing up a lot. I thought he was gone, but I saw him again.”
Aggie’s voice dropped. “What kind of guy?”
“I don’t even know how to explain it. He’s just… wrong. I can’t remember his face properly. It’s like it slips away every time I try to picture it.”
Aggie went very still, her expression unreadable for a moment before she turned toward the door. “Wait right here.”
Y/N blinked as the woman disappeared into the dim interior of the motel. When she returned, she held a small drawstring pouch made of faded red fabric. The smell was strong—herbs, sage, something earthy and bitter.
“It’s for warding off bad energy,” Aggie said, pressing it into her hand. “Or bad people. Whichever applies.”
Y/N smiled, embarrassed but touched. “You don’t have to…”
“I know.” Aggie smiled, a glint of something knowing in her eyes. “But take it anyway. Doesn’t matter if you believe in it. Sometimes belief’s not the point.”
Y/N tied the little bag to her purse strap. “Thank you. It’s silly, but… it actually makes me feel better.”
“That’s all it needs to do.” Aggie patted her hand. “And if that man bothers you again, you come see me, alright? I’ll know what to do.”
Y/N laughed softly, though the sound trembled a bit. “Okay, Aggie.”
They talked a little longer, about nothing important; the weather, the smell of the bakery down the street, the pigeons that nested in the motel sign. Y/N felt a little lighter by the time she turned to leave.
Across the street, Jason watched her smile faintly and shake Aggie’s hand. “Who the hell is that?” he muttered.
Dick frowned. “No idea. The Hollow’s supposed to be closed. Maybe she’s the caretaker?”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “Or maybe she’s another problem we didn’t know about.”
“Don’t start,” Dick said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction. He watched the way Aggie looked up, her eyes briefly flicking to the car where they sat, and felt something crawl cold down his spine.
Aggie’s smile didn’t fade, but there was a knowing tilt to it, like she could see right through the tinted glass.
Neither of them spoke as Y/N climbed back into her car and drove off. They followed at a careful distance, the Hollow Motel shrinking in the rearview until it vanished entirely.
Jason broke the silence first, his voice low and flat. “This isn’t working, Grayson.”
Dick’s fingers drummed against his knee. “Maybe. Or maybe we scared him off, who knows?”
Jason didn’t answer. The city lights started to appear ahead, and for once, he didn’t feel like mocking the idea. He just kept his eyes on the road, following the car in front of them, and thinking about the old woman who had looked straight at him like she knew exactly what they were doing.
Y/N hummed softly under her breath as she carried the last grocery bag out to the car. The late afternoon sun slanted across the hood, painting the world in muted golds and greys. Her shoulders ached, her arms heavy, but she didn’t mind; it felt good to do something.
After yesterday’s fight with Alfred, she’d barely slept. The guilt had sat in her stomach like a stone, each replay of her raised voice making her wince. He hadn’t deserved that. He’d only been worried, and she’d lashed out like a cornered animal.
So when he’d knocked gently on her door this morning, asking if she could pick up some groceries for him, she’d agreed without hesitation. It wasn’t about the errand—it was about making things right.
The drive to the store had been uneventful, almost peaceful. She’d even caught herself relaxing at the quiet hum of traffic, at the simple rhythm of normal life. The quick trip to Aggie’s made her feel much better. For a few fleeting moments, she’d felt like herself again… whoever that was anymore.
But as she pulled back into the manor’s long driveway, the calm began to fray. The gravel crunched beneath the tires, the house looming like a shadowed sentinel. She parked, shut off the engine, and let the silence hang for a beat before forcing herself to move.
She grabbed two bags from the front seat and popped open the trunk for the rest.
That was when she saw it.
Half-tucked behind one of the grocery bags was an envelope.
Plain. Cream-colored. No postage. Just one word written in neat, dark ink across the front.
Leyla.
Her pulse skipped.
Her name. But not her real one.
She stared at it for a long, frozen second, her mind stuttering through a thousand possibilities that all ended in the same sick feeling in her gut.
No one here knew that name. No one could know it.
Her breath hitched as she glanced around the driveway, scanning the shadows along the tree line, the windows of the manor, the road she’d come from. Empty. Still.
But the air felt too heavy.
Her hands shook as she picked up the envelope, the paper soft and warm against her fingers, as if it had just been placed there.
She hesitated, torn between fear and the horrible pull of knowing.
Then she tore it open.
A single folded piece of paper slipped into her hand. No signature. No greeting. Just a short, precise sentence scrawled in dark ink.
I know you don’t belong here.
The world seemed to stop.
Y/N’s vision blurred at the edges, her heartbeat slamming in her chest. She staggered back a step, the letter crumpling slightly in her grip.
The words burned themselves into her mind, over and over.
I know you don’t belong here.
The grocery bag slid from her arm, apples rolling across the pavement with dull thuds.
She caught herself against the car, pressing her palm flat against the cool metal as she tried to breathe, but her chest wouldn’t expand properly. The air felt too thin, the sky too close.
Whoever had written it knew.
Not just about Leyla. Not just about the alias.
They knew she didn’t belong.
At all.
Her eyes darted toward the manor. Every window suddenly felt like it was watching her.
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing, but her pulse only grew louder, harsher, roaring in her ears.
The paper slipped from her hand, fluttering down onto the driveway like a fallen leaf.
The breath she didn’t have escaped her lungs in a sharp gasp as her knees buckled. The world was spinning too fast, the air too thin, and she couldn’t breathe. She dimly registered the crunch of shoes on gravel, a voice calling her name, before someone dropped to the ground beside her.
“Hey... hey, Y/N, I’ve got you.”
Dick’s voice. Soft, steady, too calm for the way her heart was breaking apart in her chest.
She didn’t even know where he’d come from—one second she was alone, the next his arms were around her, guiding her down to sit on the cold driveway. His hand was firm at the back of her neck, grounding her, his other smoothing down her arm.
“Breathe with me, okay?” His tone stayed low and rhythmic, the way someone speaks to a spooked animal. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re at home.”
Home.
She wanted to laugh, or cry, or both, but the sound that came out was a ragged sob instead. Her chest stuttered with each inhale, lungs refusing to cooperate.
“I—I can’t—”
“You can,” he said, almost whispering now, his forehead pressing lightly to hers as he matched his breathing to hers. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
The world slowly steadied at the edges, the buzzing in her ears fading to a low hum. She focused on the warmth of his hand against her back, the faint smell of coffee and leather, the way his voice filled the silence without demanding anything from her.
Somewhere behind them, Jason sighed. Gravel crunched again. He’d been standing by the car, one hand on his hip, the other bent to gather the groceries that had spilled across the ground.
He didn’t say anything at first—just moved mechanically, tossing the scattered fruit back into the bags, his expression unreadable. But when his boot brushed against a small folded piece of paper, he froze.
The letter.
Jason bent down, picked it up, and frowned. It was half-crumpled, Y/N’s name written in ink across the front—her real name.
He opened it.
Two words stared back at him, dark and uneven on the page.
See you soon.
His jaw tightened. The paper crinkled between his gloved fingers as he folded it again, sharper this time, shoving it into his jacket pocket.
“Jason?” Dick’s voice came from behind him. Y/N had stopped shaking, but she was still clutching Dick’s sleeve, her breathing uneven.
Jason looked over his shoulder. “It’s nothing. Just some creep being creepy.”
Dick’s eyes flicked to him, searching. “What’d it say?”
Jason hesitated for a moment too long. Then, quietly: “Nothing useful.”
He glanced at Y/N; her face pale, eyes red, trembling despite herself, and the irritation he wanted to feel, the frustration that had been simmering for days, drained out of him.
“She okay?” he asked instead.
“She will be,” Dick said softly, still holding her. “Let’s get her inside.”
Jason nodded, grabbing the last grocery bag from the ground and walking toward the manor, his shoulders tight.
As Dick helped Y/N to her feet, she leaned into him slightly, her breathing uneven but real, steadying. He kept a hand on her back, murmuring something she couldn’t quite hear.
Behind them, Jason’s hand brushed against his jacket pocket, the paper inside crackling.
He frowned.
Something’s gotta give.
Chapter 5: Who's Unprepared
Chapter Text
Y/N sat at the kitchen island, her hands trembling faintly around the mug Alfred had placed in front of her. The smell of hot chocolate, rich, warm, and comforting, didn’t do much to ground her, but Alfred’s steady presence beside her helped.
Dick sat close, elbows on his knees, watching her face like he could read every flicker of emotion that passed through it. Jason lingered in the corner, arms crossed, leaning against the wall near the doorway. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, but the muscle in his jaw kept ticking, betraying that he was just as unsettled as the rest of them.
Alfred broke the silence first, his voice low but measured.
“Miss Y/N, perhaps you can tell us what exactly happened.”
She blinked down at her drink, the reflection of the kitchen lights shaking with each tiny tremor in her hands. “It’s… I don’t know,” she said softly. “It just…it freaked me out. The letter, the handwriting. It was addressed to someone that doesn’t even exist.”
Dick’s brows knit together. “How would he even know that name?”
That made Jason push off the wall. “Better question: how’d he get that letter in the damn car?”
Alfred’s face tightened at that. He was trying not to show it, but she could see the worry working its way into the corners of his eyes. “I inspected the vehicle myself this morning,” he murmured. “There was no sign of tampering.”
“So either he got to it before she even left,” Jason muttered, pacing slowly, “or he’s good enough to do it without being seen.”
Y/N tried to follow the conversation, but it all meshed into a blur. The mug in her hands was warm, grounding, but her head felt stuffed with cotton. Every word, every sound came through the fog.
Jason’s voice broke through, sharp but not cruel. “Look,” he said, coming to stand a few feet from her. “You gotta be straight with us now. This isn’t something you can just handle on your own anymore. Whatever this is, it’s serious.”
She looked up at him, tired eyes rimmed red. “I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Jason replied, softer now, though his tone still carried an edge. “I’m saying you can’t keep things to yourself. Not when you’ve got people worried sick.” His gaze flicked toward Alfred, who was busying himself with tidying the already immaculate counter.
Y/N hesitated, chewing at the inside of her cheek. “I met him at Ink and Steam. The bookstore.”
Dick leaned forward slightly. “The one off downtown?”
She nodded faintly. “Yeah. He… he was weird from the start, I guess. Talked about wanting to leave an imprint on people. He said his name was Thomas. I thought it was just a strange conversation until he started showing up everywhere. Coffee shop. Grocery store. Just… places I went.”
Dick’s eyes hardened. Alfred looked like someone had knocked the breath out of him.
“And you never mentioned this to anyone?” Alfred asked quietly.
“I didn’t think it was serious,” she murmured. “And I didn’t want to…” She stopped herself, glancing away. Didn’t want to make you worry. But she didn’t say it out loud.
Jason muttered something under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Great. So we’ve got a stalker who’s playing shadow games and writing creepy notes.”
Y/N tried to take another sip of her drink, but her eyelids fluttered, heavy now that the adrenaline had started to drain from her system.
Dick noticed first. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re wiped out.”
“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her words slurred slightly.
He stood and gently took the mug from her hands before she could protest again. “C’mon.”
Jason stepped aside as Dick guided her up, one arm braced around her shoulders. She barely had the energy to argue. The hallway lights blurred into soft streaks as he led her upstairs.
In her room, Dick helped her sit on the bed before pulling the blanket over her. She looked dazed, almost weightless, eyes unfocused as exhaustion swallowed her whole.
“Hey,” he said quietly, crouching beside the bed. “You’re safe here. You hear me?”
Y/N nodded faintly, curling under the blanket.
Dick lingered for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, gently, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. His voice was low, barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner,” he said. “I’ve been too caught up in everything else. I told myself you were fine because I wanted it to be true. But I promise you this... No one’s ever gonna hurt you again. Not while I’m still breathing.”
His throat tightened, and for a split second, he was eight years old again—kneeling on the cold ground under the circus lights, staring at two still forms, swearing to himself he’d never let anyone else he loved get hurt.
Not again.
He stayed there until her breathing evened out, quiet and steady against his shoulder, before finally pulling back. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, then stood and left the room without a sound, his promise echoing silently in his chest.
The elevator doors hissed open, the sound of hydraulics echoing off cold concrete. Bruce strode into the Batcave, his steps heavy, his jaw tight. The tension rolled off him in waves—the kind that meant something had gone wrong topside.
“Report,” he said flatly, not even looking up as he stripped off his jacket and tossed it across the console chair. “Are we ready for the drop tonight?”
Tim, who’d been hunched over the main workstation, froze. His fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard. “Uh… mostly.”
Bruce’s head snapped up. “Mostly?”
There was steel in the word, enough to make Tim’s shoulders tense. “I’m missing a few things,” he said quickly, “but I can—”
“What things?” Bruce’s tone was clipped. “You’ve had the files since last night. We’ve been planning this for a week. What could possibly be missing?”
Tim hesitated, glancing at Alfred, who was standing near the med bay with a faint frown. “I was helping Alfred with something,” he said finally.
That made Bruce turn fully. His glare was sharp enough to cut glass. “Helping Alfred?”
Alfred drew in a quiet breath, already anticipating where this was going. “If I may, Master Bruce...”
But Bruce was already pushing forward. “Tim,” he said, voice low but cold, “we’re talking about a major drug operation moving through the Narrows tonight. I need you focused. And you’re telling me you’re behind because you were… helping with house matters?”
Tim winced. “It’s not just house matters,” he muttered. “It’s Y/N. She’s got someone following her.”
Alfred wasted no time trying to cover for Tim; after all, it was he who had asked. “Just today she received a letter, it rattled her quite badly.”
That gave Bruce pause, but only for a heartbeat. His expression didn’t soften. Alfred, you should’ve brought it to me if it was that serious.”
“I tried,” Alfred said evenly, though there was the faintest edge beneath the calm. “But you were rather preoccupied with the case.”
“I am preoccupied,” Bruce snapped. “Because this city doesn’t stop burning just because someone left an anonymous note in her car.”
That hit harder than he realized. Dick, who had been standing off to the side cleaning his gauntlets, straightened abruptly. “You think this is about an anonymous note?”
“From what I’ve heard,” Bruce said without turning, “it’s vague. No name. No confirmed threat. You can’t expect me to divert the team for something like that when…”
“Something like that?” Dick’s voice rose before he could stop it. “Bruce, she’s terrified. She’s barely been sleeping, she’s not eating, and some psycho got close enough to leave something in the damn car. You think that’s nothing?”
Jason, standing near the stairs, crossed his arms but didn’t interrupt. His eyes flicked between them, unreadable.
Bruce’s tone stayed even, but it grew sharper. “I’m saying we have to prioritize. The city comes first.”
Alfred’s composure finally cracked. “And what of your family, sir? When do they come first?”
The words hung in the air like a slap.
Even Barbara, her face lit in blue on the comm screen, frowned deeply. “Bruce,” she said through the speakers, “you might want to rethink how you’re phrasing that. We’re talking about your daughter. She’s in danger, whether you think it’s minor or not.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the tactical display on the screen, watching as red lines traced the routes of the dealers they were supposed to intercept tonight.
Finally, he exhaled slowly through his nose. “We’ll discuss it later.”
“Bruce…” Dick started.
“Later,” Bruce repeated, voice firm enough to end the argument. “We move on the drop at twenty-three hundred. Cassandra and Stephanie will handle ground surveillance. I want eyes on the secondary routes and all comms open.”
Barbara’s sigh crackled through the speaker. “Copy that. Cass and Steph are already en route.”
Bruce nodded once. “Good. Tim, you and Jason stay here and monitor. Alfred, make sure the feeds stay up. I don’t want interference.”
No one said anything after that.
Bruce turned, the cape on his back catching the cave lights as he walked toward the Batmobile. The sound of his boots echoed against the rock, heavy and final.
As the car roared to life and the noise filled the cavern, Dick muttered under his breath, “Yeah. We’ll talk later. Sure.”
Jason shoved his hands into his pockets, scowling. “He’s got a one-track mind. Always has.”
Alfred stood a few feet away, face drawn, the faint tremor of anger replaced by something heavier, worry and exhaustion.
Tim looked back at the screen, where Barbara’s face lingered before she cut the feed. “I’ll keep working on the footage,” he murmured. “Maybe there’s something we missed.”
“Do that,” Alfred said quietly. “Because I fear the situation is far from over.”
The night at the docks was cold and heavy with fog, the kind that clung to the skin and dulled the sound of footsteps. Gotham Harbor slept in patches of shadow and sodium light, cranes and shipping containers looming like skeletal giants under the low clouds. The smell of salt and oil filled the air.
Bruce crouched on the edge of a corrugated rooftop overlooking the loading yard, his eyes tracking the movement below. A dozen men in dark jackets moved crates off an unmarked truck. The sound of muffled grunts and the metallic clink of crowbars carried through the mist.
“Confirmed,” Stephanie’s voice came through the comms, steady and low. “It’s Venom. I count fourteen in the open, three near the truck cab, maybe more inside.”
“Copy,” Bruce replied. His tone was clipped, controlled. “Black Bat, take the north perimeter. Batgirl, on my mark, move in with me. Nightwing's approaching from the east.”
Cassandra didn’t respond with words, just the faintest static crackle, the sound she made when she acknowledged orders. Bruce watched her form melt into the fog below, silent and swift as smoke.
From the far end of the dock, Dick’s grapnel line hissed as he swung down onto a stack of containers, landing in a crouch. “Got eyes on your left flank, B,” he said over the comm. “Looks like they’re packing more than usual tonight.”
Bruce grunted quietly. “They’ve been consolidating supply since the last raid. This must be the main hub.”
Stephanie perched on the railing beside him, her purple hood pulled low. The glow from a nearby floodlight caught the edge of her mask. “You ever think maybe Gotham just likes being poisoned?” she muttered. “Feels like for every one of these rings we take down, two more pop up.”
“Then we take those down too,” Bruce said simply.
Steph rolled her eyes under the mask but tightened her gloves. “Yeah, yeah. Eternal crusade, no sleep, no fun. Got it.”
“Focus,” Bruce ordered.
She grinned under her breath. “Always.”
Down below, one of the dealers barked something at his crew. A crate lid clattered to the ground. The fog shifted just enough for Bruce to spot the glint of gunmetal. He tapped his comm twice.
“Now.”
The world exploded into motion.
Cassandra struck first; a blur of black and movement, taking down two men before anyone even registered her presence. One’s body hit the concrete with a dull crack. The other’s weapon flew into the harbor with a splash.
Dick dove from the container stack, his escrima sticks sparking as they met the first man’s rifle. “Evening, boys!” he called out, ducking a swing and flipping the guy onto a pallet of crates. “You missed your shipment deadline.”
Bruce dropped from above, his cape spreading wide before he landed squarely in the center of the chaos. The impact made the ground shudder. Two men turned, raising their guns, but Bruce was already there: one arm blocking, the other driving a heavy punch that sent the first man sprawling.
Stephanie hit the dock behind him, kicking a third dealer square in the back before he could draw his pistol. “You know,” she said between hits, “you guys should really unionize. Might get better benefits than this.”
Gunfire cracked, sharp and wild, cutting through the fog.
“Batgirl! Cover!” Bruce barked, and she dove behind a forklift as bullets chewed through the air where she’d been. He moved in, fast and brutal, disarming the shooter with a blow to the ribs and an elbow that broke his nose clean.
Cassandra emerged again from the smoke, landing a clean roundhouse that dropped another man instantly. She didn’t speak, but her movements said everything; controlled, deliberate, efficient.
“South side’s clear,” Dick reported, vaulting over a crate. He flipped his baton, knocking a gun out of another man’s hand. “You good, Batgirl?”
“Peachy,” she said, popping up from cover and landing a solid kick to the last standing dealer. The man hit the dock hard and didn’t move.
Within minutes, the sounds of the fight faded—leaving only the crash of waves and the hiss of the wind between the containers.
Bruce stood at the center of it all, chest rising and falling beneath his armor. He looked over the scene: unconscious men, shattered crates, Venom vials spilling across the concrete.
Dick exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the fourth one this month,” he muttered. “You think it’s connected to Black Mask again?”
Bruce was silent, scanning the area. “No. Something else is pushing distribution. Too organized.”
Steph nudged one of the crates with her boot. “Then who?”
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the shadowy edge of the pier, darkness pooling unnaturally deep between the lampposts. For just a second, he thought he saw movement. Something that didn’t belong.
Then it was gone.
Cassandra stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “You see it too,” she said quietly.
Bruce didn’t respond. He turned instead toward the Batmobile parked several blocks away, the faintest flicker of unease passing behind his stoic expression.
“Bag and tag everything,” he said. “We’ll analyze it back at the cave.”
Dick and Stephanie exchanged a glance.
The fog thickened as they moved out, swallowing the last traces of the fight. The harbor lights flickered once, and in the dark water below, something shifted—watching them go.
The night at the docks was too quiet. Too clean. The air itself felt heavy with wrongness, the kind that settled in the gut before a fight.
Bruce crouched on the rusted edge of a shipping container, eyes scanning the maze of metal and shadow below. The other workers moved with practiced precision, unloading crates marked with coded insignias he had seen before. Venom, again. Multiple locations at the docks.
Steph’s voice came low through the comms. “Fifteen more hostiles, maybe sixteen if that guy behind the truck isn’t just smoking. Same product as the other shipment container.”
“Copy,” Bruce replied. “Black Bat, north perimeter. Batgirl, stay close. Nightwing, take the east approach.”
Cassandra’s silent acknowledgment came in a short click over comms. Dick’s voice followed, steady but taut with anticipation. “On your go, Batman”
Bruce waited. Watched, counted the rhythm of movement, the steady pulse of opportunity in the dark. Then he moved.
Cass struck first, a blur of motion, her fists finding pressure points before her targets even realized she was there. Bruce dropped from above, cape flaring, the crack of impact echoing like thunder. Dick was a flash of blue and black, his escrima sticks sparking as he cleared the path ahead.
Steph kept their flank covered, moving swiftly between shadows. Her punches landed clean, her kicks sharp. She smiled behind her mask, a flicker of pride breaking through the adrenaline. “Almost too easy,” she muttered.
“Don’t say that,” Dick warned.
The shot came before the words finished leaving his mouth.
It tore through the dark, a sharp, vicious sound that froze everything. Steph stumbled, her hand flying to her side, her body collapsing against the concrete. The bright purple of her suit grew darker, spreading red beneath her fingers.
“Batgirl!” Dick’s voice cracked as he sprinted toward her.
Bruce was already there, sliding beside her and pulling a patch from his gauntlet. His movements were automatic, efficient, but his chest felt tight. “Stay with me,” he said, pressing the sealant into place. Steph’s breathing hitched, uneven.
Cass landed nearby, her eyes wide. “Through,” she said softly. “Bullet went through.”
“Alfred, prep the med bay,” Bruce ordered. “Now.”
They finished the fight in silence. Cass and Dick tore through the last of the men with brutal precision, no words, no mercy. By the time Bruce carried Steph to the Batmobile, the air around them was thick with gunpowder and guilt.
The Batcave was colder than usual when they arrived. The echo of Bruce’s boots on stone matched the steady rhythm of Steph’s shallow breathing. Alfred had the med bay ready, his sleeves rolled up, hands steady but pale.
“Lay her here,” Alfred said, voice tight but controlled. Bruce obeyed. Alfred worked fast, cutting through fabric, cleaning blood, and sealing the wound with practiced efficiency. Dick hovered near the table, face pale and jaw set. Cass lingered in the corner, silent, her eyes dark with worry.
Tim appeared on the stairs, confusion etched across his face. “What happened? You said recon, not engagement.”
Bruce turned sharply. “We didn’t have full intel. You were supposed to have the shipment routes mapped.”
Tim hesitated, the realization dawning. “I was helping Alfred with Y/N. She’s been...”
“Enough,” Bruce interrupted, his voice low but edged. “We can’t afford distractions when people’s lives depend on it.”
Tim’s expression fell. “I was trying to help your daughter.”
Bruce’s eyes hardened. “That’s not your concern.”
The words cut deeper than they sounded.
Tim’s pulse quickened, anger rising with every breath. He remembered empty nights in the Drake mansion, dinners for one, long stretches of silence when no one cared to ask where he was or what he felt. He had seen the same hollow ache in Y/N’s face—the kind of loneliness that didn’t come from being alone, but from being unseen.
And now Bruce, the man who had built a family out of broken people, was repeating the same pattern.
Tim’s voice broke through the hum of machinery. “You don’t even see it, do you? You’re mad at me for doing what you should have been doing.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Watch your tone.”
“No,” Tim said, louder now, the frustration spilling over. “I wouldn’t have to focus on Y/N if you took care of your daughter like you’re supposed to.”
The silence afterward was deafening.
Bruce didn’t move. His expression didn’t shift, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Dick’s eyes flicked between the two, ready to step in, but even he couldn’t find words to break the tension.
“Get out,” Bruce said quietly.
Tim froze. For a moment, he thought about arguing, about pushing back until Bruce heard him, but the sight of Alfred bent over Stephanie’s bloodied body stopped him cold. He turned and left without another word.
The sound of his footsteps faded up the stairs until only the beeping of the monitors and Alfred’s calm, precise voice filled the space.
Bruce stood motionless. Dick rubbed his face, exhaustion pulling at the edges of his voice. “That was harsh,” he muttered.
Cass remained silent, her gaze on Bruce. She didn’t speak, but there was disappointment in the way she looked at him.
Bruce didn’t respond. His mind had already started to spiral.
Tim’s words repeated, clear and cutting: If you took care of your daughter like you’re supposed to.
They settled into his thoughts like a weight he couldn’t shake. Why were they all so fixated on Y/N? Why was his team scattered, their focus slipping away from the mission? He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have them lose sight of what mattered.
If he finished this case, if he found this stalker once and for all, maybe they’d remember their priorities. Maybe they’d remember why he built this team in the first place.
He turned toward the Batcomputer, the glow of the monitors casting his face in cold light.
Behind him, Dick helped Alfred clean up, his voice low, steady, and worried. Cass stood silently by Steph’s bedside, her fingers lightly brushing Steph’s wrist to make sure she was still breathing.
But Bruce didn’t see any of it.
He focused on the case file on the screen. Names. Routes. Data. A world he could control.
If he stayed here, in this clarity, the noise may fade. Maybe the doubts would go quiet.
He stared at the glowing screen, jaw set, and forced the words echoing in his head to disappear.
Solve the case. Fix the problem. Get control back.
That was what mattered.
Tim had not gone to bed.
He sat at his desk, the blue light from his monitors spilling across his face in sharp angles. His room was quiet except for the faint buzz of the computer fans and the hum of Gotham’s night pressing faintly against the windows. The chair creaked every so often when he shifted, though he barely moved.
His notes were still open on one of the screens. The footage from the café on another. He kept replaying it over and over, watching the moment Y/N turned to leave, the blur of the man waving after her. It was impossible to make out a face. Every filter he ran, every enhancement tool he coded, only made it worse. The image warped. The pixels bled. The shadows deepened until it looked as if something were eating away at the frame.
Tim dragged a hand over his face, feeling the ache behind his eyes. Bruce’s words still echoed in his head, low and sharp. Priorities. Real problems. Minor inconveniences.
He should not have cared this much. Not about one person. Not about her.
And yet, every time he thought of Y/N standing in that driveway with that letter clutched in her hand, her breath coming too fast, her eyes wide with something close to terror, he felt sick.
He remembered how Bruce brushed it off.
He remembered Alfred’s face when they read the new message.
He remembered doing nothing when Bruce dismissed them.
Tim leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the cool edge of the desk. He tried to breathe evenly, but his chest felt tight.
The glow from the monitors flickered once, then again, as if the power was about to dip. Tim frowned, looking up. Every screen had gone a little darker, though he hadn’t changed anything. The café recording opened again, looping silently.
Y/N walking away. The man is waving.
Then, for half a second, the blur around the man’s face seemed to turn.
It was not possible. The camera was stationary.
But for that half second, the dark static aligned in the vague shape of a grin.
Tim’s pulse jumped. He pushed back from the desk, staring. The image stayed still now, nothing wrong, nothing moving, just shadows on a feed that should not mean anything.
He sat there for another long minute before reaching over and shutting down every monitor. The hum stopped, the room suddenly feeling too quiet, too empty.
Tim leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
He thought of Bruce and how he had called Y/N a distraction.
He thought of how Alfred had looked when she came home shaking.
He thought of his own reflection, how tired it had looked lately, how much it resembled the man downstairs in the cave.
Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe Tim had lost focus.
Still, when he finally pushed himself off the chair and crawled into bed, one thought circled back like a broken record:
If he didn’t look after her, no one would.
And in the faint silence before sleep caught him, something in the corner of his room shifted, so slight he could have imagined it. The air grew colder.
He exhaled and stood, pulling on the sweatshirt he’d left draped over his chair. The manor was cold this early, the kind of cold that seeped into the walls and stayed there. He told himself he was only walking to clear his head, that he needed space from the noise in his thoughts, but his steps carried him down the long hallway before he even realized where he was heading.
Y/N’s door was half open.
The faint light from the hallway stretched across the room, soft and golden against the edges of her blanket. She was still asleep, curled on her side, breathing steadily. The curtains stirred slightly with the draft.
Tim hesitated in the doorway. He told himself to turn back. This wasn’t right; she deserved privacy, peace, rest. He had no reason to be here.
But he couldn’t make himself leave.
There was something about seeing her like this, so still, so small against the vastness of the room, that made his chest tighten. The bruised shadows beneath her eyes had faded, though not wholly. The corners of her mouth twitched now and then, the way people do when they’re trapped somewhere between a dream and a memory.
He stepped inside quietly, his hands in his pockets, his heartbeat too loud.
The morning light caught on the frame of the photo on her nightstand. A picture of her when she was younger and Alfred, her grin wide and awkward, his expression patient and proud. It made Tim’s throat ache.
He remembered being that small once.
He remembered waiting by the window for parents who never came home.
He remembered telling himself they were just busy. That maybe if he stayed quiet, if he didn’t cause trouble, they’d notice him next time.
And suddenly, looking at her, that old feeling crawled back into him, the one that had never really gone away.
The loneliness.
The waiting.
The ache of wanting someone to see you and realizing they probably never would.
Tim swallowed hard and lowered himself into the chair by her desk. He stayed there for a while, elbows on his knees, staring at the pattern of light moving slowly across the floor.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t fix this; not for her, not for himself, not for anyone. Bruce was too far gone into his mission, the family was stretched thin, and Alfred could only hold so much together before it broke.
But sitting here, listening to her breathe, Tim felt something steady for the first time in a long time.
He wasn’t the lonely boy in the empty house anymore. He wasn’t forgotten.
And neither was she.
He stood just as the first full wash of sunrise touched the windows, soft gold spilling over the walls. He lingered for a moment longer, his hand brushing the doorframe before he turned and left as quietly as he came.
Behind him, Y/N stirred faintly in her sleep, brow creasing like she’d felt the air shift.
The early morning light filtered in through the tall windows, soft and gray, glinting off the marble floor. Her footsteps sounded too loud in the hallway. For a moment, she thought about turning back, crawling into bed, and pretending none of this existed. But the smell of coffee and something sweet drew her forward.
The kitchen was full when she stepped inside.
Dick sat at the counter, one hand curled around a mug, looking like he hadn’t slept. Jason leaned against the wall, a permanent frown carved into his face, arms crossed as if daring the room to challenge him. Alfred stood by the stove, quiet but sharp-eyed, stirring something that steamed faintly.
And at the far end of the table sat her.
Cassandra Cain.
Y/N froze, her breath catching before she could stop herself. She knew that face. She knew that posture, the stillness that wasn’t still at all, the way her eyes tracked everything, the way her presence filled the room without a word.
In the comics, Cass had been silent, deadly, and compassionate all at once. Here, she was real. Solid. The quiet between her and the others wasn’t awkward; it was instinctive. Like the silence was a language only she spoke.
Y/N shifted her weight and muttered a soft, uncertain “morning,” to no one in particular.
Dick glanced up, managing a tired smile. “Hey. You’re up.”
Jason grunted something that might’ve been a greeting. Cass didn’t move. She just looked at Y/N for a beat, eyes unreadable, before dipping her head in a slow, almost polite nod.
Y/N nodded back before slipping into the nearest chair. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hiss of the coffee machine and the clink of Alfred’s spoon against a mug.
“Coffee?” Dick asked, voice low.
“Sure,” Y/N said, though she didn’t feel like drinking anything. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup when Alfred set it in front of her. The warmth helped steady the tremor in her fingers.
Something was wrong. She could feel it. The tension in the air wasn’t just tiredness; it was worry. Fear, maybe. No one was saying anything, but the silence wasn’t comfortable. It was hiding something.
After a moment, she glanced at the empty chair across from Cass. “Is Steph coming down too?” she asked, careful and casual, like she wasn’t trying to read the room.
The words landed like a stone in water.
Alfred froze. Dick’s head dropped slightly. Cass looked down. Jason sighed.
“She’s not coming,” Jason said, his voice edged and tired.
Y/N frowned, glancing between them. “What do you mean?”
Jason pushed off the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. “She got shot last night.”
The words hit her like ice water. “What?”
Dick shot Jason a sharp look, reprimanding, before turning to Y/N. “She’s okay,” he said quickly. “She’s stable. It was a bad night, but Alfred handled it. She’s resting.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “That doesn’t sound fine,” she murmured.
“We didn’t want you to worry,” Dick said softly.
Jason scoffed. “Yeah, because that always works out.”
“Jason,” Alfred warned, still not turning from the stove.
Jason didn’t respond, just folded his arms again, jaw clenched.
Y/N stared into her coffee. The steam blurred her reflection. Her mind spun with fragments, Steph laughing, bright and reckless; her being shot, lying somewhere bleeding. She didn’t know her well, but the thought still made her chest ache.
No one spoke for a long time. Even the air felt heavy.
Finally, Jason muttered, voice rough, “She’ll be fine. She’s tougher than the rest of us combined.”
Dick nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’ll bounce back. She always does.”
Y/N managed a quiet, “Yeah,” but it sounded small.
Cass looked up then. Their eyes met, just for a second, and Y/N thought she saw something there. Not pity, not sympathy. Something quieter. Understanding.
Then Cass looked away, her face unreadable again, and the silence fell over them once more.
Y/N took another sip of coffee she couldn’t taste, pretending she didn’t notice the weight pressing down on everyone, pretending that everything would go back to normal.
It wouldn’t. She could feel it.
Before she could dwell on it, Tim entered the kitchen with the hollow look of someone who hadn’t slept in days. His hoodie was creased, his hair pushed back like he’d dragged his fingers through it one too many times. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the room; the silence, the coffee cups, the lingering smell of burnt toast.
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then Dick started, his voice careful, too light for how brittle the air felt. “Hey, Tim. You should eat something. Alfred—”
“I’m fine,” Tim said flatly, cutting him off without looking his way.
The sharpness in his tone froze the air again. Jason’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t comment. Alfred sighed softly behind the counter. Cass turned her gaze toward the window.
Tim walked straight past all of them until he stood beside Y/N. He didn’t say anything right away, just leaned slightly against the counter next to her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his shoulder brushing hers. His posture was tight, his eyes scanning the mug in her hands like he was counting her breaths.
Y/N blinked, startled. The last time she’d spoken to Tim was weeks ago, his sarcasm still sharp, his patience already worn thin. He hadn’t so much as looked at her since. Now he was standing beside her like he was guarding her.
She shifted in her chair, uncertain. “Uh… morning.”
Tim finally turned to her. His voice was quieter than she expected. “Morning.”
Dick cleared his throat, trying again. “Tim…”
Tim ignored him completely. His focus stayed locked on Y/N, his eyes flicking briefly toward her bag near the chair, then back to her. There was tension in the way he stood; shoulders hunched, but every muscle alert, as if he were waiting for something to happen.
“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” he asked suddenly.
Y/N hesitated. “What?”
“Out,” he repeated. “You can bring your laptop, study somewhere else. I have to go over some Wayne Enterprises stuff, but…” He trailed off, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “It’s better than sitting around here.”
Dick frowned. “Tim, I don’t think…”
But Y/N was already nodding. The air in the kitchen felt suffocating; the quiet grief, the tension still hanging heavy from the night before. And Tim looked… different. Not angry. Just exhausted, but determined in a way she didn’t understand.
“Okay,” she said softly.
Tim blinked, as if he hadn’t expected her to agree so easily. Then he nodded once. “Good. Ten minutes.”
He turned and left as abruptly as he came, footsteps fading down the hall toward the garage.
Y/N stared after him, then looked down at her untouched coffee. “He seems…”
“Like he hasn’t gotten over it,” Jason muttered.
Y/N’s head cocks in confusion, and tries to ask about what, but Dick already starts to speak, sighing, he rubs his temples. “He’s been under a lot of pressure.”
Alfred set down his spoon and gave Y/N a look that was half warning, half worry. “Please do be careful.”
“I will,” Y/N promised, though her chest felt tight. She didn’t really know why she said yes, maybe because Tim looked like he needed company more than she needed peace, maybe because she couldn’t take the silence of this house anymore.
Maybe because if she sat still too long, she’d start thinking about the letter again.
Either way, she grabbed her bag and went to get ready, ignoring the faint tremor in her hands.
Outside, she could already hear the low rumble of the car engine waiting in the driveway.
Chapter 6: You'll Never Be Alone If I Can Help It
Chapter Text
The engine purred low under them as the car rolled down the long drive from the manor, cutting through the gray morning. The sky looked bruised, heavy with clouds that hadn’t decided yet if they wanted to rain.
Tim drove in silence, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit or patrol gear, just a dark hoodie and a pair of jeans, but even like this, he carried a kind of quiet focus, the kind that made the car feel too small.
Y/N sat stiff in the passenger seat, her bag clutched against her knees. The silence stretched long enough to become awkward, but she didn’t know what to say.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. The dark circles under his eyes were worse than she thought. His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, no rhythm, just restless energy.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said finally, just to break the quiet.
Tim didn’t look at her. “It’s not a ride. I needed to get out too.”
“Right.” She shifted, uncomfortable. “Still… thanks.”
He hummed under his breath, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. The quiet settled again.
The city blurred past the window: brick buildings, a few leafless trees, the faint buzz of everyday life that felt too far away from the world she’d fallen into. Y/N’s reflection caught her eye in the glass: pale, tired, jumpy.
“So,” she tried again, her voice low, “you always this talkative?”
That earned a faint huff of air that might’ve been a laugh. “Not usually.”
“Thought so.”
He didn’t answer, but she caught the faintest quirk of his mouth, like he was fighting a smirk. It was small, but it softened something in her chest.
After another minute, he spoke. “You shouldn’t keep things to yourself like that.”
Her fingers tightened on her bag strap. “What?”
“The guy,” he said simply. His eyes stayed on the road. “You should’ve told Alfred. Or Bruce. Or… anyone.”
Y/N frowned, staring at the side of his face. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is easy,” he said quietly. “You just tell someone.”
She turned toward the window again, her voice bitter. “Yeah, well, it’s hard to tell people things when they don’t look at you like you exist.”
That made him flinch, just a little. He didn’t respond right away.
“I’m not them,” he said finally.
Y/N blinked, surprised. “What?”
Tim’s knuckles were white on the wheel now. “I’m not Bruce. Or Jason. Or anyone else in that house. You can tell me things.”
The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. For the first time, she didn’t hear the detached, sarcastic edge he always used. He sounded… human. Tired.
Y/N looked at him for a long moment, then turned back toward the windshield. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do that,” he murmured.
They fell into silence again, but it wasn’t the same kind. It wasn’t hostile or awkward—just quiet, thoughtful. The sound of rain started to tap against the windshield as they merged into the city streets.
As they drove, Y/N risked another glance at him. There was something about the way Tim watched the road: alert, cautious, like he was ready for anything. And yet, underneath that, she saw the slightest flicker of something familiar.
Loneliness.
It mirrored her own.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Y/N didn’t feel entirely alone.
The café Tim chose was tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that smelled like roasted beans and rain-damp pavement. The windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and the low hum of conversation offered a strange, comforting contrast to the manor’s suffocating silence.
Y/N followed Tim in, brushing a few raindrops from her jacket. The lights were soft, golden, catching on the steam rising from the espresso machines. For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Tim ordered without asking what she wanted, just two drinks, both black coffee. When the barista handed them over, he passed one to her with a look that was half an apology.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he said.
She took it, fingers brushing his for a second before she pulled back. “This is fine.”
They found a table in the back corner, away from the window. Y/N set her bag down and tried to relax, but the quiet between them lingered again, heavier this time. Tim had pulled out his laptop and a small notebook, the faint glow of spreadsheets reflecting in his tired eyes.
For a few minutes, the only sound between them was the tapping of keys and the occasional sip of coffee. Y/N flipped open one of her own notebooks, though she wasn’t really reading. Her mind wandered, back to the manor, to the way everyone had gone silent when she walked in.
She glanced at Tim. He looked different outside the house. Still tense, still too quiet, but less brittle.
“You work on Wayne stuff all the time?” she asked softly.
He didn’t look up. “Most of the time.”
“That sounds miserable.”
That got a faint smirk out of him. “Occupational hazard.”
Y/N leaned back, studying him. “You ever do anything normal? Like… movies, games, sleep?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Not really. Not anymore.”
“Figures.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Everyone in that house runs on fumes.”
He finally looked at her then, his gaze steady but unreadable. “You included.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“You barely eat. You flinch when people raise their voices.” His tone wasn’t cruel: it was clinical, observant. “You’re running on fumes too.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “You’re… not wrong,” she muttered finally.
“I usually am not.”
That earned him a glare, but he didn’t react. Instead, he looked down at his notes again, though his eyes weren’t really on the screen.
After a moment, Y/N sighed and dropped her voice. “You’re not the easiest person to talk to, you know that?”
He gave a slight shrug. “Neither are you.”
That almost made her laugh. Almost.
They sat there in the soft quiet of the café, surrounded by the sound of rain and clinking cups. For once, the silence wasn’t awkward. It was tired, but shared.
Y/N glanced at the window, watching the raindrops streak down the glass. “It’s weird,” she said softly. “Out there, everything feels normal. Like the world’s still turning.”
Tim didn’t answer right away. “It is,” he said eventually. “That’s the problem.”
She turned to look at him. His expression was distant and thoughtful, but there was something behind his eyes —something sharp, old, and heavy.
“Tim,” she said quietly, “when was the last time you actually stopped to breathe?”
He blinked, surprised by the question.
Y/N didn’t press further. She just looked down at her coffee again.
“You should try it sometime.”
He didn’t respond, but she saw his shoulders lower slightly, like her words had landed somewhere they shouldn’t have.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. Inside, the air between them finally began to settle into something that felt almost like peace; fragile, unfamiliar, but real.
The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle by the time the café began to empty. The hum of the espresso machine had quieted to a background purr, and the warm lights from the hanging bulbs cast soft halos over the tables. Y/N sat with her hands curled around her coffee cup, the steam rising between them. She could feel Tim’s presence across the table, a quiet kind of tension that filled the air even when neither of them spoke.
His laptop was closed now, the faint scuffs on its cover catching the light as his fingers drummed lightly against it. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, a mix of sleepless nights and something heavier that no amount of caffeine could fix.
Y/N found herself studying him longer than she meant to. He looked tired, but not just in the way people do after a long night. He looked worn, like someone who had been holding everything together for too long.
“You ever get tired of it?” she asked quietly, her voice breaking the silence. “All of it. The work, the danger, the weight of pretending everything’s fine?”
Tim’s eyes flicked up from the table. He didn’t answer right away, but when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she expected. “Every day.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Then why keep going?”
He leaned back, looking toward the rain-slicked window. “Because stopping isn’t easier.”
Y/N frowned. “So you don’t stop.”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I know how to.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain outside hit the glass in gentle, uneven patterns. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried something unspoken. Something shared.
“Then maybe you need someone to teach you,” Y/N said after a moment, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
He turned his head toward her, brows drawn in mild confusion. “Teach me what?”
“How to stop,” she said. “Even for a little while.”
That earned her a small reaction, the faintest quirk of his lips that could almost be called a smile. “You think you can teach me that?”
She stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I can try.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”
“Yes, now,” she said, walking toward the door. “Come on. Let’s do something normal for once.”
He hesitated before standing. “Normal?”
“Yeah,” she said, glancing back at him. “Like watching a movie. People still do that, you know.”
Tim followed her out into the cool air, a hint of a laugh escaping him despite himself. “A movie,” he repeated, as if testing the word.
“Exactly,” Y/N said, smiling. “You look like you could use a good scare. I was thinking horror.”
He made a face. “You want to watch fake monsters after everything we’ve seen?”
“That’s the point,” she said, grinning. “At least those ones stay on the screen.”
He shook his head but didn’t argue, trailing after her. The sky was clearing as they made their way to the theater, the wet pavement glinting beneath the streetlights as Tim drove them both.
Inside, the smell of buttered popcorn filled the air, and Y/N handed the cashier the previous Wayne girl's card in her wallet, asking for two tickets. Tim carried the snacks, awkwardly balancing the drinks while she teased him for looking like he “was a cave dweller on his first outing”
When they finally found their seats, the lights dimmed, and the low hum of chatter fell into silence. The opening credits flickered across the screen in bursts of white and red, and Y/N leaned forward, already invested. Tim, however, sat stiffly at first, arms crossed, his eyes darting between the screen and the empty spaces of the theater.
About twenty minutes in, his posture softened. His head tilted slightly to the side. By the halfway point, he was out cold.
Y/N noticed when his breathing evened out. His face, usually so guarded, looked peaceful. She smiled to herself, turning back to the screen, deciding not to wake him. The horror movie wasn’t that scary anyway.
When the credits finally rolled and the lights came back on, she reached over and nudged his shoulder. “Hey,” she said gently. “Sleeping beauty, the ghosts are gone.”
He stirred, blinking the sleep from his eyes, looking disoriented. “Did I fall asleep?”
She nodded, grinning. “Out like a light. You even missed the twist.”
He groaned softly. “Let me guess. The killer was the best friend?”
“Close,” she said, laughing. “The cat. Always trust the cat.”
He chuckled, shaking his head as they walked out. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “But you’re smiling, so I’ll call that a win.”
Outside, the night air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. The streets shimmered with reflected neon. Y/N turned toward him. “You want to head back?”
Tim shoved his hands into his pockets. “Not really.”
Her grin widened. “Good. There’s an escape room nearby. Think you can handle a few puzzles without falling asleep this time?”
He gave her a look that was part exasperation, part amusement. “You do realize what I do for a living, right?”
“That’s why I want to see if you can have fun without overthinking everything,” she teased. “Come on, Tim. Loosen up a little.”
The escape room attendant briefed them on the rules, but Y/N barely listened. The moment the door shut, Tim’s focus kicked in. He spotted hidden patterns, solved locks, and pieced together codes almost instantly.
Fifteen minutes later, the final door swung open.
Y/N threw her hands up in mock frustration. “You are the worst person to bring to one of these.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck, looking faintly sheepish. “Force of habit?”
“Never again,” she said, laughing as they stepped outside. “You ruined the fun part.”
He smiled then, and this time, it reached his eyes.
They wandered to a nearby diner, drawn in by the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee. The red vinyl booths creaked under them as they slid into a corner seat. The waitress dropped off two menus, and Y/N ordered pancakes and fries just because she could. Tim ordered coffee and let her steal his fries without complaint.
They talked in bits and pieces, conversation flowing more easily than either expected. Y/N retold the parts of the movie Tim had missed with exaggerated hand gestures, making him chuckle between sips of coffee.
For a while, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist. The diner buzzed softly with the chatter of strangers and the clink of dishes.
Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching Tim as he smiled faintly at something she said. For the first time, she felt that the weight pressing on her chest wasn’t so heavy.
The air between them felt warmer. Easier.
And when she looked at him across the table, exhaustion still written on his face but softened by a small, genuine smile, she felt something unfamiliar bloom in her chest.
For the first time since she arrived, Y/N felt connected. Not by duty, or fear, or shared chaos.
But by something human. Something fragile and real.
Something that made her want to believe she belonged here after all.
The city lights blurred past in streaks of gold and white, and Y/N sat back against the seat, her head leaning against the window. Her stomach still hurt from laughing at Tim’s deadpan delivery of his “escape room victory speech,” and her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Tim’s hands rested on the wheel, steady and sure, but there was something softer in his expression now—something she hadn’t seen before. He glanced at her briefly, catching her faint smile in the reflection of the glass.
“You know,” he started quietly, “this was… nice.”
Y/N turned her head toward him, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You mean being forced to socialize and eat diner pancakes at midnight?”
He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. That.” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on the steering wheel. “I forgot what it felt like to just… exist. Without planning something or analyzing every second.”
She smiled faintly. “Glad I could help you remember.”
The road ahead stretched into the hills, the Wayne Manor lights barely visible in the distance. The warmth of the diner still clung to her clothes, mixing with the cool night air streaming through the cracked window. For a while, neither spoke. The quiet between them wasn’t tense anymore. It was full. Comfortable.
Tim broke it first. “When I was a kid,” he said slowly, “my parents were always gone. Work, travel, charity events—you name it. I’d wake up to an empty house and fall asleep to the sound of the staff cleaning up the kitchen. I used to sit by the window and watch other families walk by.”
His voice was steady, but something fragile lay beneath the calm. “I told myself I didn’t need anyone. That being alone was easier. That caring about people was the reason everything hurt.”
Y/N stayed silent, letting him talk. She knows this — his background — but Tim explaining it to her feels somehow worse, sadder; this is a person in front of her, not a character in a comic she felt sorry for.
“When Bruce took me in,” he continued, “I thought things would change. But the truth is, I didn’t really know how to be part of something like this. A family. Every time I thought I was getting close, I’d pull back.”
He exhaled, the sound soft but heavy. “And I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed it. Having someone sit across from me, laugh at something stupid, talk about movies and diner food. Just…” He trailed off, searching for the right word. “Being normal.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “You’re not the only one who feels that way,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I’ve felt normal since I got here.”
He glanced at her again, eyes softer now. “Yeah. I figured.”
Y/N is glad for the sympathy, but she knows Tim isn’t talking about her real situation. She was not actually supposed to be here.
The car turned onto the long driveway leading to the manor. The house loomed ahead, half-shrouded in fog and silence. Y/N watched as the gates closed behind them, the sound echoing faintly in the distance.
Tim parked but didn’t move to get out right away. His hand lingered on the keys, the soft hum of the engine fading into the stillness.
“Y/N,” he said finally, turning toward her. “I know I wasn’t exactly… kind to you last month. Or maybe ever. I was angry, confused. I didn’t think it mattered if I pushed people away.”
She looked down at her hands, fingers tangled in her jacket zipper. “It’s fine. I probably would’ve done the same thing.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s not fine. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t ask to be thrown aside.”
Her throat tightened, but she forced a small smile. “You’re making it sound like the burden is just on you.”
Tim’s lips twitched. “It kinda is.”
That earned him a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it was enough to ease the heaviness in the air.
Then he reached over, resting a hand lightly over hers. His touch was tentative but warm. “You’re my sibling,” he said softly. “Whether you believe it or not. You’re part of this family, and I’ll make sure you know that from now on.”
Y/N blinked at him, words caught somewhere in her chest.
Tim gave a small, crooked smile, then added, “Even if I have to drag you to every bad diner in Gotham to prove it.”
She laughed again, this time quietly but real.
At least this dining experience was better than with Dick.
When they finally stepped out of the car, the night air was cool and still. The house stood tall and silent against the sky, but something about it didn’t feel as suffocating anymore.
As they walked toward the manor doors side by side, Y/N felt it, something faint, something fragile, but undeniably there.
A sense of belonging.
And for the first time since she arrived, she didn’t feel completely alone.
Y/N and Tim had just barely stepped through the front doors when the sound of footsteps echoed down the marble hallway. Damian appeared from around the corner, dressed in black casuals, posture straight as a blade. His expression was unreadable, though the faint lift of his brow already told Y/N this wasn’t a social visit.
“Father asked me to speak with you,” Damian said, his tone clipped and businesslike. “Something about a stalker.”
The words hit like a cold slap. The fragile calm Y/N had built through the day shattered instantly, the tension creeping back into her shoulders until her muscles ached. She turned to Tim, almost reflexively, searching for grounding.
He was already watching her. His posture shifted, subtle but protective, like an instinct. He didn’t move away.
Damian’s sharp eyes flicked between them. He scoffed, his mouth curling into something between amusement and irritation. “Your guard dog can come too.”
Tim’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to it. Y/N could feel his silent disapproval radiating beside her.
She took a breath, steadying herself, then nodded. “Lead the way.”
Damian didn’t wait for her to follow; he just turned and started down the hall, hands clasped neatly behind his back, every movement controlled and precise. His pace was brisk, and Y/N had to match it to keep up, her shoes whispering against the floor.
Tim walked at her side, his hand brushing the edge of her sleeve every few steps like a quiet reassurance. The manor felt colder than usual, its long corridors stretching endlessly ahead, the walls lined with portraits that seemed to watch as they passed.
They descended into the Batcave in silence, the familiar low hum of the computers and the soft echo of dripping water filling the vast space. The air here always felt heavier, like the cave itself carried the weight of a hundred secrets.
Y/N’s pulse quickened. The last time she had been down here, she could still pretend that what was happening to her was something small, something she could hide from. But now, being summoned by Bruce, being dragged into this world again, made it all too real.
Damian stepped ahead of them, walking with the confidence of someone who belonged entirely to this place. “He’s waiting by the terminals,” he said simply.
Y/N swallowed hard. Tim stayed close, his shoulder brushing hers again. Whatever waited for them down there, it was clear she wasn’t facing it alone.
The stone steps of the Batcave were colder than Y/N remembered. Each footfall echoed into the yawning dark, swallowed up by the low thrum of generators and the rush of the waterfall outside. She followed behind Damian, trying not to trip on the uneven steps, her heart pounding in her throat. Tim walked beside her, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.
The cave opened before them like something ancient and breathing, the ceiling lost to shadows and the air thick with the hum of machinery. Alfred stood near one of the workstations, rolling up his sleeves as he methodically arranged gauze, antiseptic, and clean wraps on a metal tray.
Nearby, Dick crouched beside Stephanie, who sat on a medical cot with her shoulder bare and newly bandaged. Her face was pale, her smile forced, but she was awake, and seeing her alive made Y/N’s stomach twist in relief and guilt all at once.
Y/N hovered at the edge of the scene, unsure where to stand. She didn’t belong here. The Batcave was sacred ground, full of purpose and tension and ghosts that weren’t hers. Every sound—every breath—seemed to announce that she was an intruder.
Bruce was at the central console, eyes fixed on the glowing monitors as data scrolled across the screen. His presence filled the cave in a way that felt oppressive. He didn’t need to raise his voice or move a muscle to command attention; he simply existed, and the atmosphere bent around him.
When he finally turned toward her, it was like being caught in a searchlight.
Y/N froze under the weight of his gaze. The last time she’d seen Bruce Wayne, they’d been sitting around the long dining table for breakfast, his tone polite, distracted, distant. And not directed at her.
Now, there was nothing polite about the way he looked at her. His eyes were sharp, cold, and focused entirely on her.
“Sit,” he said, motioning toward the chair in front of the console.
Her legs moved before her mind did. She sat stiffly, fingers tightening on the edge of the seat. Tim didn’t sit; he stood behind her instead, his presence solid and protective, his shadow stretching across hers. She could feel the tension radiating off him, silent but constant, like he was ready to step in front of her if he had to.
Bruce’s eyes flicked briefly toward Tim, studying the way he hovered at her back. A single brow lifted, but he said nothing. Instead, his attention returned to Y/N, his tone cool and measured.
“Alfred said you’ve been having trouble. A stalker.”
Y/N swallowed, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I told Alfred, Dick, and Jason everything already.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t shift. “I want to hear it from you.”
Something about the way he said it made her spine straighten. It wasn’t curiosity; it was interrogation. His words were calm, but the sharpness beneath them was unmistakable. She was being cross-examined, not asked for help.
Y/N’s jaw clenched. “There’s nothing else to say. I’ve told everyone what I know. I don’t know who it is, or what they want.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, turning slightly toward the monitors. “This situation is becoming a distraction,” he said, almost to himself. “We have bigger concerns than a personal inconvenience.”
Y/N blinked. For a second, she thought she misheard him. Then she felt her pulse spike.
“A personal inconvenience?” she repeated, her voice rising. “Someone’s following me, and that’s what you call it?”
Bruce’s gaze cut back to her, cold and steady. “Gotham doesn’t stop bleeding because one person feels unsafe. You’re pulling focus from what matters.”
The words stung. Sharp and precise, like a blade slipped between ribs.
Y/N stood before she even realized she was moving, her palms flat against the desk. “What matters?” she snapped. “You mean your work? Gotham? Your endless cases? You know what also matters, Bruce? Your family. Maybe if you actually looked up from your files once in a while, your daughter wouldn’t have almost died.”
The air in the cave went still.
Even Damian turned, eyes narrowing. Dick froze mid-motion, a roll of gauze in hand.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His voice, when it came, was low and cutting. “Careful.” He took a step closer. “You’re the reason Tim has been distracted. The reason Stephanie was shot. He was supposed to be working, not…”
“Not what?” Y/N interrupted, her voice trembling. “Not helping me? Not doing what you should’ve done?”
Her throat burned, but she didn’t stop. “Steph wouldn’t have been shot if you were an actual father instead of a manager pretending to care. The failure of your team is on you, Bruce. That’s what being a leader means.”
The words echoed in the vast space, too loud, too raw.
Bruce didn’t move, didn’t speak. But something flickered in his eyes, something like shock, quickly buried beneath anger.
Y/N’s breath came fast. The adrenaline made her hands shake, but she refused to look away. For the first time since she met him, she saw Bruce Wayne, not the legend, not the billionaire, not Batman, but a man cornered by the truth.
And even as guilt began to twist in her chest, she knew she wouldn’t take it back.
Because she was tired of being quiet in a house full of people who refused to see her.
She wondered if this was how the Wayne girl felt all the time.
It hurts.
The silence that followed Y/N’s words was thick and heavy, pressing down on everyone in the cave. Even the hum of the computers seemed quieter.
Bruce’s face darkened. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice that could have cut glass, he asked, “Are you finished?”
Y/N’s chest heaved as she struggled to calm her breathing. “You asked,” she said quietly.
Bruce stepped closer, his measured calm more intimidating than shouting. “You think you understand what this family is, what we do? You think standing in this cave for five minutes gives you the right to lecture me about leadership?” His voice rose, controlled but sharp. “You have no idea what it means to carry this city. To hold it together while people like you crumble under pressure.”
Y/N recoiled slightly at the words. She wanted to speak, but her throat felt locked.
Tim’s voice came out steady but cold. “Enough.”
Bruce turned his head toward him, his eyes narrowing. “What?”
“I said enough,” Tim repeated. He stepped forward until he was beside Y/N again. “You’re blaming her because you don’t want to admit that you lost control. That you keep losing control.”
“Watch your tone,” Bruce said.
Tim didn’t. “Steph got shot because you were too focused on your cases to notice how stretched everyone was. You treat all of us like pieces on a board and then act surprised when someone gets hurt.”
Bruce’s tone hardened. “You’re out of line.”
“I’m right,” Tim said, louder now. “You can’t even pretend to care. You just needed someone to blame, and she was convenient.”
“Tim,” Damian snapped, stepping forward, his posture sharp and confrontational. “Watch how you speak to him.”
Tim turned toward him. “Why? So he can keep pretending this is all under control?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed to slits. “He is in control. You’re the one who lost focus.”
“Lost focus?” Tim gave a short, humorless laugh. “I was helping someone. Something you wouldn’t understand if it didn’t involve following orders.”
“That’s enough,” Bruce said firmly, his tone final. “Both of you.” He turned his gaze to Damian. “You’ll be assigned to tail Y/N for the next few days. Keep watch, discreetly. If this stalker resurfaces, handle it.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
Bruce ignored her and turned to Tim. “You’re back on surveillance duty. Focus on the active cases. I want everything ready before tonight.”
Tim stared at him, disbelief flickering across his face. “You’re serious? Damian? You’re assigning him to her?”
“Damian is capable,” Bruce said simply.
“She doesn’t need a bodyguard who treats people like targets,” Tim shot back. “I should stay with her.”
Bruce didn’t look up from the files he was sorting. “You’ve been distracted enough. Damian will handle it.”
Dick, still near Stephanie, looked up sharply. “Bruce, maybe that’s not the best call,” he said carefully. “You know how Damian can be. If Y/N’s already shaken, having him around isn’t exactly comforting.”
“Damian can do the job,” Bruce said, tone flat and final. “End of discussion.”
Tim gave a bitter snort, leaning back against the console. “Right. End of discussion. Like always.” His voice dropped, full of quiet anger. “You didn’t even ask about the stalker. You dragged her down here just to yell at her.”
Bruce didn’t respond. He opened a folder on the console, the blue light from the monitor casting sharp shadows across his face. Without looking up, he slid a new case file across the desk toward Tim’s computer. “There’s your next assignment,” he said. “Handle it.”
Tim stared at the file, then at Bruce. “You really don’t care, do you?”
Bruce didn’t answer. He turned back to the screen, his focus already elsewhere.
Y/N could feel Tim’s frustration radiating beside her, the betrayal burning in the air between them. The sound of the waterfall filled the silence again, cold and distant, as if the cave itself wanted to swallow the argument whole.
Dick exchanged a look with Alfred, who only sighed quietly and went back to cleaning the blood-stained gauze.
Y/N lowered her head, her hands trembling slightly. She had wanted to prove that she could hold her own in this family, that she wasn’t an outsider anymore. But now, all she felt was smaller. Like the weight of Gotham itself had shifted onto her shoulders.
And Bruce’s silence, colder than anything he could have said, made it clear that whatever trust this family shared, she wasn’t part of it yet.
Chapter 7: 5D
Chapter Text
Damian followed Y/N up the grand staircase, his footsteps a soft rhythm behind her. She could feel his presence even when he wasn’t speaking—sharp, observant, judgmental. When she reached her room, she turned around, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“You don’t have to follow me inside,” she said flatly, her voice tight from exhaustion. “I’m not going to suddenly disappear.”
Damian’s jaw tensed. “Father told me to stay with you,” he replied, tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “If you disappear again, I’ll be the one blamed for it.”
Y/N frowned. “Disappear again?”
Damian stepped past her, standing in the middle of her room like he owned the space. His sharp eyes scanned the shelves, the open laptop, the scattered papers on the desk. “You attract trouble,” he said simply. “It would be irresponsible not to monitor you.”
Y/N let out a bitter laugh, taking a step closer. “Monitor me? What am I, a suspect? I didn’t ask to be part of this circus.”
Damian’s gaze flicked to her, cold and unmoved. “Neither did I. Yet here I am, forced to babysit someone who can’t even take care of herself.”
Her stomach twisted. The words hit harder than she wanted to admit. “You think I want this?” she shot back, voice cracking. “You think I want someone stalking me, want to feel like I’m suffocating every time I walk out the door? You think I asked for any of this?”
Damian didn’t respond right away. His expression softened for half a second, but he buried it quickly under his usual detached mask. “Regardless,” he said quietly, “you’re still my responsibility now.”
Y/N took a shaky breath and turned away, muttering under her breath. “Great. Another babysitter.”
She sat down on her bed, arms around her knees, refusing to look at him. Damian stood silently for a while before moving to sit near the window, eyes scanning the yard outside, his back to her. The silence stretched long and tense, broken only by the faint sound of the grandfather clock down the hall.
Y/N leaned her head back against the wall, the weight of everything settling heavily in her chest. Damian didn’t want to be here, and she didn’t want him here—but for now, neither of them had a choice.
It was the kind of uneasy truce that came from mutual resentment—and just a touch of understanding neither wanted to admit.
Y/N stood in the middle of her room, arms crossed, trying to process the fact that Damian Wayne, the youngest, most serious member of the family, was standing just inside her doorway like a soldier awaiting orders.
“So…” she said, narrowing her eyes, “where exactly are you planning to sleep?”
Damian blinked once, slow and deliberate, as though the question itself was beneath him. “Sleep?” he repeated, tone clipped.
“Yes,” Y/N said, already exasperated. “You know, that thing humans do? In beds? Preferably not in my room.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to argue, but instead, he gave a short nod and turned on his heel, leaving without another word.
Y/N let out a long sigh. “Finally,” she muttered, rubbing her face. The whole situation had her nerves in a chokehold—being stalked, then babysat, all while trapped in this mansion full of people who only talked in mission briefings. She could barely think straight anymore.
She took it as a silent surrender and decided to shower, hoping the heat might loosen the anxiety in her chest. The bathroom steamed up quickly, fog curling along the edges of the mirror, softening her reflection. She tried not to think—tried to pretend that everything was normal, that she wasn’t being followed or watched.
When she came out twenty minutes later, wrapped in her towel and rubbing her damp hair with another, she froze.
There, right beside her bed, was a small mattress neatly made with crisp sheets and a pillow. And on that mattress, Damian was crouched, methodically arranging a folded blanket like a soldier setting up camp.
Y/N screamed.
“WHAT—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Damian flinched, wincing, and covered his ears. “Must you be so loud?” he snapped, glaring up at her. “It is far too early in the night for you to act hysterical.”
Y/N pointed at the mattress, voice trembling with disbelief. “You brought a bed into my room. Into my room. Are you insane?”
“I am fulfilling my assignment,” Damian replied flatly, straightening up. “You are under surveillance until Father deems otherwise. Proximity is essential.”
“That’s not proximity, that’s invasion,” Y/N shot back, stepping forward and grabbing the edge of the mattress. “You can’t just…” She tugged hard, but it didn’t move an inch. Damian’s small hands held it firmly in place.
“Do not strain yourself,” he said calmly. “You will only embarrass yourself further.”
Y/N groaned and dropped it, rubbing her temples. “You are unbelievable. Fine. You can sleep there. Just tonight. After that, we’re finding somewhere else for you.”
Damian gave a faint, approving hum. “That seems logical.”
Y/N muttered something unflattering under her breath and crawled into bed. “Goodnight, Damian.”
There was no response. Only the soft sound of him settling onto the mattress. She stared at the ceiling until exhaustion finally pulled her under.
By the next day, Y/N was ready to lose her mind.
Wherever she went, Damian was there.
If she walked down the hall, his footsteps echoed behind her. If she went into the kitchen, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching silently. He didn’t even pretend to give her space. At first, she tried to ignore it, then reason with him, but Damian Wayne was nothing if not infuriatingly steadfast.
The only time she got privacy was in the bathroom, though she was almost sure she’d caught him standing right outside the door once or twice.
By lunchtime, her patience snapped.
She slammed her fork onto the table. “Okay, why are you still following me? We’re in the manor. It’s like Fort Knox here.”
Across the table, Damian barely looked up from the book he was reading. “You underestimate how easily someone slipped a letter into your bag,” he said. His tone was sharp but not unkind. “You were unaware it was even there. What happens next time, when it’s something worse?”
Y/N stared at him. “So your solution is to stalk me instead?”
“It is not stalking,” Damian said, flipping a page. “It is protection. There is a difference.”
“You’ve been in every room I’ve gone into for twelve hours.”
“Correction,” Damian said. “Every room except the bathroom.”
Y/N threw up her hands. “Oh, well, that makes it so much better!”
He closed his book with a soft thump, finally meeting her glare with a calm, steady expression. “You have a remarkable ability to attract danger, Y/N. Until that changes, I will remain near you.”
She let out a strained laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
Damian gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps. But at least you are alive.”
The confidence in his tone left her momentarily speechless. He wasn’t mocking her—he was simply stating a fact. Damian Wayne was infuriatingly pragmatic, annoyingly composed, and possibly the most stubborn person she’d ever met.
She slumped back in her chair, rubbing at her temple. “I’m going to lose it,” she muttered under her breath.
Damian stood, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Do what you must,” he said simply. “Just don’t go anywhere alone.”
And with that, he turned, leaving her in the dining room with her half-finished breakfast and a new, unavoidable truth:
She was being watched.
All the time.
Even by the people who were trying to keep her safe.
Y/N woke up to the faint sound of pages turning.
For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming — that the quiet hum beneath her door was just part of some leftover nightmare. But when she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she realized it wasn’t a dream.
Damian Wayne was sitting at the small desk in her room, completely dressed, reading a thick medical textbook, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
She blinked. “You’re kidding.”
He didn’t look up. “About what?”
“You being here. In my room. Again.”
“I said I’d be nearby.”
“Nearby doesn’t mean inside.”
He turned another page. “This house is large. I prefer efficiency.”
Y/N groaned, throwing herself back against the pillow. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
His voice was calm, detached, in that perfectly measured way that made her want to throw something. It wasn’t that Damian was rude — he was just… too much. Too composed, too precise, too quiet in a way that made her feel loud and clumsy by comparison.
When she finally got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, he didn’t even glance up. But when she came out, freshly changed and brushing her damp hair, he was still there.
“Don’t you have class?” she asked.
“I finished my work early.”
“So, you’re just… waiting around? For me?”
He looked up then, eyes as sharp and green as ever. “Until Bruce gives me a reason not to.”
That did it.
“Damian,” she said, crossing her arms, “I can’t keep doing this. You following me around like I’m made of glass. You sleeping on the floor like some… guard dog. It’s weird, and it’s suffocating.”
His jaw flexed. “You didn’t mind when Tim did it. And if you really want me gone, then stop giving people reasons to worry about you.”
Y/N stared at him, stunned. “Tim? Wait. He was just… Excuse me?”
He stood, closing the book with a soft thud. “You think this is convenient for me? Babysitting someone who refuses to take her own safety seriously?”
Her chest tightened with anger and shame. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“And yet, here we are,” he said coldly. “You don’t like being watched? Then learn to protect yourself. Stop being the easiest target in the room.”
That stung more than she wanted to admit.
“Wow,” she said, forcing a bitter laugh. “You really know how to talk to people, don’t you?”
“I’m not trying to talk,” Damian replied evenly. “I’m trying to teach.”
“Yeah, well, you sound more like a lecture than a person.”
His expression didn’t change, but something in his tone softened, barely. “I could train you,” he said finally. “If you’re serious about not needing me here, prove it. Learn how to fight.”
Y/N hesitated. “You’re offering to teach me?”
“I’m offering to stop wasting my time if you can manage to take responsibility for yourself.”
Her fingers curled around her phone, nails biting into her palm. “You know, for someone studying medicine, you have zero bedside manner.”
“I’m not your doctor,” he said simply. “I’m your reality check.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching taut between them.
Finally, Y/N huffed. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll train. Just to get you out of my room.”
“Then meet me in the gym in twenty minutes,” Damian said, already gathering his things. “Wear something you can move in.”
He walked out before she could respond, the quiet of the manor swallowing the last trace of his footsteps.
Y/N sank onto the edge of her bed, glaring at the closed door.
“What is wrong with him?” she muttered, pressing her palms to her face.
But deep down, beneath the irritation, there was a flicker of something else — curiosity, maybe even resolve.
Because training meant she could finally walk through the house without feeling like a caged bird under constant watch, it may be worth it.
And if it meant shutting Damian up for once, that was just a bonus.
Y/N took her time getting ready.
Mostly because she was still processing the fact that she had agreed to let Damian Wayne train her — and partially because she was hoping he’d lose patience and give up before she showed up.
But when she finally stepped out into the hall, the house was quiet, sunlight pouring through the high windows. The stillness made her footsteps sound loud against the polished floor, echoing faintly through the corridors.
She’d almost made it to the grand staircase when a familiar voice spoke up from behind her.
“Off to somewhere in such a hurry, Miss Y/N?”
Y/N jumped a little before relaxing at the sight of Alfred, standing at the end of the hall with a folded towel over one arm and that usual, patient smile.
“Oh... Uh, yeah,” she said awkwardly. “Apparently I’ve got a… training session?”
Alfred’s brows lifted ever so slightly. “Training session?”
“Yeah. With Damian.”
That got his attention.
“Well,” Alfred said after a pause, “that’s rather unexpected.”
Y/N frowned. “Why? He said he trains all the time.”
“Oh, he does,” Alfred replied lightly, “but I can’t recall the last time he volunteered to train someone else.”
Before she could respond, another voice chimed in from the stairway.
“Wait… Did I hear that right?”
Dick was leaning against the railing, hair still damp from his morning shower, dressed down in sweats and an old Blüdhaven PD T-shirt. His grin was wide, bright, and clearly entertained.
“Damian’s training you?”
Y/N sighed. “Apparently. Something about me being a walking target or whatever.”
Dick let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That’s… wow. That’s rare.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because,” Dick said, stepping closer, “Damian doesn’t usually do well with… cooperation. He’s more of a ‘solo mission’ kind of guy. So, for him to offer…” He looked at Alfred. “That’s new.”
Alfred hummed thoughtfully. “It might be that Master Damian sees potential in Miss Y/N. Or perhaps he’s attempting to redirect his energy into something… productive.”
Dick grinned. “You mean bossy.”
Y/N gave a half-smile, shaking her head. “I’m starting to think I made a mistake saying yes.”
“Oh, no,” Dick said cheerfully. “You’re fine. Just—uh—don’t let him intimidate you. He’s all sharp words and eye rolls until he decides you’re worth listening to.”
“That’s… comforting,” Y/N muttered.
“Still,” Alfred said with a small, knowing look, “I believe this will be good for you both. Master Damian could use the practice in patience.”
“And Y/N could use a sparring partner who won’t go easy on her,” Dick added.
“Wait, who said anything about sparring?” she asked quickly.
Dick just smiled. “You’ll see.”
Alfred, ever composed, handed her a bottle of water and a towel from the stack he was carrying. “For what it’s worth, Miss Y/N, try not to take Master Damian’s tone personally. He’s far more protective than he lets on.”
Y/N took the items with a small nod. “Thanks. I’ll, uh… try to survive.”
As she headed down the corridor toward the training room, she could still hear Dick’s voice echo faintly behind her.
“She’s brave,” he said.
“Indeed,” Alfred replied. “Though between the two of them, I’m not sure which will prove the greater challenge.”
Y/N snorted under her breath, adjusting her grip on the water bottle.
“Probably him,” she muttered. “Definitely him.”
When she reached the training room door and pushed it open, the faint hum of the treadmill filled the air. Damian was already there: warmup finished, hair tied back, expression unreadable as always.
He glanced up at her, pausing the treadmill, and said simply, “You’re late.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Good morning to you too.”
“Stretch first,” Damian said, already stepping onto the mat. “Then we start.”
“Start what exactly?”
He looked at her like she’d just asked if fire was hot. “Learning how not to get yourself killed.”
Y/N sighed, setting down the towel. “Great. Can’t wait.”
And as Damian began the warm-up sequence: calm, precise, and entirely too serious for this early in the morning, Y/N found herself realizing that Alfred and Dick were right.
This wasn’t just training. It was some kind of test.
And for better or worse, she wasn’t planning on failing it.
The training room was colder than Y/N expected.
Steel and mirrors, a wide mat at the center, heavy bags hanging like silent sentinels along the wall. The faint hum of ventilation mixed with the distant clatter of weights from another section of the manor gym.
Damian stood in the middle of the mat, stretching his wrists with the casual ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Y/N hovered near the doorway, already regretting agreeing to this.
“So,” she said slowly, “you’re sure you’re qualified for this?”
Damian turned to her with that infuriating, composed expression. “I’ve been training since I could walk.”
“Right,” she muttered. “And I’ve been playing Animal Crossing since middle school. I don’t think that’s equivalent. I’m doomed.”
He ignored her, motioning her forward. “Warm-up first.”
The words warm-up sounded harmless enough — until about two minutes later, when Y/N realized Damian’s definition of warm-up belonged in a Navy SEAL handbook.
Push-ups. Planks. Lunges. Burpees. Things she’d only ever seen people do on fitness videos while she scrolled on her phone from the couch.
Her arms began to shake after the first set.
By the second, she couldn’t feel them.
By the third, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Damian didn’t seem human. He moved with mechanical precision, controlling his breathing, posture, everything. When she collapsed on the mat, gasping like she’d just run from a serial killer, he stood perfectly still, not even breaking a sweat.
“Stand up,” he said evenly.
Y/N raised a trembling finger. “No.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m dying,” she croaked.
“You’ve barely started,” he said, voice calm but sharp. “You need endurance if you expect to survive an attack.”
“I need oxygen,” she shot back, clutching her knees. “That should come before endurance.”
He stepped closer, unbothered. “You agreed to learn. That means you listen.”
She tried to glare, but she could barely keep her eyes open. “I thought you said warm-up.”
“That was the warm-up.”
Her head snapped up. “That wasn’t training?”
“No.” He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “That was preparation.”
“Oh my god,” she muttered. “I hate you.”
“Noted.”
He gestured toward the mat again. “Now we can begin drills.”
Her jaw dropped. “Drills? You’re joking, right?”
Damian just stared, expression flat. “Do I appear to be joking?”
She groaned, but dragged herself up anyway, every muscle protesting. He showed her how to stand correctly, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hands up near her face. Simple. In theory.
In reality, Y/N couldn’t hold the stance for more than thirty seconds without wobbling.
“Lower your elbows,” Damian said. “You’re exposing your ribs.”
“Lower your standards,” Y/N muttered.
He gave her a look that could cut glass. “If you can’t take this seriously, I won’t waste my time.”
“I am taking it seriously!” she said, throwing a lazy punch that barely reached his shoulder.
He caught her wrist midair, stopping her with insulting ease. “You’re telegraphing your movements.”
“Maybe because my body’s shutting down!”
Damian released her hand and took a small step back, eyes narrowing as if studying a flawed machine. “You lack discipline. And strength.”
“I also lack air,” she wheezed.
“Then breathe properly.”
“Damian, if I breathe any harder, I’ll hyperventilate.”
He said nothing for a moment, arms folded as he observed her trembling form. When he finally spoke again, his tone was softer: not kind, exactly, but less clinical. “Fear makes people reckless. Weakness makes them easy targets. You have both. I intend to fix that.”
Y/N wanted to argue, to bite back something sharp, but she didn’t have the energy. She just sank back down on the mat, half sitting, half collapsing.
“I think I’m broken,” she said weakly.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine. I think I saw the light.”
He knelt beside her, checking her pulse like he was more doctor than fighter. His movements were efficient, detached, but not cruel. “You’re just dehydrated. Drink.”
She blinked at him, dazed. “I hate that you sound so calm while I’m literally dying.”
“That’s because I’m not dying.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
A faint twitch pulled at his mouth, not quite a smile, but something close. “A little.”
When she didn’t respond, just sat there panting, Damian stood and offered his hand. She took it reluctantly, her legs wobbling as he pulled her up.
“That’s enough for today,” he said.
“Enough? I didn’t even finish one round.”
“You didn’t finish the warm-up,” he corrected.
Her eyes went wide, pure disbelief melting into outrage. “You’re kidding me. That wasn’t even the real thing?”
“No,” he said simply. “You’re not ready for the real thing.”
She stared at him for a long second, then gave a breathless laugh. “You’re the worst personal trainer ever.”
“Good thing I’m not a personal trainer.”
She groaned and leaned back against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor again. “I think I’ll just let the stalker get me next time.”
Damian crossed his arms again, impassive. “You won’t say that once you can fight back.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, squinting up at him. “When’s that supposed to happen, next century?”
“Next month,” he said seriously. “If you commit.”
She stared at him again, waiting for the sarcasm, but there was none. His tone was steady, his gaze unwavering.
For a moment, she almost admired him for it. Almost.
Then her arms gave out again, and the feeling passed.
Damian handed her a towel. “Same time tomorrow. Earlier.”
She took it, muttering, “You’re a menace.”
“Thank you.”
He started packing away the training pads, and Y/N just sat there, breathing hard, watching him move with that precise, practiced rhythm. For someone who claimed to hate babysitting her, he sure took the task seriously.
Maybe too seriously.
By the time he turned back, she’d already sprawled out on the mat, one hand over her face. “You’re going to kill me before the stalker does.”
Damian just gave her a long, quiet look. “Not if I make you stronger first.”
Y/N had no idea how she made it from the training room to the couch in the living room. One second, she was face-first on the mat. Next, Alfred was placing a cold compress against her forehead, the faint scent of antiseptic and chamomile wrapping around her like comfort itself.
“Good heavens,” Alfred murmured, dabbing at her temple as if she’d returned from battle instead of barely surviving a warm-up. “You look as though you’ve run a marathon.”
“I think I did,” she croaked, eyes half open. “Except the marathon was in hell, and Damian was the event coordinator.”
From the armchair opposite her, Damian sat perfectly upright: posture straight, expression unreadable, still dressed in his black training gear. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze flicked toward her every few seconds, like he was ensuring she hadn’t died on the couch.
“She’s exaggerating,” he said finally.
“Am I?” Y/N turned her head toward him, wincing at the movement. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw my life flash before my eyes somewhere between the fifth and sixth push-up.”
Damian’s mouth twitched. “You only did three.”
Y/N groaned and covered her face with her hand. “I hate this house.”
“Now, now,” Alfred said, his voice the steady calm that could soothe even Bruce mid-crisis. “Let’s not be dramatic. You did quite well for your first day.”
“Did you see me? I looked like a fish learning to walk.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Alfred said gently, setting a cup of water on the coffee table in front of her. “You should be proud you tried at all.”
Before Y/N could respond, a voice came from the hallway; familiar, warm, and far too amused.
“Well, look who survived boot camp,” Dick said, walking in with that easy stride that made it hard to tell if he was serious or teasing. “I half expected to find you unconscious in the gym.”
“I almost was,” Y/N mumbled. “How did you know?”
“Because everyone’s heard your yelling echoing through the manor,” he said, leaning against the arm of the couch with a grin. “Sounded like you were being exorcised.”
Y/N cracked an eye open. “I was being exorcised. By Damian’s workout routine.”
Dick laughed, the kind of laugh that instantly made the heavy air in the manor feel lighter. He turned his grin toward Damian. “So, the legendary Damian Wayne actually volunteered to help someone? Did you hit your head in med school?”
Damian’s glare could’ve frozen lava. “She was hopeless. Someone had to make her less of a liability.”
Dick smirked. “Aw, he’s invested. That’s cute.”
“I’m not invested,” Damian said sharply.
“You’re literally sitting here watching her breathe,” Dick countered.
Damian didn’t respond. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward Y/N again as if to confirm she was still breathing.
Y/N snorted weakly. “You know, for someone who hates me being around, he sure won’t leave.”
Damian’s glare cut to her this time. “If I leave, you’ll likely injure yourself trying to stand.”
“She’s got you there,” Dick said cheerfully.
Alfred sighed, though there was the faintest upward curl to his mouth. “Boys, if you’re quite finished.” He glanced down at Y/N, adjusting the compress once more. “Rest now. Drink your water. And perhaps next time, you might stretch before allowing Master Damian to try and break you.”
Y/N groaned. “There’s going to be a next time?”
“Of course,” Alfred said, standing up and smoothing his sleeves. “Consistency builds progress. And perhaps next session, you might make it to the end of the warm-up.”
Y/N gaped at him. “You’re all against me.”
Dick chuckled and crouched beside her, offering a mock salute. “Welcome to the family.”
As he stood, Damian rose too, grabbing a towel from the back of the chair. “You should hydrate,” he said, tone flat but oddly careful.
“I’m not sure I can lift the glass,” Y/N muttered.
Damian set it in her hand anyway. “Then adapt.”
She rolled her eyes but took a small sip, mumbling under her breath, “You’re exhausting.”
“I know,” he said, already turning toward the door.
Dick watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief. “Never thought I’d see the day. Damian Wayne, personal trainer and professional babysitter.”
Alfred hummed lowly as he collected the first-aid supplies. “Stranger things have happened under this roof, Master Richard.”
Y/N leaned back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut as her muscles throbbed with every heartbeat. For the first time since she arrived at the manor, she wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to leave.
Because somehow, in the chaos of bruises and bickering, she felt just a little less alone.
The pastry shop was small, sunlit, and smelled like heaven. Warm sugar hung in the air, mingling with roasted espresso and the faint buttery scent of croissants fresh from the oven. It was the kind of place that seemed immune to Gotham’s usual gloom, a pocket of calm carved out between the city’s noise.
It was smaller and more niche than La Chanterelle, but at least it wasn’t that shop.
Maybe Thomas doesn’t know this exists. Maybe this could be hers.
Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, if only for a moment. Maybe it was the sugar, the exhaustion, or maybe it was just that Damian Wayne: stoic, untouchable Damian, was actually sitting across from her in a normal café, eating a cherry tart like a regular person.
“You’re sure this counts as a ‘job well done’?” he asked, voice dry but not unkind.
“I survived you,” she said, dropping into her seat and setting down the plate. “That’s an accomplishment worthy of dessert.”
“You collapsed after stretching,” Damian replied flatly.
She pointed her fork at him. “You didn’t specify how long the warm-up was supposed to last! You said ‘let’s start’ and then tried to kill me.”
“That was ten minutes,” he said.
Y/N groaned, slouching back. “Then I did amazing for a rookie. Some of us don’t grow up training in a cave.”
A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile, not exactly—but it was close enough to make her grin.
“I’ll admit,” Damian said, taking a measured sip of his coffee, “I didn’t expect you to ask for another session.”
“I didn’t say another session,” Y/N said quickly. “I said sugar. Pastries. Preferably every time I survive one of your ‘warm-ups.’”
He gave her a look that was half disapproval, half exasperation. “You believe dessert is an appropriate reward for failure?”
“I believe dessert is always appropriate,” she said, and took a very large bite of her croissant in defiance.
Damian leaned back, arms crossed. “I see you still lack discipline.”
“And you still lack fun,” she said, through a mouthful of pastry. “So I think we balance each other out.”
That earned her a quiet scoff and the barest hint of something else in his eyes, amusement, maybe even respect. It was strange seeing him like this, out of the manor, not surrounded by the shadows of his family legacy. He looked almost… normal. Still impossibly composed, but human.
“So,” Y/N said, brushing powdered sugar off her fingers, “pre-med, huh? Didn’t see that coming.”
“Why not?”
“You just don’t strike me as the bedside-manner type,” she teased.
“I won’t need bedside manner,” Damian said, cutting neatly into his tart. “I’ll be in surgical trauma. The patients will be unconscious.”
Y/N blinked. “Oh my god, that’s so on-brand for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing! Just… yeah. That tracks,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. “But seriously, that’s impressive. You want to fix people after…” She trailed off, her expression softening. “After what your family does.”
Damian looked up at her then, his green eyes unreadable. “Someone has to.”
For a heartbeat, silence settled between them, quiet, but not uncomfortable. Y/N stirred her coffee, feeling something like warmth bloom in her chest. This version of Damian—the one who wasn’t just a Wayne, who wasn’t just sharp words and sharper edges. She liked it.
And for once, she didn’t feel completely out of place sitting next to him.
Her gaze drifted lazily to the window as she sipped her drink, half-listening to him talk about anatomy labs and surgical rotations. The morning light caught on the glass, bright and soft—and then her stomach dropped.
Outside, on the other side of the glass, Thomas stood on the sidewalk.
His hands were in his pockets, posture casual, expression friendly, but his eyes were locked directly on her. When he lifted one hand in a slow, almost mocking wave, Y/N froze. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
“Y/N?” Damian’s voice was distant, like it was coming from underwater.
Thomas’s wave faltered. His gaze flicked past her—to Damian—and in an instant, his face hardened. The easy smile vanished, replaced by something sharp, something cold.
The breath Y/N had been holding escaped in a sharp gasp. Her chair scraped against the floor as she lurched to her feet. “He’s here,” she whispered. “He’s right there.”
Damian was already standing, one hand coming up instinctively to steady her, the other hovering near his side. His head swivels to look through the glass. “Who?”
“Thomas,” she said, voice trembling. “He was outside. He waved at me. And then… He saw you… And he—he glared, and…”
She stopped herself, realizing how wild she sounded. But the panic wouldn’t stop. Her throat felt tight, her skin cold.
Damian turned to look out the window, eyes sharp and scanning. There was nothing there now, just a few people walking dogs, a couple with a stroller, the soft glare of the morning sun.
“He’s gone,” Damian said finally, his tone careful, controlled.
“I’m not imagining it,” she said, breath catching. “I swear, he was there…”
“I believe you think you saw him,” he said quietly, the words deliberate, even. “But there’s no one there now. We should go.”
Her heart sank at the phrasing, at the calm detachment of it. She didn’t even argue when he took her coat and steered her toward the door.
The ride back to the manor was silent. The hum of the car’s engine was the only sound. Damian drove with perfect precision, eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight. Y/N sat curled against the window, replaying what she’d seen again and again in her head: Thomas’s face, that look of anger, the way he disappeared before Damian could see.
She hated the way her hands still shook. Hated that she’d ruined the moment—that for once, when things felt normal, her fear had to come crashing in.
When they finally pulled into the manor’s long drive, Damian parked but didn’t get out right away. He turned his head just enough to look at her, his voice quiet.
“Next time,” he said, “you tell me before you freeze.”
Y/N nodded weakly, not trusting herself to speak.
As they stepped out of the car, she trailed behind him, her chest tight with a creeping sense of shame. He’d tried to help her, and she’d crumbled at a shadow.
She didn’t see the look Damian cast toward the dark line of trees as they entered the manor, sharp, assessing, and cold.
Because while he hadn’t said it aloud, he wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t seen something.
The drive back to the manor was steeped in silence. Gotham’s skyline rolled by in smudged hues of slate and amber, the early evening fog making the city look half-asleep, half-haunted. Damian’s eyes stayed on the road, the rhythm of the windshield wipers the only sound between them.
Y/N sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her hands clenched tight in her lap. The image of Thomas, standing outside the café window, waving that small, knowing wave, played on a cruel loop in her mind. Every time she blinked, his face appeared again. The frown when he saw Damian beside her. The glare. The sudden disappearance.
“Thomas,” Damian said suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet.
Y/N startled, turning her head toward him. “What?”
“You said that name earlier.” His voice was flat, but his gaze flickered briefly toward her. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t think it mattered. I wasn’t even sure if it was his real name. I thought maybe he made it up. He just… said it once, when I met him at the bookstore. Before everything started. He called himself Thomas Vale.”
“Thomas Vale,” Damian repeated quietly, as though committing it to memory. His gloved hands flexed against the steering wheel. “A full name. That will help.”
The rest of the drive passed in heavy silence. Y/N could feel him thinking beside her, that quiet, calculating energy that all the Waynes seemed to have, something sharp and disciplined, like a knife being honed.
When the manor gates came into view, she finally exhaled, the tension in her shoulders slackening by a fraction. Alfred was already waiting at the steps, as if he’d sensed their return before the car even pulled into the drive.
“Welcome home, Miss Y/N,” Alfred greeted, his calm voice grounding her instantly. “You look as though you could use a bit of tea. And perhaps a sandwich or two.”
“Always the remedy,” Y/N said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Damian lingered in the doorway, watching as Alfred ushered her toward the sitting room. “Spend some time with him,” he said simply. “You’ll feel better.”
Y/N nodded, too tired to argue, and let herself sink into the familiar comfort of the manor.
Alfred set a tray down with his usual precision: tea steaming in porcelain cups, small sandwiches arranged neatly, and a few shortbread cookies she didn’t remember asking for.
“You’ve had quite a day,” he said, stirring her tea just the way she liked.
“Yeah,” Y/N murmured. “You could say that.”
As Alfred fussed gently over her, Damian descended the steps into the Batcave. The hum of the computers filled the cavern, a low, steady heartbeat in the shadows.
He sat down at one of the consoles, his jaw tight as he typed the name into the database.
Thomas Vale.
The screen flickered once before the data was populated.
Thomas Vale.
Age: 37.
Occupation: Professor of Finance, Gotham State University.
Residence: 1253 Kane Boulevard, Apartment 5D.
A faculty photo appeared beside the file.
A man with kind brown eyes, soft features, and dark hair that curled slightly at the ends. He wore glasses, an oversized sweater, and a placid smile that looked almost too harmless.
Damian frowned. He had expected the file to come up empty, to prove that “Thomas Vale” was a fabrication, a taunt from someone who wanted to unnerve Y/N. But this was an actual person. Registered. Employed. Normal.
Too normal.
“This is the man?” Damian muttered under his breath. “A professor?”
He clicked through more records. Employment verification, public lectures, and tax filings. Every trace of real life.
And yet… something about it felt wrong. The timestamps were neat. Too neat. Too perfectly arranged.
Still, it was something. And Damian Wayne wasn’t known for waiting around.
Within the hour, he was on his motorcycle, the roar of the engine swallowed by Gotham’s smog-thick air. The address wasn’t far—an apartment complex just off Kane Boulevard, a block from the university. The kind of place where the walls were too thin and the rent too high.
He parked in the shadows, scanning the rows of mailboxes near the entrance. 5D – Vale, T.
He was about to head inside when an older woman stepped out, juggling two grocery bags. Damian’s sharp eyes caught her hesitation when she saw him.
“Excuse me,” he said, softening his tone just enough. “I’m looking for Thomas Vale. Does he live here?”
“Oh! Professor Vale?” she said, tilting her head with a friendly smile. “Yes, he lives up on five. Apartment 5D. Though he’s hardly home these days, always working late at Gotham State. I saw him just this morning, actually. Nice man. Very polite.”
Damian nodded. “Thank you.”
He ascended the stairs two at a time, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. When he reached 5D, he rapped his knuckles on the door once, twice.
The door opened a moment later.
A man stood there, but not the one from the photo. This one was taller, heavier, unshaven, wearing a bathrobe, and holding a mug of coffee. He frowned. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Thomas Vale,” Damian said smoothly. “I have a delivery for him.”
The man blinked. “There’s no one named Thomas here. Try 5D.”
Damian’s gaze flicked to the brass plate beside the door. 5D. “This is 5D, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” the man said, tone flat. “Like I said, no Thomas here.”
Before Damian could press, a voice called from behind him.
“Did you find him?”
It was the same old woman from earlier, smiling brightly from the stairwell. “He’s in 5D!” she said helpfully.
The man at the door glared. “Lady, I just told you…” He almost slams the door shut. “Try 5D,” he says, and then the door clicks shut.
Damian froze.
He stared at the closed door, the number gleaming faintly under the hall light. 5D.
But if the neighbor swore that Thomas lived there, why did the man inside deny even knowing him?
And why did the man say 5D? He lives at 5D. What is going on?
His instincts prickled. Something wasn’t right.
He stood there for a long moment, every sense alert, listening to the faint creaks and whispers of the hallway. The air felt… heavier somehow. Charged.
Finally, he turned and left, the sound of his boots echoing softly against the linoleum.
By the time he reached his bike, his brows were furrowed so tightly they nearly met.
When he returned to the manor, it was close to midnight. The lights in the Batcave glowed faintly blue, casting sharp shadows on the walls.
Damian set his helmet down, peeled off his gloves, and sat back at the computer.
He typed the name again, Thomas Vale, and pressed enter.
The system processed the query. Then blinked.
No results found.
Damian leaned forward, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He checked again. Then again.
Still nothing.
The file that had existed an hour ago —photo, address, employment records —was gone.
Not deleted. Not redacted. Completely nonexistent.
As if the man had never existed at all.
For a long moment, Damian just sat there, staring at the empty screen, the cursor blinking at him like a pulse. His reflection flickered faintly against the monitor—tense jaw, tired eyes, the faintest hint of unease creeping in.
He didn’t scare easily. But something about this, about the way information had simply vanished, made his stomach twist.
He leaned back slowly, fingers steepled.
Maybe Y/N wasn’t imagining things.
And if she wasn’t…
Then someone—or something—was watching them both.
Chapter 8: Galas and Gaps
Chapter Text
Rows of monitors glowed faintly in the darkness, each screen reflecting off the polished black of Damian’s uniform. He had changed out of his training clothes hours ago, but sleep was the last thing on his mind.
His fingers moved fast across the keyboard, precise and deliberate. The name on the search bar glared back at him in stark white text.
Thomas Vale.
The system searched. Then blinked once.
No Records Found.
Damian frowned. He tried again, narrowing the parameters. Nothing. He expanded them—still nothing.
He switched databases, moving from Gotham’s public records to government archives, to university databases, to the encrypted feeds Bruce’s systems pulled from Interpol and the League of Assassins’ shadow network. The results didn’t change.
Every trace of the man had vanished.
Damian leaned back, arms folded, eyes narrowing at the screen. The last time he had seen that name, it was attached to a complete university staff profile. A photo. A professional biography. Contact information. Course schedule. The file had existed. He was sure of it.
He typed faster, trying to access his saved searches. The screen blinked again. No results. He switched to his personal backup—he always kept one, even for temporary case files. It was gone there, too.
He opened the folder where he had stored the headshot, the plain, washed-out image of the man with brown hair and glasses. The photo that had screamed normal in a way that felt practiced.
The folder was empty.
Damian’s pulse ticked once, sharp and low in his throat. He opened his secondary backup drive, the one not even Bruce had access to. Nothing. No trace of the file name, no cached thumbnails, no history. As though the image had never existed.
He tried to restore the last autosave. The screen blinked once more. Then the cursor froze. The words ACCESS ERROR appeared in red.
“What the hell,” he muttered.
For the first time in a long time, he felt the faint sting of unease. He scrolled back through his recent history, trying to find even the most basic metadata—a timestamp, a link, anything. The search bar refused to cooperate.
Then, without warning, one of the monitors flickered. The system rebooted.
When it came back online, his search log had been cleared.
The emptiness on the screen was louder than any alarm.
Damian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being outmaneuvered, and whoever this Thomas Vale was—or whoever had erased him—had access to systems that should have been unreachable. Even the League hadn’t been able to vanish someone this completely.
He stood slowly, his eyes moving across the monitors. The faint light of the screens made the shadows around the Cave seem deeper, more deliberate.
“Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “If the system won’t tell me, I’ll rely on memory.”
He closed his eyes, conjuring the picture as clearly as he could. The man’s face was smooth, unremarkable. Light brown hair. Glasses with round frames. A sweater that hung awkwardly off his shoulders. The kind of face you might glance at once and forget immediately. But there was something else, something he remembered from the photo that he couldn’t quite name. A stillness behind the eyes. A tension around the mouth. Like someone trying to hold a shape that didn’t quite fit.
He could recall the image, but not the background. The details slipped away like sand between his fingers.
His lips pressed into a thin line. Damian prided himself on precision, on remembering everything down to the smallest pattern. But even his memory felt fogged, tampered with. It made the back of his neck prickle.
His stomach sank.
Someone wasn’t just deleting things. They were watching.
The muscles in Damian’s jaw flexed as he shut down the system entirely. The monitors' lights dimmed until the Cave returned to near-darkness. Only the soft echo of dripping water and the faint rustle of bats filled the silence.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing evenly.
He should tell Bruce. That was protocol. Report it, have it analyzed, and make sure it wasn’t another rogue AI or League infiltration. But he knew what Bruce would do. He would take over. Lock it down. Keep Y/N away from anything dangerous. The case would become a matter of containment. Y/N would be placed under surveillance, stripped of any autonomy.
And Damian would be benched.
He had spent his entire life fighting for independence. He wasn’t about to hand this over just because the files vanished.
He turned back to the dark monitors, remembering the way Y/N had said Thomas’s name, the tension in her voice, the tremor she had tried to hide.
No. He would not tell Bruce. Not yet.
He would find out who Thomas Vale was on his own.
When Damian emerged from the Cave, the manor was still. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the treetops outside. He walked down the hallway silently, his boots making almost no sound against the polished floor. The portraits lining the corridor watched him pass, Wayne ancestors painted in deep oils, every face a study in judgment and silence.
He stopped for a brief moment outside Y/N’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and the faint sound of breathing came from inside. She was asleep. He could see the corner of her blanket through the narrow slit of light.
Something twisted in his chest, something uncomfortably close to protectiveness.
He turned away and walked back toward his own room.
By the time morning light flooded through the windows, Y/N was sitting at the kitchen counter, poking at a bowl of oatmeal like it had personally wronged her. She was sore, every inch of her body protesting from the previous day’s training session.
Damian was already in the gym by the time she arrived, moving through a kata sequence that made her tired just watching.
“You’re psychotic,” she muttered, setting down her water bottle.
“You’re late,” Damian replied, not pausing his movements.
“By two minutes.”
“That is two minutes you could have spent building endurance.”
“Or drinking coffee.”
He gave her a pointed look. “Coffee will not save you.”
“It might.”
The training session began shortly after. Within ten minutes, Y/N was on the verge of collapse. The warm-up alone felt like punishment. She was bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath while Damian stood perfectly composed beside her, not even sweating.
“This isn’t training,” she said between breaths. “This is homicide.”
“You are improving,” he replied evenly.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
“Then you are doing it correctly.”
By the end of the hour, she was lying flat on the mat, one hand half-raised in surrender.
“I quit. I resign from being your student.”
“You lasted longer than yesterday,” he said, tone almost approving.
“Because my soul left my body.”
He tilted his head. “Then your body has potential.”
“I hate you,” she said, too tired to mean it.
He stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “No, you don’t.”
Y/N sighed, staring at the ceiling. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s wrong, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been… off,” she said. “Ever since last night.”
He hesitated, then said simply, “Nothing happened.”
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
“Then be grateful,” he said. “If there is a lie, it is a lie that protects you.”
Before she could press further, he turned and left the room, his steps sharp and measured.
When she went downstairs later, Alfred greeted her with tea and a soft smile.
“Miss Y/N,” he said. “I take it the training has not broken you entirely?”
“Almost,” she said. “I think I’ve permanently fused with the mat.”
“Then progress has been made.”
“Alfred,” she groaned, “you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” he said, pouring tea into her cup. “That is why I have a much more pleasant proposal for the afternoon. Mr. Wayne has requested that you attend the upcoming gala. I thought perhaps we might spend the day finding you something suitable to wear.”
She blinked. “Bruce wants me at a gala? Really?”
“Indeed,” Alfred said. “It appears he wishes you to be seen.”
“Or used,” she muttered. “If Thomas is really out there, this is his way of setting bait.”
Alfred gave her a long, unreadable, calm look. “Sometimes, Miss Y/N, bait is not a trap but a declaration. Perhaps Mr. Wayne wants whoever is watching to know you are not alone.”
Y/N looked down at her tea. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just part of the plan.”
Alfred smiled faintly. “In this house, plans rarely survive first contact. But family does.”
His words sat with her, warm and heavy, as the afternoon sun began to spill across the manor’s old stone floors.
By the time Alfred called her to get ready, that warmth hadn’t faded; it followed her down the hall, through the soft hum of the manor, and out the door.
The drive into the city felt almost peaceful. Almost.
Y/N watched the skyline pass through the car window, the rooftops slick with the remnants of last night’s rain. Gotham had a way of being beautiful when it wasn’t trying, when the chaos took a breath and just existed. Alfred hummed softly as he drove, a familiar, comforting sound that almost masked the tension sitting tight in her shoulders. Damian sat in the backseat beside her, scrolling on his phone in practiced silence, the glow from the screen painting his face in pale blue light.
“I still don’t get why Bruce wants me there,” Y/N murmured, breaking the quiet. “It’s a gala, not a family dinner.”
“Master Bruce believes your presence will be beneficial,” Alfred said, his eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “He’s quite intent on you attending. And, if I may say so, I find that reason enough.”
“Beneficial how?” she pressed. “You mean for me or for him?”
“That depends on the night,” Alfred replied smoothly.
Damian glanced up, briefly. “If you despise social gatherings so much, do not attend.”
Y/N shot him a sideways look. “Bruce would kill me.”
“Unlikely,” Damian said dryly. “He’d simply lecture you until you wished for death instead.”
Alfred coughed to hide a laugh. “Let us focus on the matter at hand, finding the perfect dress.”
The boutique Alfred chose was an old Gotham staple, Maison d’Etoile. It was elegant but not pretentious, all soft gold lighting, glass cases, and the faint perfume of jasmine and linen. Dresses in every imaginable color hung like artwork on gleaming racks.
The moment they stepped inside, Y/N felt the knot of anxiety twist tighter. She’d never been one for dress shopping. Too many mirrors. Too much attention. Her reflection always felt like a stranger pretending to be her.
“Now,” Alfred said, stepping aside to let a salesperson greet them. “Let us find something that makes you feel radiant.”
“I don’t know, Alfred,” she mumbled. “I haven’t exactly felt radiant lately.”
He gave her that patient, knowing look, the one that made it impossible to argue. “Then today is a fine day to start.”
Damian trailed behind them, hands in his pockets, scanning the racks with an expression that screamed quiet disapproval.
“You are indecisive,” he said, plucking a few hangers without hesitation. “Try these.”
Y/N blinked. “You just… grabbed random dresses.”
“Incorrect. I chose what suits your frame and skin tone. It is called observation.”
She huffed. “You’d make a great stylist. You know, when medicine doesn’t work out.”
“Blasphemy,” he muttered.
The first dress was pale blue and shapeless, doing her no favors. The second was deep red and far too tight, and she nearly tripped walking out of the fitting room. Damian’s comment, “You lack coordination,” earned him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
By the fourth outfit, she was ready to give up entirely. Her stomach twisted as she saw herself reflected from every angle. Nothing looked right. Her arms looked too soft, her waist too wide, her posture wrong.
Alfred’s voice was gentle. “You are far too harsh on yourself, Miss Y/N.”
She managed a weak smile. “Maybe I’m just realistic.”
“Perhaps,” Alfred said, “but you are looking through the wrong mirror.”
Before she could answer, Damian appeared with another hanger. This time, the dress was black. Simple, elegant, and quietly daring. The fabric was soft and heavy, the slit along one thigh just enough to make her hesitate.
“I can’t pull that off,” she said.
“Yes, you can,” Damian replied matter-of-factly. “You simply lack the conviction to believe it.”
She rolled her eyes but took it anyway.
The black dress fit like it had been waiting for her.
When she stepped out, the boutique fell quiet for a second. Alfred straightened, his eyes crinkling in approval. “There,” he said softly. “That’s our winner.”
Damian gave a slight, approving nod. “You look acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” she repeated.
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Take it or leave it.”
Y/N turned toward the mirror, feeling heat creep up her neck. The fabric hugged her curves without feeling constricting, the slit adding a touch of boldness she hadn’t expected to like. For the first time that day, she didn’t want to hide from her reflection.
Y/N turned toward the mirror, feeling heat creep up her neck. The fabric hugged her curves without feeling constricting, the slit adding a touch of boldness she hadn’t expected to like. For the first time that day, she didn’t want to hide from her reflection.
The salesperson approached with an encouraging smile, her blonde hair swept into a neat twist, and a name tag reading Marianne pinned just above the lapel of her crisp blazer. She looked to be in her early thirties—polished, practiced, the kind of woman who had spent years catering to Gotham’s wealthiest without ever appearing out of place among them. Her lipstick was a soft mauve, her voice smooth and measured.
“It looks beautiful on you,” she said, stepping closer. “If you’d like, I can help tailor it so it fits perfectly.”
Her tone was warm, but there was something about her eyes: sharp, assessing, too intent, that made Y/N’s stomach flutter with a faint, inexplicable unease. Still, she nodded.
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
The fitting room was smaller than she expected, the air faintly perfumed with cedar. Marianne worked efficiently, tugging at seams and pinning fabric with practiced precision, her expression unreadable.
“So,” Marianne said conversationally, “you’re one of the Waynes?”
Y/N smiled a little. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, I recognized you,” Marianne said brightly. “Though I could have sworn your name was Leyla.”
Y/N froze.
Her heart stopped mid-beat, the blood in her body seeming to still all at once. “What?” she whispered.
Marianne continued measuring as if nothing had happened. “Sorry if I prick you, trying to get the last pin in.”
Her tone was casual, offhand. But Y/N couldn’t move. Her throat went dry. Leyla. That name. No one here should know it. No one could know it.
She tried to steady her breathing, but her chest hurt. The walls of the fitting room felt like they were closing in.
“Almost done,” Marianne chirped. “I’ll make sure it’s ready before the gala. You’ll turn heads, I promise.”
Y/N swallowed hard and forced a laugh. “Yeah… I bet.”
She was out of the fitting room in seconds, beelining for Alfred and Damian.
Damian was standing near the counter, Alfred by his side, discussing payment details. Both turned immediately when she emerged. Her smile was too broad, too quick, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“All done?” Alfred asked.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “Just… needed some air. Can we go soon?”
Alfred’s brows drew together, but his tone remained calm. “Of course. Perhaps some shopping at those niche stores you like..”
Y/N nodded numbly. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
As they stepped out of the boutique, the cold air hit her like a slap. Her stomach still churned. Her thoughts raced too fast to keep up with.
How did that salesperson know that name?
Had Thomas told her?
Was this some elaborate game he was playing again?
Every time she thought she’d escaped, something pulled her back in, something that whispered I know who you are.
Damian’s sharp voice broke her thoughts. “You are pale. Should we return home?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Please. Let’s just… walk. I need to clear my head.”
They spent another hour wandering the mall, Alfred gently nudging her toward small stores, Damian trailing behind like a silent guardian. But Y/N barely saw any of it. Her reflection flashed in every storefront window, and every time, she half expected to see someone else staring back.
Someone who smiled like her.
Someone who used to be her.
Someone named Leyla.
Y/N had tried to distract herself with every store they went into, but nothing helped.
By the time they reached the mall food court, it was loud, bright, and overwhelmingly human, an assault of smells and sounds that made Damian Wayne visibly tense.
He stood a step behind Alfred and Y/N, arms crossed, his usual composure wilting under the fluorescent lights and scent of grease. “This,” he muttered, “is barbaric.”
Alfred, hands clasped behind his back, surveyed the neon chaos with quiet resignation. “Quite right, Master Damian. But we all must make sacrifices for the sake of morale.”
Y/N, sandwiched between the two of them, tried not to laugh. “It’s just fast food, guys. Not a crime scene.”
“On the contrary,” Damian said dryly, “I’m fairly certain several health codes are being violated within a twenty-foot radius.”
“Then it should feel like the Batcave,” she teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “I’m not entirely sure that’s up to OSHA standards.”
His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his face. “That’s different.”
Alfred sighed. “Good heavens. You two sound like an elderly married couple. Come now — Batburger it is. Miss Y/N has had quite a day, and she’s earned her meal.”
Y/N lit up a little at that, though the words earned her meal also reminded her how hard she’d failed at the morning’s training. Her arms still ached; she could practically feel every failed push-up echoing in her bones.
They joined the line, sandwiched between families with strollers and teenagers in matching varsity jackets. The air smelled like fryer oil, ketchup, and soda syrup. Damian looked as if he were contemplating the philosophical meaning of suffering.
When they reached the counter, Alfred eyed the glowing menu skeptically. “I suppose the Batman Deluxe Combo is meant as a compliment,” he murmured, “though I’m certain Master Bruce would faint if he saw what it’s made of.”
Y/N laughed. “You’re the one ordering it.”
“Indeed,” he said with a dignified sigh. “For the sake of solidarity, and cholesterol.”
They found a small table by the window, its surface slightly sticky no matter how many napkins Alfred used to wipe it down. Y/N sat across from Damian, who stared at his tray with apparent distrust.
“Are you going to eat it or interrogate it?” she asked.
“I’m determining which part of this is allegedly the meat,” he said.
“Don’t think about it,” Alfred advised mildly, taking a cautious bite of his own burger. He managed not to grimace, barely. “Pretend it’s… experimental cuisine.”
Y/N snorted. “You mean edible chaos?”
“Precisely.” Alfred took another bite, this one less tentative. “Though I must say, nothing rivals one’s own cooking. Even this tragedy of a meal cannot tarnish that truth.”
That made Y/N smile. “Alfred, I don't think anyone can rival your food reguardless.”
At that, the butler’s expression softened into something proud and paternal. “You are far too kind, Miss Y/N. I shall take that as the highest compliment.”
Damian rolled his eyes, but there was a trace of amusement there. “You’re both ridiculous.”
“You’re just mad you like the fries,” Y/N shot back.
He paused, then glared at her when she smirked. “I do not.”
“Sure you don’t.”
Alfred chuckled, sipping from his paper cup with the grace of someone drinking fine tea instead of flat cola. “How refreshing to see the two of you getting along.”
Y/N ducked her head, cheeks warm. “Guess we’re figuring each other out.”
The comment sat between them for a moment, heavier than she meant it to be. She glanced down at her burger to avoid Damian’s eyes, sharp, curious, but unreadable.
The noise of the food court swelled around them, clattering trays, children laughing, the hum of the crowd. Y/N let herself sink into it, just for a second. The normalcy felt good.
Safe.
Until it didn’t.
Something pulled her gaze toward the glass storefront beside them. The reflection of the court flickered faintly, faces moving past, blurs of motion and light. But behind all of it, she thought she saw a shape standing still.
Her pulse jumped.
She blinked once, twice. Nothing. Just her own reflection, Damian’s profile beside her, Alfred dabbing politely at a ketchup stain on his cuff.
Still, the knot in her stomach refused to loosen.
“Are you all right, Miss Y/N?” Alfred asked, catching the way her hand trembled slightly around her drink.
“Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just spaced out for a sec.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened, studying her. “You saw something.”
She hesitated. “No. I thought I did, but… it was nothing.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You’ve been jumpy since the store.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, taking another sip just to have something to do. “Really.”
He didn’t press, but his jaw tightened. He turned his chair slightly, scanning the reflection in the window, his hand casually near the pocket where he kept a small blade. Alfred noticed, but said nothing, though his glance toward Y/N was softer than usual.
“Perhaps,” Alfred said after a pause, “a spot of bookstore browsing will help take our minds off imaginary shadows. You’ve done splendidly today, my dear, even Master Damian can attest to that.”
“Splendidly is… generous,” Damian muttered.
Y/N laughed weakly, tension easing just a bit. “I think I’ll settle for ‘survived.’”
“Then survival deserves celebration,” Alfred said with finality, standing and smoothing his sleeves. “We’ll stop by that bookstore you like. Something calm before heading back.”
Y/N nodded, grateful. “That sounds perfect.”
As they tossed their trash and walked out of the food court, Damian lingered a step behind, glancing once more at the reflective glass.
For a brief second, he thought he saw a man standing just beyond the glare, face too shadowed to see, but still, watching.
When he blinked, the figure was gone.
He said nothing as they walked toward the quieter wing of the mall, but he stayed closer to Y/N than before, close enough that their hands almost brushed, just in case.
The soft glow of the vanity lights framed Y/N’s reflection in gold, catching on the delicate shimmer of her eyeshadow and the faint tremor of her hands. She took a deep breath and adjusted the neckline of the black gown Alfred had insisted on buying her. It was elegant, understated, and terrifyingly form-fitting. The slit up her thigh felt scandalous; the bare stretch of skin across her shoulders felt exposed. She didn’t look like herself. She looked like a version of her that might belong in this family, polished, confident, a Wayne.
But that was the problem. She wasn’t.
Her reflection didn’t show the sleepless nights, the panic in the back of her throat whenever someone mentioned Thomas, or the constant sense of being an imposter in a life that wasn’t hers. She dabbed concealer under her eyes again, even though it wouldn’t hide exhaustion this deep.
“You are overthinking,” came a calm voice from the doorway.
Y/N jumped, nearly smudging her lipstick. She turned to see Damian leaning against the frame, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, the kind that fit so sharply it looked custom-made. His hair was styled neatly, and there was something effortlessly regal about the way he carried himself, a reminder that, yes, he was a Wayne.
“Ever heard of knocking?” she said, lowering the lipstick.
“I did,” he replied, stepping further in. “You didn’t answer. I assumed you’d passed out under the weight of your anxiety.”
Y/N groaned. “I hate that you can read me so easily.”
“It’s not hard,” Damian said. “You’re practically vibrating.”
She rolled her eyes, turning back to the mirror to fix her hair. “You’re supposed to say something like, ‘You look beautiful,’ or ‘You’ll be fine,’ you know. Basic encouragement. Human empathy.”
Damian paused behind her, his reflection a sharp contrast — dark suit, stoic expression, eyes studying her quietly. Then, to her surprise, his tone softened.
“You look…” he hesitated, searching for a word that didn’t sound awkward, “…like you belong.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
He shrugged, glancing away. “I said you look fine earlier. I was wrong. You look like you belong here. Like one of us.”
The unexpected sincerity in his voice hit her harder than she thought it would. Her lips parted slightly, but before she could respond, he was already checking his watch.
“Come on,” he said. “Father is already pacing downstairs. The longer we make him wait, the more intolerable he becomes.”
Y/N smiled faintly, grabbing her shawl. “You have no idea how much that helps.”
“I wasn’t trying to help,” he replied, but his mouth twitched, betraying the ghost of a smirk.
They stepped into the hall together, the soft sound of her heels clicking against the marble floors echoing through the manor. The air was charged, the kind of pre-event tension that always hung over the Wayne household before a public appearance.
As they reached the grand staircase, Tim appeared from the east corridor, tugging at his tie with the same restless energy she felt. When he saw her, he stopped, his usual sharpness melting into something softer.
“Wow,” he said, eyes widening slightly. “You look… really good, Y/N.”
Her face flushed. “Thanks, Tim.”
“Good enough that people might forget Bruce is the scariest man in Gotham,” he added with a grin.
Damian scoffed quietly beside her. “She already knows that’s not possible.”
Tim shot him a look, then offered Y/N his arm with exaggerated formality. “Shall we, Miss Wayne?”
“Cut it out,” Damian muttered. “It’s not prom night.”
Tim ignored him, and Y/N took his arm anyway, smiling at the banter. For once, the mansion didn’t feel quite so suffocating.
The foyer below glittered with movement and light. Dick stood by the stairs, radiant as always in his navy suit, with Kory beside him, stunning in a crimson gown. Jason leaned against the banister, black tie loosened, smirking at something Duke said. Steph was there too, her arm still in a brace but dressed up and laughing softly with Cass, who looked graceful in a simple black gown.
Barbara was coordinating something quietly on her tablet near the entrance, her expression all business. And Alfred, ever composed, was ensuring that every detail, every boutonnière, every tie, was perfect before they left.
Bruce stood a few feet away from everyone, his presence heavier than anyone else’s. The black suit, the sharp jaw, the unreadable expression, he was the picture of composure and authority.
When Y/N descended the last few steps between Tim and Damian, conversations slowed. She felt a hundred eyes on her, her pulse hammering in her ears.
“Hey, Steph,” she said, her voice careful. “How are you doing?”
Steph grinned. “Better! Still kinda sore, but I’ll live. Don’t worry about me, okay?”
Y/N smiled, relieved. Cass gave her a soft nod, quiet acknowledgment, familiar warmth.
Y/N looks over to Duke, seeing him in the flesh for the first time. They don't have time to speak, but Duke gives her a small wave, smiling.
Y/N waves back.
Another Wayne Family Member met.
The final Batfamily member would be Barbara, who looks at her with sympathy. Y/N gives Barbara a small smile.
It's not like Y/N minds; she needs all the sympathy she can get.
Bruce’s gaze shifted toward her then. Cold. Assessing. He gave her a once-over that was more of a calculation than a greeting. No smile. No warmth.
“Everyone ready?” Bruce asked, voice clipped and controlled.
“Almost,” Dick said, draping an arm around Kory. “Y/N looks amazing, by the way.”
Bruce didn’t respond. His eyes flicked toward Alfred. “Two cars. I’ll drive with Dick, Kory, Jason, Stephanie, and Cassandra. Alfred, you’ll take Damian, Y/N, Tim, Barbara, and Duke.”
“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred said with a nod.
Bruce was already turning toward the door. The sound of his shoes against marble echoed sharply and coldly.
As the others followed, Tim leaned close to Y/N and whispered, “Don’t let it get to you. He’s… like that with everyone.”
“Does he ever smile?” she whispered back.
“Only when he’s bleeding,” Damian muttered dryly from ahead of them.
That earned a snort from Tim and a stifled laugh from Y/N, the tension easing for just a second.
Outside, the Wayne motorcade waited under the golden glow of the manor’s exterior lights. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of pine and the distant city. Bruce’s group climbed into the first sleek black car.
Alfred opened the door to the second. “If you would, Miss Y/N,” he said gently.
She hesitated just a moment, glancing back at the manor, the towering symbol of safety that, somehow, had begun to feel just as dangerous as the world outside.
Then she smiled faintly, gathering her dress as she stepped in beside Tim and Damian.
Damian glanced her way once the door closed, his voice quiet but steady. “You did well tonight. You look strong.”
Y/N blinked at him, unsure whether he meant physically or otherwise.
But when he looked away, she thought, maybe both.
The car rolled forward down the long drive, the manor fading behind them, the city lights ahead like distant stars. And for the first time in days, Y/N let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone in this as she’d thought.
The gala shimmered with gold and glass and laughter that didn’t quite sound real. Y/N smiled when people smiled at her, nodded when they spoke, and prayed she wouldn’t have to remember anyone’s name. Faces blurred together under the soft light, sharp suits, expensive perfume, practiced laughs—and she found herself thinking that back home, in her world, she could’ve just looked at the screen and known who they were.
Now, they were real. Every handshake was warm, every compliment too specific, every laugh too close. These weren’t lines in a script or names on a wiki page. They were people. And she couldn’t tell which of them was safe.
Tim stayed close, a quiet lifeline in a sea of chatter. He slipped between guests like water, charming everyone who approached her. When someone called her “Ms. Wayne,” Tim would answer before she could, deftly redirecting the conversation with a joke or a question. She let him. It was easier that way.
Across the room, Damian was deep in conversation with a group of investors—his posture stiff, his eyes constantly flicking toward her like a silent check-in.
The rest of the family was scattered around: Dick and Kory glowing under the chandelier light, Jason in the corner nursing a drink that probably wasn’t his first, Cass and Steph orbiting each other with effortless grace, Bruce speaking with the mayor, face carved in stone.
Y/N drifted toward the edge of the ballroom, her smile faltering as the ache in her feet sharpened. The heels had seemed like a good idea until she realized they were more torture device than footwear. She leaned against one of the marble columns, taking a slow breath.
And then someone moved into her periphery.
She straightened, brushing invisible lint off her dress, pasting on another polite smile.
It was Thomas.
For a moment, her mind didn’t connect the face with the name. The man standing there looked… different. His usual slouch was gone, replaced by an easy, upright confidence. His hair was slicked back, darker somehow, his glasses nowhere in sight. Without them, his jaw looked sharper, his eyes brighter, and there was something in the way he held himself—measured, deliberate, wrong.
He smiled, a slow, knowing curve of the mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It seems you’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice smooth as polished glass. “We’ve got a few empty chapters to fill in our book, Ms. Wayne, a pocket of herbs won’t stop that.”
Her pulse jumped, throat tightening. Her fingers instinctively reach for the opening in her clutch, squeezing around the pouch Aggie had given her. How did he know about that? Worse, he shouldn’t be here. She had checked the guest list, at least, she thought she had.
“Thomas,” she started, her voice light, trying not to draw attention, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I could say the same,” he replied, glancing around the ballroom. His gaze lingered on the Wayne family scattered across the room, his expression unreadable. “Quite the cast, isn’t it? Is this where you saw yourself?”
“What do you mean?” she asked carefully.
“In this crowd,” Thomas said, gesturing lazily toward the guests. “All these names and titles, people you can’t pronounce and faces you can’t remember. You fit right in.”
Something about his tone made her skin prickle. He wasn’t teasing. He was observing her as if she were something in a petri dish.
She needed to ground herself, to pull him into something concrete. “I saw the note,” she said quietly.
Thomas tilted his head. “Note?”
Her breath caught.
“I didn’t leave you a note,” he said simply, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Why? Did you get one?”
She searched his face for a tell —anything —but his eyes were clear, open, and disturbingly calm.
“It was in a grocery bag,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t say what it said. She didn’t have to.
Thomas chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I think you’ve been reading too many mysteries, Ms. Wayne.”
Her stomach twisted.
“What about the saleswoman?” she asked, the question tumbling out before she could stop it. “At the store. You didn’t…”
He cut her off with an easy smile. “What? Did she call you fat or something?”
The words were light, but his tone wasn’t. It was careful. Testing.
Y/N stared at him, heartbeat thudding in her ears. If he hadn’t left the note, if he hadn’t told the woman her other name, then who had?
Thomas’s gaze flicked toward her again, sharp and searching. Then, as if nothing were wrong, he straightened his tie and said, “Seems you have an admirer. Would you like to talk about it? Maybe I can return the favor.”
Y/N’s composure cracked. “That admirer is you,” she said tightly. “You won’t stop following me.”
Thomas’s grin widened, too big for his face. “I like to get to know my characters,” he said, his voice just a little too soft. “You have a… fascinating arc.”
Her throat felt dry. “I’m not a character in your book,” she managed. “I saved you once. Get over it. Anyone could have done that.”
“And yet,” he said, leaning in just a little, “it was you.”
For a moment, the crowd noise seemed to dull around them—the laughter and clinking glasses fading into a low, steady hum.
Thomas looked at her the way someone might look at a painting that had changed when they weren’t looking.
“What do you have planned for your next chapters?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Thomas smiled faintly. “Every good book has to end, Ms. Wayne. I just want to make sure mine ends with a bang.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and deliberate.
And when Y/N blinked —just once —he was gone.
No footsteps. No retreating figure. Just the crowd, the music, the sound of her own heart hammering against her ribs.
She turned in a slow circle, scanning the ballroom, but there was no trace of him. Not a shadow, not a silhouette.
Across the room, Damian’s gaze locked on hers. His expression shifted immediately, the faintest flicker of alarm passing through his eyes.
Y/N forced a smile, pretending nothing had happened. But her hands were shaking.
She tried to push down the thought that Thomas was something else entirely, the shadows on the wall not just a figment of her imagination.
Was everything frightening just an illusion? Thomas didn’t know about the note. Not the salesperson.
Was he lying? Was this someone else’s doing? Is Thomas involved with them?
What is going on?
She tried to stand still. To look normal.
To pretend like her pulse wasn’t slamming against her ribs so hard it hurt.
Thomas was gone. He’d been right there, close enough that she could see the way his pupils caught the chandelier light, and now, nothing. No retreating figure, no whisper of movement through the crowd. Just air.
Y/N swallowed hard, forcing her hands to unclench. Around her, the gala carried on as if nothing had happened. Laughter rippled through the air, champagne glasses chimed against each other, and someone’s perfume drifted too close, too sweet.
She took a step back, trying to find Damian or Tim — anyone — but the lights felt harsher than before, the room sharper. The strings from the live band wove together in a sound that used to be music but now just buzzed in her skull, high and unbearable.
The marble under her heels felt like it was tilting, just slightly, the whole room breathing with her heartbeat.
“Just breathe,” she whispered to herself, voice lost under the music. “You’re fine.”
But she wasn’t fine.
The dress that had made her feel powerful an hour ago now felt like it was squeezing the air out of her lungs. The fabric pressed against her ribs, the slit along her leg like a seam that didn’t quite belong to her body. The pearls at her neck felt heavy, her skin hot beneath them.
She blinked hard, once, twice, trying to clear her vision. The chandelier above her blurred and fractured, a thousand glittering shards of light dancing behind her eyes. The sound of voices doubled, warped, too loud, too close.
Was everyone staring at her?
No one was.
And yet, she felt it, the weight of eyes she couldn’t see.
Her breathing hitched. She tried to focus on the nearest voice—a polite laugh, the clinking of a tray, someone saying something about stock prices—but it all ran together like static.
She blinked again, but the edges of her vision were closing in, narrowing until the whole ballroom felt smaller, tighter, wrong.
Somewhere across the room, she saw Damian glance her way again, his expression tightening. But before she could raise a hand, before she could even take a step, someone brushed past her shoulder, and the contact made her flinch like she’d been burned.
Too loud. Too close. Too much.
The lights above her flickered, just once, a trick of the eye, she told herself, but the shadows under the chandelier stretched longer than they should have, like they were crawling toward her feet.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to count: one, two, three, until her pulse slowed enough to fake composure. She straightened her shoulders, adjusted the dress, and smiled when someone looked her way, even though her lips trembled.
She could hold it together just until they left, just until she was back home.
But when she turned to scan the crowd one last time, just to be sure, she thought she saw the back of Thomas’s head disappearing into a corridor.
The same slicked hair.
The same confident stride.
She blinked.
And he was gone again.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Chapter 9: No Guns. Just Engines. Fast ones.
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.
Chapter 10: Riddle Me This, Asshole
Chapter Text
It wasn’t peace — not really — but it was close enough to trick her. For once, there were no raised voices echoing through the hall, no metallic clang of training in the cave below, no terse orders from Bruce carrying through the comms. Just silence. The kind that pressed in on the walls and made her hear her own heartbeat too clearly.
Y/N sat in the drawing room with a half-read book open on her lap. She’d been staring at the same page for almost ten minutes, eyes unfocused, the words blurring into meaningless lines of ink. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore — it was too complete, too absolute. Even the clock on the mantle seemed hesitant to tick, afraid to break it.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the afternoon light spilled through in fractured gold and gray, broken by the thick lattice of the glass. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, catching the sunlight like faint ghosts of movement. The world beyond the glass looked soft, unreachable — a painting she couldn’t step into.
Alfred had gone to meet a Wayne Enterprises contact about a supply delivery. Tim and Damian had been dispatched to separate cases — Bruce’s idea of “discipline through independence,” though both of them had looked reluctant to leave her alone. Dick and Jason had left, too, something about monitoring the east-end patrols.
It left her with no one.
And worse — it left no one with her.
Usually, someone was always watching. Damian was in the hall, pretending to read while his eyes flicked toward her every few seconds. Tim, hovering nearby, a datapad always in his hand, pretending to work but listening for every shift of her breath. Jason dropping by under the pretense of “needing coffee” — his version of subtlety. Dick pretending he just happened to be around, leaning against doorframes, smiling too easily to hide the worry behind it. Alfred, with his quiet, unshakable care, always managed to appear just before she needed something. And Bruce… Bruce rarely looked directly at her, but his shadow did. His suspicion was quieter than the others’ concern, but it weighed more.
But now?
Nothing.
They all assumed someone else had her covered.
Damian and Tim assumed Jason was.
Jason assumed Dick was.
Dick… assumed she’d stay put.
For the first time since she’d woken up in this life, she was alone.
The realization sat strange in her chest — not freedom, not fear, but something in between—the kind of hollow space that used to be filled by other people’s voices.
The clock ticked once. Twice. The sound scraped against the quiet like a blade. Something inside her twisted — a restless pull that had no name but had been there for days now, growing sharper with each passing hour.
She told herself she’d just go for a short walk. She needed air, that was all.—freshair. The manor’s walls always felt too close, its ceilings too high, the windows too narrow to see the world beyond the trees. She wanted to remember what Gotham looked like from the ground, not from behind reinforced glass. Maybe if she just stepped outside for a bit, she could breathe again.
Her coat was on before she’d even finished convincing herself. The wool felt heavy on her shoulders, grounding in a way the manor never could be. She slipped through the front hall, her footsteps muffled by the thick rug, and out the door. The hinges creaked softly — a sound she’d learned to fear — but no alarms followed, no footsteps thundered down the hall.
The cold bit at her cheeks in that particular Gotham way — damp and sharp, threaded with smoke and rain. The kind of chill that clung to your clothes long after you came back inside. She followed the long curve of the drive until it met the main road, her boots crunching through dead leaves. The sound was almost too loud, like it didn’t belong to her.
She didn’t plan to wander far. She told herself that, too.
But the city had a way of pulling. Gotham never stayed still; it shifted like a living thing. Its streets rearranged themselves when you weren’t looking. Buildings you swore had always been there suddenly vanished; new ones appeared like they’d been waiting for you all along.
And as the wind carried the faint hum of traffic and distant sirens, she thought — maybe the city hadn’t forgotten her after all. Maybe it had just been waiting, too.
The city breathed around her, low and uneven, like a creature half-asleep.
Gotham’s air always carried a weight, the kind that clung to skin and clothes, that whispered beneath every passing car and flickering light. But today it felt different. Lighter somehow. Or maybe she was just imagining that, desperate to believe the city could feel less suffocating when no one was watching her.
Y/N walked with her hands tucked deep into her coat pockets, head down, eyes scanning the cracks in the pavement. The chill bit through her gloves, but she welcomed it. It was real. Honest. Not like the quiet performance of normalcy that filled the manor.
Her thoughts, though, wouldn’t stay quiet.
Thomas.
His name pulsed through her mind like a heartbeat: uninvited, insistent. She hadn’t seen him since that night, hadn’t even heard so much as a whisper of where he might have gone. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him: the precision of his words, the way his eyes seemed to know things she didn’t want to admit, the way his voice lingered even after he was gone.
It was wrong, she knew that. He was wrong. Everything about him was a warning sign.
And yet…
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw fragments of him: the curve of a smile, a gloved hand brushing the edge of a book, the faintest reflection of green light in glass. It was like her mind refused to let go, replaying details she shouldn’t have noticed in the first place.
“Why you?” Damian had once asked, suspicion carved into his tone.
She still didn’t know.
Maybe that was the real reason she’d left the manor, not for air, not for freedom, but for the possibility that she might find him again. Maybe by accident. Maybe fate.
The wind picked up, tugging at her coat as she turned down a narrower street. It was quieter here, the kind of quiet that came before rain. The usual hum of traffic had thinned out, replaced by the occasional hiss of tires in the distance.
Her boots clicked against uneven cobblestones, echoing in rhythm with her heartbeat. Every sound felt sharper, stretched too thin, like the city was holding its breath.
She told herself she wasn’t looking for him. Not really. Just walking.
Just thinking.
But every flicker of movement, every shadow leaning long across brick and glass, pulled at her attention. She imagined him turning a corner just ahead, or standing at the mouth of an alley, waiting. His voice in her memory was steady and low, cutting through the fog: “You keep asking the wrong questions.”
Her stomach twisted.
If she could see him again, she’d ask better ones. She’d make him explain. The things he hinted at, the way he always spoke like he knew her, not as she was, but as someone else entirely.
What do you know about me?
What are you?
What about your book? The bang? What does that mean?
The questions burned quietly, heavier with each step.
She passed storefronts she didn’t recognize, though she was sure she’d walked this way before. The architecture seemed to shift subtly, windows taller, signs older, the air colder. Her breath curled white in front of her.
And then she saw it.
A sliver of dark green tucked between two old brick buildings, narrow enough that she might’ve missed it if she hadn’t been looking right then. The storefront looked misplaced, too intact, too polished compared to the crumbling facades on either side.
The awning drooped slightly, its paint cracked and sun-faded but still readable: Curioso Archives.
She slowed to a stop.
The windows gleamed, unnaturally clean, reflecting her face in warped golden tones. Warm light glowed from inside: soft, inviting, like the kind of light you’d see spilling from a home, not a shop. The sign on the door swung gently in the wind.
Open.
Y/N stared at it for a long time.
It wasn’t Thomas, she told herself. Of course it wasn’t. But something about the name, Curioso, stirred a strange familiarity in her chest. The kind of word he might’ve used, half in jest, half in warning. The kind of place he might’ve mentioned only once, in passing, expecting her to remember.
Her pulse quickened.
Maybe he’d been here. Maybe he’d left something behind. A note. A trail. Something. Anything.
Her hand brushed the door handle before she even realized she’d moved. The brass was warm beneath her glove, as though someone had touched it moments before.
She hesitated, just long enough for doubt to catch up.
If she went in, someone might notice. The Batboys checked the cameras sometimes. Damian always knew when she left the grounds. Tim’s trackers were subtle but not perfect…she’d learned that much. Still, if they found out…
The thought of returning to the manor, of sitting under their quiet suspicion again, made her throat tighten.
She pushed the door open.
The bell chimed once, a delicate, silver tone that lingered like the tail end of a dream.
The air inside hit her immediately, thick with dust and something faintly metallic, like old coins or dried roses. It felt heavier than the air outside, charged somehow. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each one stacked with books so pristine they gleamed under amber light.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath her boots, but the sound was swallowed almost instantly, muffled by the air.
There was no one at the counter. No sound of movement. Just the low hum of a hidden clock, steady and patient.
Y/N stepped further inside. Her pulse matched the ticking.
Every instinct screamed at her to leave, but curiosity always had a sharper voice.
She exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the first row of shelves.
If Thomas had ever existed beyond her imagination, this was the kind of place he would’ve belonged to, somewhere between knowledge and danger. Somewhere built to make questions hurt.
The shop was warm. Too warm.
Y/N slipped between the shelves, the smell of paper and varnish thick in the air. There was no one in sight, but the quiet wasn’t empty. It was watchful. Every book spine seemed to lean toward her as she passed, the gilt lettering glinting faintly under the lamps.
She trailed her fingers along the nearest shelf, the smooth edges of hardcovers cool against her skin. The titles were odd: old poetry collections, obscure history anthologies, atlases of places she’d never heard of. Cartography of the Forgotten Realm. The Shape of Silence. The Anatomy of Dreams.
She picked one or two at random, flipping through the crisp pages. Most of the print was dense, the margins filled with neat, handwritten notes, someone’s thoughts scrawled in fine black ink. A few books had symbols pressed faintly into their covers, as if the leather had been burned from the inside.
Still, she found herself setting a few aside on a small end table near the aisle, books she didn’t need but wanted anyway. A collection of translated myths, a slim green volume of poems, an essay on the psychology of riddles. They felt safe. Manageable.
She wasn’t sure why she was pretending to shop. Maybe it was easier to act like she was just another customer than admit she had no idea why she’d come here at all.
Then, on the bottom shelf, half-hidden between two larger tomes, she saw it.
A thin book bound in deep gray leather, almost black, but not quite. The surface shimmered faintly when she tilted her head, catching the lamplight like oil on water. The spine bore no lettering. The front cover was embossed with only a small, intricate symbol: a circle intersected by a line, like an eclipse in motion.
She pulled it free.
It was lighter than it looked, the texture strangely soft beneath her fingertips, almost like worn velvet. She turned it over, expecting a price tag, an author’s name, something. But the back was completely blank.
Her thumb brushed over the edge of the pages, and they gleamed faintly, the paper tinted an uneven greenish hue.
When she lifted the cover, the title revealed itself, faint gold letters etched directly onto the first page, almost hidden by the spine's shadow.
The Art of the Question.
Her pulse gave a tiny, inexplicable lurch.
The title shouldn’t have felt familiar, but it did. She didn’t know why.
Y/N looked around, half expecting someone to appear, the shopkeeper, another customer, anyone. But the store remained still. The hum of that unseen clock filled the silence, a slow, steady rhythm.
At the far end of the aisle stood a small reading nook, framed by tall shelves. A single high-backed chair sat beside a narrow table with an old brass lamp. The chair looked inviting, upholstered in dark emerald fabric, worn smooth at the armrests, the cushion slightly sunken from years of use. The kind of chair you could fall asleep in without meaning to.
She gathered the few books she’d set aside, balancing them in one arm, and made her way toward it.
The floorboards groaned faintly under her weight. The lamp's light glowed softly, a warm amber, washing the little corner in warmth. When she sank into the chair, it sighed beneath her, the fabric soft and faintly perfumed with something floral and old, lilac, maybe, or dust and time.
For a moment, she let herself relax. Her shoulders loosened; her heartbeat slowed. The world outside felt impossibly far away.
She rested the other books in her lap and placed The Art of the Question on top. Its cover felt warmer now, almost radiating faint heat into her palms.
She exhaled and opened it.
The first page was blank. Then another. And another. She frowned and flipped further. Every few pages bore faint marks, half-formed symbols, scattered words, lines that seemed to fade even as she tried to read them.
The letters shimmered faintly, blurring at the edges.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
At first, she thought it was the warmth or the soft hum of the lights above her. But the drowsiness came too fast, sudden and syrup-thick, dragging at her limbs.
She tried to shift, to blink herself awake, but her body felt slow, detached. Her hand slipped against the edge of the book, and that was when she noticed the faint residue clinging to her fingertips.
A thin sheen, pale green and sticky, glimmered under the lamplight like oil or sap.
Her stomach turned. She rubbed her fingers together, trying to wipe it away, but the movement only made the warmth spread, crawling up her wrist, soft and numbing.
Her vision blurred. The pages swam together in a wash of gold and gray.
She tried to stand, but the chair held her like it had been waiting, its cushions sinking, swallowing her weight.
The clock’s ticking grew louder, filling her head.
And just before everything went dark, she swore she heard something shift behind the shelves, the soft scrape of shoes against wood, a low voice humming like a lullaby.
The air was alive with ticking.
Hundreds of clocks, none in sync, each beat colliding with the next, an orchestra of discordant hearts. It was maddening. Every second stumbled over another until time itself felt broken.
Y/N stirred, groaning softly. Her head throbbed.
The chair beneath her creaked, metal against metal. Her wrists were cuffed to its arms, the edges bit cold into her skin. The room was dim, walls sweating condensation under the harsh green glow of a dozen flickering screens. Numbers and spirals crawled across their surfaces, never settling long enough to read.
Then, from the static: a voice.
“Ah. Awake at last.”
Riddler.
She’d seen his face in briefings before, sharp suit, sharper grin, but here his voice sounded different. Slower. Softer. Like a man who’d been awake too long, talking to himself until the silence started talking back.
“Where am I?” she rasped.
“In a room built for thought,” he said, cheerful in a way that didn’t feel human. “Don’t fret, my dear. You’re safe: more or less. That part depends on your answers.”
She shifted, testing her bonds. The cuffs clinked against the chair’s frame.
“What do you want from me?”
“Want?” He laughed thinly, brittle as cracking glass. “Want is too small a word. Let’s call it curiosity. Gotham has forgotten how to think. I intend to remind it.”
He appeared on one of the screens, face tilted toward her, his smile stretched just a little too wide.
“Besides, attention is a scarce commodity these days. What better way to earn it than by choosing someone close to a name Gotham worships?”
Her chest tightened. “You picked me because of Bruce.”
“Because of the Wayne,” he corrected, wagging a finger. “A symbol. A man too wealthy, too noble, too busy playing benefactor with Batman to realize how boring he’s become. He interfered in my affairs, so now, I interfere in his.”
Something behind his words trembled. The confidence faltered, just for a second, replaced by something rawer. Something that wasn’t his.
“You sound… like you’re reciting that,” she said carefully.
The smile froze. His head twitched slightly, as if he’d heard something only he could hear. Then:
“Perhaps I am.”
The static deepened. A faint, rhythmic sound joined the ticking, something like a pulse, muffled and uneven.
“Let’s begin,” he said. “Something simple, to loosen the mind.”
He started with the classics.
“I am taken from a mine and shut in a wooden case, from which I am never released, and yet I am used by almost every human being.”
Her throat burned when she answered. “Lead. Pencil lead.”
A pause. Then a quiet sigh, almost tender.
“Good. You listen well.”
A soft click echoed behind her, the hiss of a valve turning. The air thickened with the scent of copper and something chemical, like burnt sugar.
“I have cities, but no houses. Forests, but no trees. Rivers, but no water.”
“Map,” she said, too quickly.
“Correct again. But those are just words, aren’t they? Anyone can memorize words.”
The green light flickered across his face, distorting his eyes. “It’s the meanings that matter.”
The next question came like a knife wrapped in velvet.
“You bear no mark, no name, no place of birth. You live in a house that is not yours. Tell me, then, what are you?”
“That’s not a riddle,” she snapped, her voice hoarse.
“Everything’s a riddle,” he murmured, leaning closer to the screen. “You only need to see it that way.”
The hiss of gas grew louder. She coughed. Her chest ached.
“What are you?”
Her voice cracked. “Human.”
The monitor flashed red. A low, angry tone buzzed through the room.
“Incorrect.”
The gas surged. The shadows on the walls rippled, not from the light, but from something else. Shapes crawled upward like veins, pulsing faintly in rhythm with that strange, offbeat thrum under the ticking.
“What begins and has no end, and ends before it begins?”
Her mind swam. “A… circle.”
The vents softened their breath.
“Acceptable,” he said, but his tone had changed again. Slower. Measured.
Then, almost to himself: “All things are circles now.”
He wasn’t looking at her anymore. His gaze wandered somewhere above the camera, as if listening. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment, yes… I hear you… Yes, I know what to ask next…
A chill slid down her spine. “Who are you talking to?”
He blinked, startled, and smiled too quickly.
“Don’t be silly. There’s only us here.”
But even as he said it, the green light pulsed once, twice, and the ticking behind her synced with his voice, perfectly in time.
He leaned forward until his face filled the screen.
“I have no eyes, yet I see. No heart, yet I feel. No mouth, yet I speak. What am I?”
Her voice shook. “A mirror.”
“Very good.”
His grin widened. But his reflection didn’t match the movement. On another screen, his image lingered a half-second behind, blinking out of sync.
The gas curled around her feet again, rising her legs like smoke. Her lungs screamed for air.
Then… Silence.
He tilted his head. The shadows behind him on-screen stretched wider, black tendrils unfurling like roots.
One last question. The voice that spoke it wasn’t quite his anymore. It was layered, distorted, and almost overlapping with a deeper resonance.
“What cannot be unmade?”
The room seemed to hum with it. The lights flickered in and out, patterns spinning across the screens that weren’t words but symbols — spirals, circles, loops feeding into themselves.
She wanted to say nothing that it was a trick. That he was losing his mind. But something inside her rebelled, something instinctive, stubborn.
“Me,” she whispered.
The room froze.
His smile faltered. His face blurred in static, and when it cleared, his eyes were wrong. Green, but deeper. Like something wearing his face was looking out through him.
He repeated it softly, almost reverently: “Me.”
Then again, slower, distorted. “Me.”
And then, not his voice at all, something beneath it, too low to be human:
“You cannot unmake what was made from thought.”
The monitors crackled violently. The lights flared white.
The gas stopped.
Y/N gasped, dragging in a breath so deep it burned. The cuffs clicked open. The screens, one by on,e went black, all except one. On it, a single line glowed faintly in Riddler’s green font:
Her arms dropped, dead weight. The sudden freedom almost hurt. The metal cuffs clattered to the floor, the sound too loud, echoing through the narrow chamber until it fractured in her ears.
Blood rushed back into her hands like liquid fire. Her muscles seized from the shock, fingers curling, twitching, as if her body couldn’t comprehend release. She gasped, lungs dragging in air thick with dust and the copper tang of old machinery. Her first breath burned. The second tore.
She doubled over, coughing so hard her ribs ached. Her palms slapped the concrete, slick with condensation. The floor was cold enough to sting. Sweat and grime streaked her skin, the faint smell of ozone clinging to her clothes. When she looked up, her vision swam, light and shadow bleeding together in green hues.
Something hissed.
Across the room, a seam split open in the far wall — a heavy, rectangular outline revealed itself, edges glowing faintly. The hatch shuddered, metal grinding against metal before creaking open just enough to spill out a sickly, pale light.
She didn’t think. She ran.
Her bare feet slapped against the floor, every step ringing through the hollow chamber. The closer she got, the colder the air grew. Her breath fogged in front of her face as she slipped through the narrow opening, into the tunnel beyond.
The passage swallowed her whole.
It was narrow, barely wide enough for her shoulders, and sloped downward at a steep angle. The walls were wet, slick concrete veined with pipes that hissed softly, dripping condensation into puddles below. The sound of dripping water was endless, rhythmic, maddening.
She steadied herself with one hand against the wall. Her fingers brushed something tacky. Paint.
Green paint.
Words were scrawled across the concrete in looping, uneven letters — some neat, others slashed over in fury. The first ones were simple:
Solve me.
Find me.
Prove me.
Her pulse quickened. She recognized the handwriting, not quite neat enough to be careful, not quite wild enough to be insane. It had that particular, deliberate rhythm she’d seen before, every letter constructed like part of an equation.
The tunnel air seemed to vibrate with his presence, or what was left of it. It wasn’t just graffiti. It was an obsession layered over itself, thought given form and left to rot.
As she moved further in, the words began to change. They grew messy. Jagged. Lines crossed through letters until meaning disintegrated into symbols, spirals, and nonsense formulas that crawled across the concrete like vines.
Underneath the green were faint traces of something darker. Almost black. A second layer, words overwritten by something else.
She slowed.
The following message was painted differently, deliberate again, the brushstrokes sharp and calculated:
You cannot unmake what was made from thought.
Y/N froze. The sentence drew her in, her eyes tracing every curve of the letters. For a heartbeat, the words seemed to shimmer, as though light pulsed beneath them, not reflection, but movement.
And then a whisper. Faint, nearly lost beneath the hum of the pipes.
“Do you see now?”
Her head snapped up, breath catching in her throat. The tunnel was empty. Only the drip-drip-drip of water filled the silence.
But something had changed in the air.
It felt aware.
She backed away, pulse racing, then forced herself forward. The walls seemed to close in as she walked faster, the graffiti wrapping around her, the green twisting into shapes that followed her peripheral vision. Equations she couldn’t read. Faces that vanished when she blinked.
At the tunnel’s end, a rusted ladder appeared, reaching upward into shadow. She grabbed the lowest rung, her arms trembling. The metal was cold and wet, flaking rust beneath her fingers.
Every pull felt heavier than the last. The air thinned as she climbed, as though the tunnel itself didn’t want to let her go.
Halfway up, something below scraped. Metal against stone. Slow. Deliberate.
Her heart stuttered. She didn’t look down. She didn’t dare.
She climbed faster. Her lungs burned. Her vision tunneled. When her fingers finally brushed the grate above, she shoved at it with shaking hands. It gave way suddenly, clattering open, and she pulled herself through with every ounce of strength she had left.
The night hit her like an electric shock.
Cold air filled her lungs, sharp, clean, and luckily, not some unknown gaseous toxin. The forest stretched around her in all directions, the manor’s woods cloaked in fog and shadow. The sky above was a deep, bruised gray, Gotham’s city glow bleeding faintly on the horizon.
She collapsed onto her knees, the damp soil biting into her skin. For a long time, she didn’t move. The ground was solid, unmoving, blessedly real beneath her palms. Her breath came fast and shallow, but it was hers.
When she finally stood, her legs trembled so violently she had to grab a tree to stay upright. Her body was a patchwork of aches, wrists raw, throat scraped, every muscle shaking.
The manor lights were visible through the trees, dim and distant. A beacon. Or a warning.
She started walking, one step at a time. The forest floor whispered under her boots, the smell of wet leaves and earth heavy in her nose. The air here felt different, thick with static, as though she’d walked out of one nightmare and straight into another.
Now and then, she caught faint echoes, words that weren’t really there, whispering just below hearing:
Thought made flesh… Flesh made thought… You cannot unmake…
By the time she reached the stone path leading to the manor’s back terrace, her hands were shaking so hard she could barely fit the key into the lock. The metal scraped once, twice, before clicking open.
Warmth spilled from inside, the faint glow of lamps, the quiet hum of the house at rest. But the moment she stepped across the threshold, a wave of nausea hit her. The ticking sound she’d heard in the tunnel hadn’t stopped. It was here too, faint, hiding somewhere in the walls.
She pressed a trembling hand to her temple.
The scent of copper clung to her hair. Her nails were rimmed with green.
And as she closed the door behind her, shutting out the night, something whispered through her mind, a voice neither male, female, nor human, deep and smooth and satisfied:
You cannot unmake what was made from thought.
Inside, the manor was silent. The family must still be out.
Not the soft quiet of home, but the kind that pressed in from the walls, heavy and suffocating, like the house itself was holding its breath and waiting for her to break.
Her body felt leaden. Every step down the hall made her stumble. Her lungs burned, still tasting faintly of copper and something sweet and chemical, a lingering reminder of the gas he’d used. She didn’t call for anyone. She couldn’t. If she opened her mouth, she feared what might come out: a sob, a scream, a sound that wouldn’t stop.
By the time she reached the bathroom, she was trembling violently. She fumbled with the lock, twisting it until it clicked. Relief surged through her in a hollow, brittle wave.
The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unkind. Her reflection in the mirror made her recoil.
Pale. Wide-eyed. Streaked with grime. Streaked with faint burns where the gas had touched her skin. Her lips were colorless. Her pupils were large, dark, swallowing the light.
Her hands, still slick with sweat and residual gas, pressed against the cold porcelain sink. Her knuckles turned white.
Her stomach heaved. She barely made it to the toilet before dry heaving racked her body, each convulsion tearing through her ribs. The chemical tang of the gas coated her throat, lingering, stubborn, clinging to her lungs.
Finally, after several long, painful minutes, she leaned against the cool tile, shivering, unable to stop the tremors that wracked her body. Her breathing was ragged, shallow. Her pulse thudded in her ears, relentless.
She looked up at the mirror again.
Her reflection was gone.
Not warped, not wrong, just gone. The mirror reflected the room behind her: the sink, the floor, the walls. But not her.
Her pulse skipped. She whispered, “No…”
A faint shimmer moved beneath the surface of the glass. Her outline appeared: hollow eyes, mouth open in a soundless scream. Not her, but something like her. She recoiled, pressing her hands against her face.
Instinctively, she scratched at her cheeks, at the phantom wrongness, until her fingers were raw and red. Blood blossomed on her skin. She gasped, shivering violently, tears streaming down her face.
The mirror flickered. Her reflection returned. Normal. Mundane. But her face burned with the memory of what she’d done, and the blood was real.
She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing quietly at first, then louder, shaking and trembling. Her hands were slick with sweat and blood. Her chest heaved uncontrollably. The smell of copper and chemicals clung to her, persistent and nauseating.
After a long, trembling moment, she forced herself to move. Her hands shook as she reached for the first-aid kit tucked in the cabinet. Alcohol wipes, antiseptic, cotton pads, bandages — her hands fumbled over them. She cleaned each gash carefully, one by one, even as her body quaked and her lungs stung with the lingering gas. She applied antiseptic and bandages methodically, ignoring the tears that blurred her vision, the trembling fingers that made her drop cotton and wraps more than once.
Once her face was treated, she sank to the edge of the tub, exhausted, shivering, and turned on the shower. The sound of water hitting the porcelain was deafening in the quiet manor. She stepped in, letting the hot water wash over her, melting some of the tension from her muscles. The steam swirled around her, hot and heavy, mixing with the lingering scent of the gas still clinging to her hair and skin. She scrubbed, over and over, until she felt almost human again. Her trembling fingers worked methodically, washing away the last traces of grime, chemicals, and blood.
When she finally stepped out, the water streaming down her body, she wrapped herself in a towel and reached for clean clothes. She pulled them on carefully, savoring the normalcy, the warmth of fabric against her skin. Her old, bloodstained clothes lay in a heap beside the sink. With shaking hands, she folded them into a bag she found in a drawer, a temporary home for the horrors she was leaving behind. She shoved it under the sink, out of sight, telling herself she’d deal with it later. She just needed to be clean. Be safe. Be herself again.
Even after dressing, her hands still trembled, her breathing came in jagged gasps, and the faint taste of copper and chemicals lingered on her tongue. She slumped to the floor, leaning against the cabinet, tears still slipping down her cheeks. She sobbed quietly, letting it out, letting herself fall apart, even while insisting to herself she had to keep moving. She couldn’t let the others see her like this. She couldn’t let Bruce, or Jason, or anyone else see the aftermath.
Finally, when the trembling subsided just slightly, she pressed herself into the corner of the bathroom, the weight of the night pressing her down. She could still taste the gas. Could still hear the faint echo of a voice whispering just beyond the edges of her mind:
“You cannot unmake what was made from thought.”
Her fingers brushed the bandages absently, the antiseptic sting still sharp, still real. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She just sat there, letting the shivers pass through her like waves, waiting for the night to end.
Hours later, the quiet of the manor was broken by the soft clatter of the front door opening. Footsteps echoed in the hall, deliberate, familiar. Y/N’s stomach twisted. Her body was still trembling from the shower, the antiseptic, the adrenaline, but she forced herself to stand, to move, to act normal.
Jason’s boots hit the floor first. He paused at the threshold of the hall, his eyes immediately flicking to her face.
“What happened to your face?” His voice was sharp, concerned, cutting through the lingering silence.
Y/N forced a laugh, shaky, too high. “I… fell,” she said quickly, brushing at the bandage on her cheek as if to distract from it. “Trying to train in the gym. Slipped.”
Dick appeared behind Jason, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Are you sure?” His tone was softer, but worry laced it, and she could see the flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her voice firmer this time, though it quavered at the edges. She brushed past them, heading toward the stairs. “It’s nothing.”
Alfred entered then, moving silently as always. His gaze swept over her, sharp and calculating. His hands folded behind his back. “Miss Y/N…” His voice held the weight of disbelief, tempered by concern. “This isn’t simply a training accident, is it?”
She shook her head, forcing a tight smile. “It’s nothing, Alfred. Really.”
Bruce appeared in the hallway next, shadows clinging to him like armor. He scanned her quickly, noting the bandages and the faint tremor in her hands. His lips pressed into a thin line, judgmental and calm all at once. “Let it go,” he said softly, and Alfred’s question died on his lips.
“For now.”
Y/N exhaled quietly, letting the tension seep out slightly. She made her way upstairs, every step deliberate, her body still trembling with residual gas, adrenaline, and fear.
Once in her room, she closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. She pressed her palms into her face, the bandages already damp with the remnants of tears and sweat. The taste of copper lingered on her tongue, ghosting in her mouth like a cruel reminder.
Her hands shook violently as she wiped at her cheeks again, making sure the bandages stayed in place. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands, letting herself shudder quietly. The whisper from earlier teased at the edges of her mind again:
“You cannot unmake what was made from thought.”
She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together until they bled faintly from the dryness. Her fingers traced the edges of the bandages, adjusting, pressing, making sure the wounds were clean and protected. Occasionally, her stomach convulsed with the remnants of the gas, forcing her to heave silently into her hands.
The silence in her room was different from the silence of the manor. It was oppressive, thick, almost tactile. It pressed against her ribs and made her tremble even harder. But she didn’t let herself collapse entirely. She cleaned, patched, and bandaged until every scratch on her face was tended to, until every tremor she could control was pressed down into focus.
Finally, she leaned back against the wall, breathing shallowly, exhausted, the weight of the day and the night pressing down like lead. Her reflection in the dark windowpane was faint, ghostly, but it was hers. Still wrong in some small, unplaceable way, but hers.
She closed her eyes and let herself drift, trembling, tasting copper and chemicals on her tongue, listening to the faint echo of the Riddler’s voice winding through the recesses of her mind:
“You cannot unmake what was made from thought.”
Her fingers stayed pressed against the bandages, her knuckles white, as if holding herself together was the only tether keeping her from unraveling completely.
Chapter 11: She Would've Loved This
Chapter Text
The training room always smelled faintly like metal and old dust, no matter how many times Alfred polished the floors.
It was cavernous, lined with mirrors and cold morning light, every surface reflecting emptiness. The echo of every movement sounded too loud here, like the room wanted to remind her she didn't belong in its silence.
Y/N sat on the mat near the center, legs folded neatly beneath her, a small roll of gauze and a brown bottle of antiseptic beside her knee. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass wall, a tired figure with a strip of bandage covering half her cheek.
The air was cold enough that the floor bit against her palms when she braced them to stand. She had woken up with the taste of metal in her mouth again — not blood, not quite — just the ghost of it. She didn't remember dreaming—only the faint hiss of gas, the whisper that still haunted the edge of her mind.
You don't belong here.
She'd almost believed it.
Now, as she peeled back the old gauze, she forced herself to focus on something real. The skin underneath was red and raw, the edges crusted where the antiseptic had dried overnight. It stung when she cleaned it, but she didn't wince. Pain was grounding. Pain meant she was still here.
The mirror caught every twitch of her face, every uneven breath.
She pressed the clean bandage against her cheek and tried to remember the last time she'd looked at her reflection and recognized what she saw.
She couldn't.
The soft creak of the door broke her train of thought.
She didn't have to turn around to know it was Damian. He always entered rooms like he owned them — not arrogantly, but with a quiet certainty, like every shadow bent around him on command.
"You're here early," she said, not turning.
"I could say the same," Damian replied flatly. "I thought you hated mornings."
"I do."
"Then you're lying to yourself now, too."
Y/N’s lips twitched. "That supposed to be a joke?"
"If it was, you wouldn't have gotten it."
Her jaw tightened. "Right. Good to know your humor's still broken."
He stepped further in, his reflection appearing behind hers in the mirror: arms crossed, posture straight, eyes sharp and assessing, as if he were looking for a weakness. "What happened to your face?"
"Nothing."
He raised an eyebrow. "Did 'nothing' come with claws?"
Y/N inhaled slowly. "You're hilarious."
"I try."
"Don't."
He tilted his head, studying the gauze. "You're not very good at covering it. You should've asked Alfred to-"
"I didn't want to make it a big deal."
"Then you should stop pretending it isn't one."
She turned toward him sharply. "Why do you even care?"
"Because you're my sister," he said, without missing a beat.
The words hit her—more than she wanted to.
She stared at him for a long moment, her voice soft but venomous when it came.
"Don't."
He frowned. "Don't what?"
"Don't call me that."
Something flickered behind his eyes. "You are my sister."
She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Oh, sure. Now I am."
Damian's expression hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you don't get to throw that word around like it fixes everything."
“Y/N…”
"No, listen to me." She stood up, fast enough that the motion startled him. "You can't just erase years of treating someone like they're nothing and then expect one word to make it okay."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing, Damian?"
His mouth opened, then closed again.
"I'm trying to keep you safe," he said finally. "You've been acting strange lately. Leaving rooms suddenly. Lying about things that-"
"Because you don't stop watching!" she snapped. "You don't stop following. I can't even breathe without one of you checking if I'm doing it right!"
"I'm not following you."
"You're always following me!"
She took a step toward him, eyes flashing. "You sleep next me at night, you wake with me, you walk with me. The only place you don't follow me is the bathroom! And don't think I don't see you lurking in the hall, pretending you just 'happened' to be there? You call it protection, but it's not. It's control."
His voice dropped, the edge of sarcasm slipping into something darker. "Sorry if wanting to make sure my family doesn't die is too controlling for you."
That word again. Family. She hated it.
Her nails dug into her palms. "You can't keep calling me that like it means something when you never acted like it did."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" she said, trembling now. "You ignored me for years. All of you did. You trained, you fought, you laughed together, and you left her—" she caught herself, throat tightening— "you left me to eat breakfast alone."
He blinked, startled. “Y/N…”
"I saw the pictures, Damian," she said, her voice breaking. "In my room. The ones with everyone smiling. You know what's missing in half of them? Me."
"The family portraits," she said, unable to stop herself now. "How coincidental that I'm not in any of them? I've lived here for years. Why? I wonder?" She shook her head, choking out a bitter laugh.
"And you have the nerve to stand here and call me your sister like it means something?"
Damian hesitated. For once, he looked unsure. "You shouldn't dig through old things."
"Why not?" she demanded. "Because it's easier for you to forget how bad you all were at loving people?"
His eyes narrowed. "That's not fair."
"It's the truth," she said. "You talk about family like it's sacred, but you only show up when someone's hurt. Not before. Not when it matters."
"You think I don't care?" he asked, his voice low.
"I think you care too late," she whispered.
He stared at her, and for a split second, he looked like he might actually break. His jaw trembled once before he set it again, forcing the emotion out of his face.
"I don't know what you want from me," he said finally.
"I want you to stop pretending you're trying to make up for something when you don't even remember what it is."
"That's not true," he said, more to himself than to her.
"It is," she said. "And it's pathetic."
The words came out sharper than she meant, but she didn't take them back. She couldn't.
His breath hitched. He turned away from her, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. For a moment, she thought he might yell, but he didn't.
Instead, he said quietly, "You have no idea what I've done to protect this family."
She laughed again, but there was no humor in it this time. "Then maybe stop pretending it was ever about protecting me."
That did it.
His expression shuttered completely, closing off like a locked door.
He moved toward the exit, but before leaving, he paused in the doorway, his voice controlled, but trembling at the edges.
"You can hate me all you want," he said. "But don't ever say I didn't try."
The door closed softly behind him.
Y/N stood frozen in place, her heart hammering.
Her hands shook as she pressed them over the gauze on her cheek, feeling her pulse thud beneath her fingertips. The skin burned under her touch, but she didn't move.
He doesn't get it.
He didn't understand that it wasn't about her at all, not really. It was about the girl who came before. The one they'd forgotten. The one who'd lived in this house and drawn pictures no one cared to hang.
The one who must've died believing she didn't matter.
And now Y/N was wearing her face.
Y/N clenched her jaw, forcing the tears back. She didn't want to cry, not for Damian, not for herself.
But she did.
Because in the end, she wasn't sure which of them was angrier: the girl she was now, or the one she'd become by accident.
Outside, in the hall, Damian leaned against the wall just beyond the training room door.
His throat burned.
Every word she'd said echoed in his head, circling, cutting, sticking. He wanted to deny it —to tell himself she was wrong —but he couldn't. Because deep down, some part of him knew she wasn't.
He had ignored her.
All of them had.
And now that guilt twisted into something else.
Something possessive.
Something ugly.
"You can't lose her," the walls whispered. "You just got her. She's your sister."
Damian's jaw locked. He thought it was just his own guilt talking.
But far beneath the manor, behind the walls, under the stone, something stirred, pleased.
Because anger was good.
Anger made them easier to bend.
The cave felt so alive tonight.
Not in any way a scientist could explain, no heartbeat, no movement, no will of its own, but it felt alive. It hummed with the ghosts of noise, with the echoes of training sessions, arguments, and footsteps that never really faded. The air was cold, metallic, wet at the edges, the sound of dripping water somewhere in the dark reminding him how far underground he was.
Damian didn't notice at first.
He'd been standing there too long: knuckles split and bruised, posture locked so tight he felt carved out of his own skin. The punching bag swayed beside him, aimless now, a slow pendulum marking time. Every breath he took came out clipped and shallow. His chest burned, his throat was raw, and yet he still wasn't sure he was breathing right.
He could still hear her voice, clear.
Don't call me your sister.
The words didn't fade; they pulsed, rhythmic, steady, in time with the swinging chain of the bag.
He tore the gloves off. They hit the ground with a wet thud, smearing sweat and blood against the concrete. His hands shook when he tried to flex them, tremors of exhaustion, or maybe anger.
He wasn't sure which one hurt more.
He crossed to the workbench and sat down heavily on the stool. It squeaked under his weight. The light from the computer screens flickered in the reflection of the metal tools, painting the walls in static green.
He stared at the wall until the patterns blurred.
He should be angry at her. Furious. She had yelled at him, accused him, thrown words like knives, and worse, they had landed.
But instead, all he could feel was guilt.
She had looked so small in that training room. Fragile.
He pressed his palms against his thighs, trying to steady the tremor in them. His shoulders were stiff, the tendons in his neck drawn taut like wires. His breathing came too fast, mechanical, every inhale matched by the quiet hum of the computer behind him. For a moment, it sounded like the cave was breathing with him, or against him.
He told himself it was just the echo.
The longer he sat there, the heavier the air became. His head throbbed in rhythm with the faint drip of water in the distance. His thoughts refused to stay still.
He remembered the early years in the manor — when she was younger. The original Wayne girl. She had followed him sometimes, trailing behind as he trained, always careful not to get too close. He used to ignore her, annoyed by the sound of her voice, her questions, her fragile presence that had no place in a family built on combat.
He'd told himself it was for her own good.
She wasn't like them.
He thought he was protecting her.
But now, as he thought about it, the memory shifted, warped slightly around the edges, growing warmer, softer.
He remembered turning to her after training, saying something small, something kind. Maybe he'd told her she'd get stronger one day. Maybe he'd even smiled.
He could almost hear Alfred's voice behind him, fond and approving.
Good, Master Damian. You're finally learning to be gentle.
That had happened. He was sure of it.
He needed it to have happened.
The image calmed him, steadied him, until another version of the exact moment surfaced, uninvited. The same room. The same day.
She was there again, quiet, watching him from a distance. He hadn't turned around. He hadn't spoken. He had walked away without a word.
He'd left her standing there, alone.
The new memory cut deeper, though he didn't want it to be.
He shook his head hard, as if he could dislodge it. "No," he muttered. "That's not how it happened."
The computer hummed again, almost in agreement.
He straightened up, shoulders jerking rigid, forcing his spine straight. His neck ached. His jaw clenched until his teeth hurt.
He remembered more moments, each one flickering like faulty film. Sitting at the breakfast table, she lingered at the far end. Passing her in the hall, pretending not to see her, and watching her draw in that old sketchbook.
And then, as if his mind was trying to save him, the images softened again, the quiet replaced by warmth.
In this version, he sat beside her while she drew. He said something encouraging. She smiled at him. Alfred passed behind them and smiled, too.
Yes. That's how it happened.
It had to be.
He could feel his heartbeat slowing, syncing with the faint electronic hum of the cave. Inhale. Exhale. The cave matched him perfectly.
He was remembering right now and rebuilding things as they were supposed to be.
He was a good brother. He had always tried.
He'd just forgotten, that was all.
He blinked up at the flickering light, his reflection caught faintly in the polished steel of the bench. For one unsteady second, he thought the eyes staring back weren't his. They were darker, hollower.
He blinked again, and the illusion vanished.
He dragged a hand down his face, forcing his breathing even.
"I can make it right," he whispered.
The cave whispered it back.
Make it right.
"Yes." His voice sounded steadier this time, more certain. "I can make it right."
He stood, every motion deliberate. His shoulders squared. His posture locked back into perfect military alignment. He looked calm again. Controlled.
He reached down for his gloves, slipping them back on despite the sting of raw skin underneath. The pain made him feel sharp, focused. Real.
He'd fix things tomorrow. He'd talk to her. Apologize. She'd understand.
She'd have to.
The shadows along the wall seemed to breathe once, stretching toward him, then settling again. The movement was so slow, so subtle, that he didn't notice.
He turned toward the stairs leading up to the manor. The flickering lights overhead seemed to guide his steps — a steady pulse leading him home.
He climbed. Slowly. Each step creaked faintly underfoot.
By the time he reached the top, his breathing had evened out completely. The calm that had settled over him was almost peaceful.
It was dark.
Every door closed. Every hall is silent. The world above had fallen into its heavy midnight stillness, the kind that seemed to wait for something to happen.
He walked softly down the corridor, his steps nearly soundless. The moonlight filtering through the high windows painted everything in shades of cold blue and silver. The portraits lining the wall seemed to watch him as he passed, their painted eyes catching faint glints of light.
He stopped in front of her door.
Her room was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of air through the vent and the fan she turned on.
He hesitated. For a moment, he almost knocked. He wanted to. He wanted to apologize, to tell her he hadn't meant any of it, that he didn't want to fight. But the thought of waking her, of seeing her cry again, made his chest tighten painfully.
Instead, he sat down. Right there on the floor, in front of her door.
The wood was cold against his back, but it grounded him.
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes.
If he listened closely, he could hear her breathing. Soft. Steady. A faint rhythm through the door.
He focused on it, syncing his own breaths with hers. Inhale when she did. Exhale when she did.
A quiet tether between them.
Every few minutes, her breathing changed, a pause, a shift, the sound catching faintly in her throat. Every time it did, something in Damian's chest seized. His pulse kicked hard. He sat forward, hands pressed flat to the floor.
What if she stopped? What if she wasn't breathing?
He leaned closer to the door, almost touching it with his forehead. The wood vibrated faintly under his skin. He could feel her breathing now: faint, rhythmic, alive.
The panic eased.
He sank back again, resting his head against the wall.
He should go to bed. He knew that. But the thought of leaving her alone, even for a few hours, made his stomach twist.
She could have nightmares. She could wake up and panic. She could slip out again.
He couldn't risk that.
He'd stay here, just for tonight.
It wasn't strange. It wasn't wrong. He was her brother.
Her brother.
He repeated it silently at first, then whispered it under his breath, each repetition softening into something like prayer.
He's her brother.
He's her brother.
He's her brother.
The words soothed him, looping around the edges of his mind until they felt like truth.
She was wrong before. She didn't understand.
She needed protection. She needed him.
He's her brother.
He's her brother.
He's her brother.
His eyes closed at last, the rhythm of her breathing and the whisper of his own voice blending into one soft, steady sound.
In the dark, the door behind him seemed to pulse once, just faintly, as if it, too, was breathing.
And somewhere deep beneath the manor, something old and patient listened to the boy whispering devotion to a lie, and smiled in the dark.
The manor did not sleep, no matter how still it pretended to be.
Y/N lay awake in the dark, the air in her room faintly stirred by the fan she'd left on hours ago. It wasn't the kind of white noise that lulled you to sleep: it was sharper, more mechanical, like a breath that didn't belong to anyone. The blades cut through the air in a steady rhythm: whirr, pause, whirr. Each cycle hid the sound of her shifting beneath the sheets, hid the faint catch in her breath every time she blinked and saw the door.
Her gauze itched. She could smell the antiseptic even through it, that bitter, medicinal tang that clung to everything she touched. The skin underneath pulsed, angry and tender. Every exhale brushed heat across the bandage, reminding her it was still there.
For a long while, she just lay there, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. The moonlight filtered through her blinds in pale strips, sharp enough to carve the shadows into ribs of light. She counted them once. Then again. By the fourth time, her throat ached.
The sound came between one breath and the next —a faint shift of weight outside her door.
At first, she thought she had imagined it. The house was old; it creaked when it remembered to. But the sound came again, deliberate this time, careful. Then another. Slow, steady breathing, the kind that belonged to someone who'd trained themselves to stay quiet.
Her pulse quickened. She knew that pattern.
Damian.
She didn't move. Didn't dare.
Her first reaction wasn't fear. It was exhaustion. That profound, bone-deep exhaustion that came from being watched even when you were supposed to be alone.
He never used to care when she disappeared into her room for hours—never checked when she skipped dinner or lingered too long by the windows—never asked if she was fine. The first month she'd been here, she cried herself to sleep often, quietly, into her pillow, the kind of sobs that didn't sound like a person but like a wound. He'd never come.
Now suddenly, he was the guard dog. The brother. The protector.
And it was too late to matter.
She rolled onto her side, facing the door. Her pillow rustled, the fan's steady hum swallowing the sound. She stared at the faint strip of moonlight at the base of the door, half expecting to see his shadow move.
The thought of him sitting out there: rigid-backed, eyes half-closed, counting her breaths, made her chest tighten with something too complicated to name.
She wanted to yell at him.
She wanted him to go.
She wanted him to stay.
The seconds stretched, thin and brittle. She turned back toward the wall, eyes burning. The fan clicked as it turned, the oscillation sweeping cool air across her neck.
"You don't get to care now," she whispered.
She thought of the Wayne girl who came before her —the one she'd never met but carried around like a ghost in borrowed skin. That girl probably would've loved this—the hallway vigils. The concern came too late. The way someone finally cared enough to hover outside her door. She would've been grateful for it. She would've mistaken it for love.
Love.
Family.
Y/N remembered those things.
Not from here, not from this life, but from before. Her mother's laugh. Her father's calloused hands. Her brother —loud, annoying, alive. The kind of family you could fight with and still come home to. The kind you could roll your eyes at and still know, deep down, that they'd choose you every time.
Her throat closed around the memory. The tears came before she even noticed them, slipping down her temples into the pillow.
She hoped, in some twisted way, that the Wayne girl was in her place now —that wherever the girl had gone, she got to see this version of the world. A family pretending to love her. A brother waiting outside her door. Maybe, for once, the ghost got the better end of the trade.
But then came the selfish thought: raw, fast, uninvited.
She didn't want to share them.
Not with anyone.
Even knowing they weren't hers, some childish, greedy part of her clung to them anyway. These people, this house, this heavy, broken version of belonging, she wanted it all to herself.
And she hated herself for it.
Because this wasn't family, it wasn't love. It was surveillance dressed as concern—a cage built out of carelessness.
This place was a nightmare.
How could anyone live with these weirdos?
A bitter laugh caught in her throat. She thought back to when she was little, spinning in her childhood bedroom, pretending she was Starfire —bright, powerful, loved.
Now she smirked at the ceiling through her tears.
"Guess I still want to be Starfire," she muttered.
If only so she could burn this whole damn place down.
The words vanished into the hum.
For a moment, she thought he'd heard; she heard the faintest scrape, the shift of fabric. But then his breathing steadied again.
So she stayed quiet.
Her mind wouldn't.
It circled the same thought: that she was trapped in a stranger's story. The walls, the furniture, the family photos, none of them were hers. The body she slept in wasn't hers. The scars and bruises she carried weren't, either. But the fear? That, at least, felt constant, grounded.
It shouldn't
She reached up, pressing her palm gently to her cheek. The gauze was warm from her skin. Underneath, it throbbed in rhythm with her heart. She thought of the moment in the mirror, the black void where her reflection should have been—the way she'd clawed at herself to feel again.
It didn't help.
Outside the door, Damian breathed slowly, even, unyielding. The sound pressed against her thoughts until it felt like the air in the room had weight.
She turned toward the window instead. The moon hung high above the trees —thin, distant, sharp-edged. The garden below was all silver and shadow, the pathways glinting faintly like veins under glass.
She shouldn't.
She would.
Her body moved before her brain caught up. She slipped out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The fan's low hum covered the sound of her movement. She pulled on her coat, the one she'd left draped over the chair earlier. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and antiseptic.
She hesitated only once, her hand hovering over the latch.
He's right there.
She didn't care.
The window opened with a soft, complaining creak. Cold air rushed in, sharp enough to sting her face. The garden's scent followed, damp earth, wet leaves, the faint trace of iron and rain.
Her pulse thudded in her ears as she swung her leg over the sill, careful to keep her movements slow. The trellis was slick under her palms, dew making every rung a risk. The gauze brushed against her collar, catching once, and she froze, breath held, listening.
Nothing.
Not even his breathing.
She landed softly on the grass. For a moment, the shock of the cold shot straight through her bones. She clenched her fists, grounding herself. The fan hummed above, a small mechanical reminder of the lie she'd left behind, the illusion that she was still upstairs, still there, still safe.
The garden was darker than she remembered. The moonlight only reached so far; the hedges loomed like walls, and the fountain stood cracked and empty. Every sound carried too far: the drip of condensation from the leaves, the faint sigh of wind through the trees.
She walked toward the stone bench at the edge of the path—the one where he'd always stood watching her from beyond the fence line.
Thomas Vale.
She didn't even know if that was his real name.
She sat down. The stone was cold enough to bite through her clothes. Her fingers trembled where they rested in her lap.
"Come on," she whispered. "You always show up."
Her voice felt too small against the open air.
A breeze passed through the garden, stirring the branches. It sounded almost like laughter — quiet, cruel, fading as quickly as it came.
Minutes bled into an hour. The fan's hum upstairs became a ghostly echo in the back of her mind.
Maybe he's hurt.
Maybe he's dead.
Maybe he was never real.
The thoughts circled like vultures, picking at her calm. She kept glancing toward the fence, half expecting to see his silhouette waiting, the faint glow of a cigarette ember, the smirk that always made her want to hit him and ask him questions at the same time.
Nothing.
The garden was still.
Her stomach twisted. She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting the urge to call his name. The wind was getting colder, biting at her cheeks and the exposed edge of gauze.
Something flickered in her peripheral vision —a shadow against the hedge. She turned sharply. Nothing. The darkness looked stretched, though, like it had moved when she wasn't watching.
She swallowed hard, pulse climbing. "Thomas?"
Silence.
Only the fan, far away, is still turning in the empty room.
She stayed another ten minutes before finally standing, her legs stiff from the cold. "Fine," she muttered under her breath. "Be like that."
The garden didn't answer.
When she climbed back up, her fingers were numb. The window slid shut without a sound. The air in the room felt too warm, too stale. The fan kept whirring, pretending nothing had happened.
She peeled off her coat and sank back onto the bed. Her hands smelled like soil and rust. The bandage tugged against her skin again, sticky and irritated.
She looked at the door. The line of light beneath it was still the same. He was probably still there, sitting exactly where she'd left him, unaware she'd gone.
The thought made her stomach twist: guilt, fear, or maybe both.
She turned onto her side, facing the window. Outside, the garden glowed faintly under the moonlight. Nothing moved.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had watched her the entire time.
She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come.
And somewhere beyond the garden, deep in the line of trees that marked the edge of the estate, something shifted, not footsteps, not wind, just the weight of a presence turning toward the house.
The fan hummed on.
Chapter 12: Fainting Spells
Chapter Text
Y/N pushed herself upright, blinking against the dull ache behind her eyes. Nausea twisted low in her stomach, the kind that lingered without ever fully rising. The faint buzz of the fan filled the silence, brushing her cheek with cool air and the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic from her bandages.
In the bathroom mirror, her reflection wasn’t kind.
She looked worse than usual: eyes shadowed, lips dry, hair a messy halo of sleep. The gauze clung unevenly to her cheek. When she peeled it off, the scratches under it were raw and red, angry lines marking skin that didn’t remember earning them.
She cleaned them carefully, wincing at the sting of antiseptic before replacing the bandage with new tape. Even freshly wrapped, the wound throbbed in a way that felt too close to last night. She stared at herself for a moment longer, then pulled her hood over her head and stepped out into the hallway.
Bruce’s office was dark.
Tim’s usual keyboard clatter was nowhere.
Jason’s boots weren’t by the stairs.
Dick’s murmured morning phone calls didn’t echo through the hall.
And Damian’s room… silent.
She tried to brush off the excitement coursing through her ribs, but it was soon replaced by distaste when she arrived in the kitchen, where Alfred stood at the counter, sleeves neatly rolled, studying a list with his usual soft severity.
Here we go.
“Good morning, Miss Y/N.”
She nodded. “Morning.”
“You look unwell.”
“I’m fine.”
Alfred didn’t challenge her—he simply handed her a small piece of paper. “You and Master Damian will be handling the grocery restock today.”
She blinked. “Why us?”
“Because you both appear to have the morning free,” he said gently, which was Alfred’s way of saying you are both miserable and need to interact like humans. “And because you clearly have unresolved tension that would be better confronted than ignored.”
Before she could object, Damian walked in.
His hair was still damp, his shirt clinging slightly from early training. His eyes flicked to the gauze on her cheek, then away. Alfred handed him a second list, and that was that. The decision had been made without a vote.
The drive was painfully silent.
Damian’s posture didn’t soften once. He held the wheel like he was afraid the car would veer off if he loosened his grip even slightly. His breathing was steady, controlled, making the air between them feel thinner.
Y/N leaned her head against the window, staring at the passing blur of Gotham—gray towers, cold streets, exhausted people shuffling along sidewalks. Usually, the city’s movement felt grounded. Today, though, it just reminded her of being stuck in this hellscape.
She didn’t want to look at him. Not after last night. Not after the arguing, or the way he’d watched her breathe through her door, or the way something sharp and frightened and possessive had flickered behind his eyes.
He’s still angry.
The thought came quietly. Too quietly. She frowned at her reflection in the glass.
He’s waiting for you to slip up.
Her pulse ticked faster. That didn’t sound like her. Not entirely.
When Damian finally spoke, his voice was low but clipped. “You’re quiet.”
“You’re surprised?”
“You haven’t spoken since we left the Manor.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to.”
He exhaled sharply, jaw flexing. “Immaturity doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does pretending you care.”
His grip tightened on the wheel, and for a moment she caught his reflection flattened—eyes narrowed, mouth drawn tight. He didn’t look over.
“Last night was… unnecessary,” he said eventually, as if dragging the words out. “We were both emotional.”
“That’s your idea of an apology?” she muttered.
“I did not apologize.”
“No,” she said softly, “you didn’t.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time. She could feel him thinking, the tension bristling off him in small waves. He shifted slightly, controlled, exact, as if even his breathing needed discipline.
He spoke again, quiet but pointed. “Your injury seems worse today.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re pale.”
“Maybe your personality is killing me.”
The wince that flickered across his face was fleeting but real. A sharp stab of guilt twisted in her stomach immediately after.
Good, the thought snapped back before she could stop it.
Then—God, no. What is wrong with me?
She pressed her fingernails into her palm.
The engine hummed softly, but its rhythm made her heart race rather than calm.
He wants to keep you inside the Manor.
The thought slid into her mind like a blade.
Where he can see you? Control you. Contain you.
She bit the inside of her cheek, breath tight.
He wants to smother you with his version of protection.
Her vision wavered. She blinked hard, forcing it steady.
Damian pulled into the market parking lot and parked with perfect precision. He didn’t move at first, just sat with his hands on the wheel, analyzing something she couldn’t see. His reflection in the windshield looked older than he should’ve been—harder, sharper, like the shadows clinging to him were trying to shape him into something colder.
“Let’s get this done,” he said finally.
Y/N stepped out of the car. The air was crisp and damp, brushing her face with a chill that sank into her skin. Damian rounded the car, list in hand, and fell in step beside her—not touching, but close enough that she felt the gravity of him.
She didn’t look at him.
He didn’t look at her.
But as they approached the automatic doors of the market, she felt something trickle down her spine—not quite fear, not quite recognition.
Her own thoughts curling into whispers that weren’t entirely hers.
He thinks you’re safest where he can hear you breathing.
He thinks you belong inside those walls.
He thinks you stay.
Her breath hitched, and she forced her steps to stay steady.
Damian was beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed once, neither of them acknowledging it. His eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd, but every few seconds she felt his gaze flicker toward her in tiny, controlled glances.
He was watching her. Carefully. Constantly.
She wondered if he knew it.
She wondered if she did.
She wondered which thoughts were hers—
And which ones were quietly eating their way in.
The grocery store hums with gentle, indifferent life. Bright lights, soft music, the distant beeping of scanners at checkout. Ordinary. Comforting. Almost enough to make Y/N believe Gotham’s ugliness can’t reach her here.
She pushes the cart forward slowly, glancing at Alfred’s neat handwriting in her mind, trying to recall the type of jam he wanted. Damian steps into the next aisle for spices, promising to grab the tea Alfred likes. He disappears from view but stays close enough that she can hear the faint shuffle of items being rearranged.
For a moment, she’s alone with the mundane.
Then someone matches her stride.
Thomas Vale slips in beside her like he’s been walking with her the whole time, not hurried. Not suspicious. Just… present. Too present.
“Well,” he says, voice smooth, lips curving. “Look at you. You’ve definitely seen better days.”
The cart jerks slightly as her hands tighten. Her pulse spikes, but her expression stays flat. Of course, it’s him. Of course, he’d choose a grocery store of all places. Why wouldn’t he?
“Where were you?” she demands before he can say anything else.
Thomas lifts his brows in exaggerated surprise. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she snaps. “The gardens. I waited. Like an idiot. You never showed.”
His expression shifts into something warm and patronizing. “Ah. That.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I’m a busy man.”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Busy enough to stalk me across Gotham for months, but not busy enough to show up when I actually want answers?”
That earns her a slow, appreciative smirk.
“Stalk?” he repeats thoughtfully. “Such a dramatic word. I prefer ‘followed your narrative arc.’”
They walk past a display of olive oil, shoppers brushing by them without so much as a glance. No one else sees the tension boiling between them, the invisible threads tying—twisting—around her spine.
“Cut the bullshit,” Y/N says. “Tell me what you did to the Riddler.”
Thomas actually stops for a split second before catching back up to her, smile stretching again. “What I did?” His voice lifts playfully. “You’ll have to be more specific. There’ve been so many villains lately. Narrow it down.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I really don’t,” he says with a too-innocent shrug. “But please, enlighten me. I live for exposition.”
The cart’s wheels squeal as she pushes harder. “I’m tired of this. Of you popping in and out, dropping hints, twisting things around, making me feel—” She cuts herself off, breath sharp. Don’t give him that. Don’t give him anything real.
Thomas watches her with that unnerving, affectionate curiosity. “Making you feel what?”
“Sick of this game,” she seethes. “If you want to kill me, then get it over with already.”
For the first time, Thomas’ grin changes—wider, darker, delighted in a way that makes her skin crawl.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “They say the most tortured characters make the best plot lines.”
Her breath catches—not in fear, but in a broken sort of exasperation. He’d love that. He’d write that. He’d make it poetic.
They turn the corner into the next aisle.
He’s gone.
No footsteps. No aisle-end glimpse. No shadow slipping away. Just absence. Like he’d never been there at all.
Y/N exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. Her heart doesn’t stutter. It doesn’t race. It just… aches with exhaustion. This is normal now. This is expected.
Damian reappears, holding a box of spices. “Did you get what Alfred asked for?”
Y/N stares down into the cart, mind blank. She hasn’t grabbed anything since Thomas appeared. She knows she hasn’t.
And yet.
Nestled neatly among the vegetables and bread sits a jar of Alfred’s favorite jam. The exact brand. The exact flavor. Placed carefully upright.
She hadn’t even walked past the jam aisle yet.
He put it there. He wants me to know he can touch anything. Be anywhere. Even here.
Especially here.
Then her eyes catch the silhouette of a book, a familiar spine, a familiar insignia.
Before her brain could think, could rationalize the potential of information in the book, her fingers twitched, then reached for the book, delicate, past mistakes haunting.
And places it back on the shelf.
Her teeth gritted just thinking about it.
Yeah, run off, you dramatic bitch. God forbid you ever answer a straight fucking question.
Damian doesn’t seem to notice the sudden tension radiating from her. He just waits, patient and polite. Watching her put the book back with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Y/N murmurs. “I got it.”
Her fingers tighten around the cart handle.
He put it there. He wants me to know he can touch anything. Be anywhere. Even here. Especially here.
She forces a steady breath as Damian starts moving toward the checkout.
The store stays bright. Ordinary. Harmless.
But the jar of jam weighs heavier than everything else in the cart combined.
The ride back to the manor is quiet. Damian drives with the same precision he uses when throwing batarangs, eyes forward, saying nothing. Y/N keeps her gaze fixed out the window, refusing to let Thomas’ grin replay in her mind.
Smug bastard. Fuck him. He can drop dead for all I care.
She mutters under her breath, barely audible, “Dramatic little bitch.”
Damian glances over but doesn’t comment. He’s learned, begrudgingly, to give her space.
When they pull up to the manor, the weight in her chest settles again—familiar, heavy, but safer than the grocery store aisles where Thomas slipped in and out of reality like smoke.
Inside, the kitchen is warm with the smell of simmering broth and herbs. Alfred stands at the counter, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows as he chops vegetables.
“Welcome home, Master Damian. Miss Y/N,” Alfred says, polite but warm. “I trust the shopping trip was… eventful?”
Damian hands him the bags. “Uneventful enough.”
Y/N doesn’t correct him. She places the last bag on the counter, swallowing the taste of leftover adrenaline.
Alfred gives her a quick once-over—gentle, assessing—and something in his eyes softens. “You look tired, my dear. More than tired, if I may be honest.”
She forces a smile. “Long night.”
“It has been a series of long nights,” Alfred says quietly, setting the knife down. “And yet, you continue to carry yourself with more strength than you realize.”
Her throat tightens instantly. Too fast. Too sharp. Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart. Not in front of the one person who still treats you like a whole human being.
“I’m trying,” she manages.
“I know,” Alfred replies, voice soft but steady, the kind of tone that could hold up walls. “And I am proud of you for it. Gotham has a way of dimming the brightest spirits… but it has not dimmed yours.”
The air leaves her chest in a shaky exhale. Tears sting behind her eyes. She looks down at the counter, blinking rapidly.
“Alfred,” she whispers, “please don’t— I really can’t—”
He touches her arm, gentle but grounding. “You do not owe this house, or any of its residents, a mask.”
She bites her lip hard enough to sting. Stop. Don’t cry in front of him. Smile. Just smile. Give him something. She pulls in a breath and forces a wobbly smile, the best she can manage.
Alfred nods, accepting it without pushing further. “Good. Now help me plate the scones before they cool.”
“Gladly,” she says, quietly grateful for something to do with her hands.
Damian enters a moment later, settling stiffly into one of the chairs.
“Tea?” Alfred asks.
“If you must,” Damian replies.
“You say that as if I have ever brewed a cup poorly.”
Y/N snorts under her breath. Damian shoots her a look, not hostile, but wary. She hands him a plate of scones without making eye contact.
Alfred sets the tea tray down between them like it’s a peace offering to two stubborn nations.
Damian pours himself a cup, then hesitates before pouring one for her too. He doesn’t say anything, just slides it across the table. It’s small, awkward, but real.
She murmurs, “Thanks.”
Damian nods, clearing his throat. “It was not… displeasing to shop with you.”
Y/N lifts an eyebrow. “That’s the closest thing I’ll get to a compliment, isn’t it?”
“Most certainly,” Alfred says dryly from the counter.
Damian’s lips twitch into something almost a smile. He tears a scone in half and pushes one piece toward her. “Alfred says you need to eat more. I am inclined to agree.”
She takes it. “You’re bossy.”
“You are impossible.”
Their bickering sparks for a moment—warm, strained, familiar—but under Alfred’s quiet presence, it never reaches sharpness. It softens instead, simmering into something that feels like a truce. Maybe even a thread of connection reforged.
Alfred watches them with that small, satisfied smile he wears when two people stop pretending they’re strangers.
By the time the tea is half gone, Y/N’s heartbeat has stopped racing. Her shoulders loosen. Damian relaxes by degrees, enough to lean back in his chair.
For a little while, the kitchen feels like the safest room in the world.
And Y/N almost believes she’s allowed to feel that peace for longer than a moment.
By late afternoon, the manor feels muted. The kind of quiet that settles after anger has already scorched through a place. Y/N walks into the hall just as the front doors open.
Jason steps in first, shaking off his jacket. “Hey, kid.”
Dick gives her a warm but tired smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Y/N lifts a hand in a small wave. She tries to offer a smile back—thin, careful, but real enough.
Then Tim walks in last.
He looks like a ghost.
Sleepless. Sagging. Eyes unfocused. Shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something none of them can see. He doesn’t even acknowledge the sound of his own name.
“Tim… hey,” Y/N says softly.
He doesn’t respond.
He moves past all of them, silent and expressionless, heading straight to the grandfather clock. His hand trembles as he pushes it open.
“Tim?” she tries again, quieter.
But he’s already gone, descending the stairs, swallowed by the cold blue glow of the cave.
The door closes behind him with a hollow sound.
Jason mutters, “He’s on his last thread.”
Dick sighs. “He’s burning out, and Bruce isn’t stopping.”
Y/N’s stomach knots. I knew he’d be angry. I knew he was furious in the Batcave that night. But I didn’t think he’d… keep going like this. Not with Tim. Not the way he… tore into me.
She remembers it vividly:
Bruce, pacing like a storm.
The cave lights reflected harshly off his armor.
Steph’s blood on the report.
His voice cutting sharp—You were a distraction.
Tim was next to her, defending her until he was hoarse.
Bruce, turning that same blade-like tone on him.
The argument echoes through the cavern walls.
She can’t remember the last time she was in the Batcave—opting to use the training rooms upstairs instead.
Carefully, she asks, “Why… why is Bruce still being so hard on him? I thought things… settled.”
Jason scoffs. “You thought wrong.”
Dick shoots Jason a look, but he agrees. He rubs at the back of his neck. When Jason continues, "Bruce is… Well, he’s a piece of shit, and there’s not much we can do when that bat bastard gets his head into something.”
Y/N snorts at Jason’s comment. He sure has a weird way of holding his punches.
But then she stiffens. The memory slams back into place. The shooting. The blood. The cold accusation in Bruce’s voice. Your presence compromised the schedule.
The guilt she felt.
The guilt Tim took onto himself.
Quietly, she asks, “Is she… is Steph okay?”
Dick nods immediately. “Yeah. She’s fine. She’s staying with Cass. They share an apartment, so Cass has her on lockdown. She’s not allowed to move without Cass hovering two inches behind her.”
Jason huffs. “Steph’s annoyed as hell but alive, so she’ll deal.”
The relief that hits Y/N nearly buckles her knees. Good. She’s okay. Thank god she’s okay.
Dick continues, “But Bruce… he hasn’t let it go. He hasn’t let the Batcave argument go, either.”
Y/N’s fingers curl. “He’s still mad about that night?”
“He’s not mad,” Jason says bitterly. “He’s disappointed. Which is worse.”
Dick nods. “He blamed you first. We all saw it. We heard it. That wasn’t right.”
Y/N swallows. No, it wasn’t. But I could take it. I’m not the girl he thinks I am. I don’t have years of trying to earn his approval carved into me like Tim does.
Dick lowers his voice. “And when Tim defended you? That’s when Bruce turned it on him. He took it personally. He’s still taking it personally.”
Jason gestures vaguely toward the clock. “Now Tim’s paying for both of you.”
Y/N’s chest aches. “He shouldn’t be. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dick sighs. “Bruce thinks Tim should’ve been in the field with Steph. That if he hadn’t been helping Alfred with you, he could’ve prevented the shooting.”
Y/N flinches.
So he’s doubling Tim’s workload. Pushing him harder. Drilling him until he collapses. Because he can’t yell at me anymore. Because it’s easier to break Tim down than admit he’s scared.
Jason claps a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t on you. It’s on Bruce and his emotional constipation.”
Dick nods. “Tim doesn’t blame you. Not even a little. He defended you because he cares.”
Y/N’s eyes sting. He cared enough to argue with Bruce. Cared enough to shout. Cared enough to take the blow meant for me. And now he’s unraveling because Bruce won’t let it go.
Dick straightens. “I’m talking to Bruce tonight. This needs to stop.”
Jason shrugs. “Good luck. The Bat’s deep in brooding mode.”
Dick doesn’t smile. “He’ll hear me. He has to. Tim can’t keep going like this.”
Y/N looks toward the grandfather clock, toward the boy who vanished behind it, broken down by guilt that never belonged to him.
“We should go check on him,” she says quietly.
Jason nods. Dick nods.
And Y/N follows them into the shadows of the manor.
Wishing she’d never been the reason Bruce drew his line of fire in the first place.
The moment the three of them descend the metal stairs, Y/N feels it—the quiet. Not one from the darkness that slips past her from the walls, no, this is different. The hum of the computers sounds too loud, too sharp, like it’s filling the space where something important is missing.
Dick walks faster. Jason, uncharacteristically, doesn’t crack a joke. Y/N follows close behind, every step tightening the knot in her stomach.
He’s fine. He’s gotta be fine. He’s always fine, right? He’s Tim.
But when they round the platform, Jason stops so abruptly that Y/N almost slams into his back.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
Tim is on the floor.
Collapsed. Knees tucked awkwardly under him, head against the cold tile, fingers still faintly curled like he’d been reaching for the keyboard.
For a second, Y/N can’t breathe. Everything in her goes silent.
Then she’s moving.
“Tim!” she drops to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she tries to lift his shoulders. His skin feels too warm. His breathing is shallow. Rapid.
His eyelids don’t even twitch.
“Oh god…Tim, please…come on—” Her voice cracks, panic clawing at her ribs. No, no, no, no, he can’t be unconscious, he can’t.
Jason crouches down, scanning him with frantic precision. “Shit. He’s completely out. He hasn’t eaten. He hasn’t slept. He pushed until he broke.”
Dick’s face is pale as he pulls out his phone. “I’m calling Bruce.”
He tries once. No answer.
Twice. Still nothing.
The call goes to voicemail.
Dick grits his teeth. “Bruce, answer your damn phone. Tim collapsed. This is serious.”
Jason slides his arms under Tim and lifts him effortlessly, as if carrying a dead weight were the easiest thing in the world—except his jaw is clenched, his eyes hard.
“Med bay,” he says. “Now.”
Y/N follows so closely she could be stepping on his heels. She keeps glancing at Tim’s face—pale, slack, too still—and her heart feels like it’s tightening with every second.
I should’ve checked on him earlier. I should’ve known he was this tired. I should’ve...
Jason lays Tim on the med bed, adjusting his limbs gently, more tender than he’ll ever admit. Y/N immediately grabs Tim’s limp hand, squeezing it hard.
His fingers don’t squeeze back.
“Come on,” she whispers, voice shaking. “Please wake up. Please.”
The monitors flicker to life, reading his vitals. None of them looks good.
Jason mutters, “Blood pressure’s low. Heart rate’s way too fast. He’s dehydrated as hell.”
Dick tries calling Bruce again, pacing the room in tight, angry strides. “Come on—Bruce, answer the phone…”
Voicemail.
Y/N feels a pulse of anger mixed with her fear.
Of course. Of course, he isn’t picking up. Not until it’s too late. Not until Tim hits the floor.
She turns back to Tim’s face. His eyelashes rest against his skin like he’s finally asleep—really asleep—for the first time in days. It would be peaceful if it weren’t terrifying.
Jason places a hand on Y/N’s back, with unexpectedly soft pressure. “He’s gonna be okay. We got him in time.”
Y/N nods but doesn’t unclench her jaw.
Dick tries Bruce again.
Voicemail.
Jason swears, “When that man shows up, I swear to god—”
Footsteps echo above them.
Heavy. Controlled. Purposeful.
Bruce Wayne steps into the med bay.
Still in uniform. Still wearing the cowl. Expression unreadable.
Cold.
Dick stands. “Bruce... he collapsed.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. Doesn’t acknowledge the trembling in Dick’s voice. Doesn’t even look at him.
He walks straight past the three of them to Tim, towering over the bed like a shadow.
Y/N steps instinctively closer to Tim, still holding his hand.
Bruce notices.
His jaw tightens, barely, but she catches it.
Alfred arrives seconds later, still tying his apron as he rushes in. “Master Tim—good heavens—”
Bruce finally speaks.
Not loud. Not emotional. Not even angry.
Just low. Controlled.
“Help me get him to his room.”
That’s how they know he’s shaken.
Bruce Wayne doesn’t raise his voice when he’s afraid.
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
Alfred nods firmly, slipping an arm beneath Tim’s shoulders with surprising ease. Bruce takes the other side, lifting Tim with practiced care.
For a moment, Tim’s head lolls.
Y/N steps back, chest tightening again.
Jason watches with open suspicion. Dick watches with hurt.
Bruce doesn’t look at either of them.
But he looks at her.
Hard.
His eyes lock onto hers with razor-edged weight. Not anger—something sharper. Something colder. Something she doesn’t have a name for.
Y/N’s pulse spikes.
Great. The bat bastard is gonna blame this on me. Jason was right—it has a nice ring to it.
She forces herself not to look away, even though the instinct screams at her to shrink back.
Bruce holds her gaze for a second too long.
Then turns away, carrying Tim out with Alfred.
The room is quiet again.
Jason exhales shakily. “If he says one word—one fucking word—to blame you, I’m swinging.”
Dick runs a hand through his hair. “He won’t lash out right now. But later…?”
Y/N stares at the door where Tim was carried out.
Her hands are still trembling.
He defended me. And Bruce crushed him for it. And now Tim’s unconscious, and Bruce is looking at me like I’m next.
Her throat tightens painfully.
Jason puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t your fault.”
Dick nods. “It’s Bruce’s. All of it.”
Y/N’s eyes burn, but she brushes past them, following Bruce and Alfred.
Because logic doesn’t matter.
Not when she still feels like she’s the reason Tim is lying unconscious upstairs.
And she knows Bruce thinks so, too.
Tim doesn’t stir when Alfred and Bruce guide him into the room. His body remains limp, head falling gently against Bruce’s chest, and Alfred moves with practiced care as he arranges the pillows and smooths the sheets beneath him. The lamplight casts a faint warm glow across Tim’s face, emphasizing the exhaustion etched deep into his features. He looks impossibly young like this, impossibly breakable, and that alone threatens to unravel something inside Y/N.
Bruce’s posture remains rigid even after Tim is settled. He lingers beside the bed longer than necessary, standing like a sentinel carved out of stone. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared with the kind of tension that makes the air feel thick. And when he finally turns, his gaze locks onto Y/N.
It doesn’t flick. Doesn’t waver. Doesn’t soften.
It lands on her with a weight that makes her breath catch. This time she doesn’t mistake the stare for anything else — he’s scrutinizing her, dissecting her presence near Tim as if she’s a variable he can’t control.
If he wasn’t staring at me in the Batcave, she thinks, he’s definitely staring now.
The pressure of his scrutiny presses against her ribs until she feels hollowed out by it. She refuses to shrink, though she can’t hide the small sigh that escapes as she steps around him and crosses into the room, brushing his shoulder on the way. His body doesn’t move an inch, but she feels the shift of his attention following her anyway.
Alfred tilts his head toward her in quiet acknowledgment before leaving to fetch fresh water and medicine. Y/N pulls the chair close to Tim’s bedside, movements careful and quiet, as if any sudden gesture might disrupt the fragile peace in the room. She curls her fingers around Tim’s hand almost without thinking, her thumb tracing the ridge of his knuckles in slow, reassuring motions.
Only then does she feel herself breathe.
Tim’s skin is warm beneath her touch, his breath shallow but steady. The tension in her shoulders begins to ease, replaced with a soft ache she can’t quite name. She scoots closer, leaning forward until her folded arms rest beside him on the mattress, her cheek settling near his shoulder. Her forehead nearly touches his upper arm, and the proximity feels grounding in a way she didn’t expect.
“You pushed too hard,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “You don’t have to do that anymore. Not alone. And not for Bruce.”
The room settles into a stillness that feels almost sacred. She focuses on the rise and fall of his chest, on the soft sound of his breathing, on the warmth of his hand wrapped in hers. Eventually, her eyes slip closed, exhaustion pulling her toward the calm, and sleep brushes against her in gentle waves.
Damian stands outside the doorway, a solemn watcher, his face blocked out by shadows creeping in from all corners. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, not with confidence but with tension coiling through every muscle. His expression is neutral at first glance, but the longer he stares into the room, the more the mask cracks.
He watches Y/N lean her head beside Tim’s pillow, her fingers intertwined with Tim’s. Her posture is protective, gentle, devoted. Damian hadn’t imagined her reacting like this. He hadn’t anticipated it at all.
Something sharp twists inside him —jealousy mixed with confusion, resentment tangled with disbelief —and throws him off balance. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting gently into his palms as if he needs some physical sensation to steady himself.
She’s his sister. His.
Not Tim’s.
Tim had grown into the family through perseverance and tragedy, through years of dedication and duty, but he wasn’t born into it. He didn’t have to fight for a place the way Damian always has. He didn’t have to claw his way toward acceptance or navigate a childhood filled with rigid expectations and impossible standards.
And yet… he fits with her so naturally. Too naturally.
Damian swallows down the bitterness rising in his throat. It doesn’t help that memories of his mother’s training flicker behind his eyes, the hours of punishment disguised as honing his skills, the exhaustion he was taught to ignore, the rare tenderness reserved only for success. He knows what overwork looks like. He knows what it feels like to break.
He recognizes the signs in Tim now.
But even knowing that, even understanding the pressure that’s hollowed Tim out, part of him can’t help but resent the way Y/N gravitates to Tim first. The way her worry is so visible, so raw, so deeply rooted, it sits on her face like an open wound.
The whisper worms its way into his thoughts again, slithering between reason and emotion with insidious ease.
She belongs with you. Not him. You earned her loyalty. Tim didn’t.
He stiffens. That isn’t him. That isn’t how he thinks. But the whisper doesn’t stop, doesn’t yield, and a faint pulse begins at the base of his skull, a pressure that makes his thoughts swim.
He closes his eyes tightly, trying to shove the feeling away. He tries to remind himself that Tim is family too, that family isn’t divided like this…
But the ache in his chest remains, and the thought returns, quieter this time, but sharper:
Why him? Why not you?
His fists tighten again, and he stays there — rooted in the doorway, suffocating under emotions he doesn’t have names for.
Downstairs, the Batcave hums under harsh blue lighting as Bruce heads directly for the suits and patrol console. The moment he touches the keyboard, the sound echoes through the cave like a ritual he refuses to abandon.
“Dick. Jason,” he says without looking up. “Patrol begins in ten minutes. Update your routes and—”
Dick stops him with a firm, almost thunderous step forward. “Bruce. No.”
Bruce finally glances at him, expression iron-hard beneath the cowl. “We have responsibilities. Tonight is no different.”
Jason’s boots slam against the walkway as he approaches, the anger visible in every line of his posture. “Tim is unconscious upstairs because you pushed him past his limit. And you think we’re just going to follow orders?”
Bruce straightens, voice thinning with warning. “I expected discipline. Tim failed to pace himself. This isn’t—”
Jason cuts him off with a scoff. “You’re unbelievable.”
Dick’s voice rises, though it trembles with the tightness of emotion.
“He collapsed, Bruce. He didn’t just skip meals or miss a few hours of sleep… He broke down. You broke him down. And you’re pretending this is just another day.”
Bruce’s silence is defensive rather than calm.
Jason steps even closer. “If you’re going on patrol tonight, then go alone. Because we’re not following orders after what you did.”
Bruce’s jaw twitches, and he looks away sharply, not out of shame, perhaps, but out of a loss for how to fight against this truth.
Upstairs, the soft rustle of blankets makes Y/N’s eyes open slightly.
Tim’s fingers tighten around hers.
She lifts her head just in time to see his eyelids flutter open, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening as he blinks against the dim light. Confusion creases his brow before recognition slides across his face, softening his features.
“You…” His voice comes out hoarse and quiet. “You stayed.”
A wave of emotion ripples through him: sharp, sudden, overwhelming. He remembers the night he promised her he’d be a brother to her, awkwardly trying to reassure her she wasn’t alone in her life here. He hadn’t known what it meant at the time, not entirely. He’d just wanted to help.
Now, she’s doing the same for him.
His breath hitches, and his eyes burn with the sting of unexpected tears.
Family, real family, was something he watched from afar, never quite having the chance to be a part of. He grew up too fast, took on responsibilities that weren’t meant for a child, and wore too many masks before he ever had time to figure out who he actually was.
Robin.
Red Robin.
CEO.
Prodigy.
Protector.
The roles left little room for softness. Little room for moments like this. Little room for someone sitting beside him because they wanted to, not because they needed something from him.
But here she is.
Warm. Concerned. Unwavering.
This is what family should feel like.
This quiet closeness. This gentle care. This weightless sense of belonging.
He squeezes her hand again, firmer this time, as though anchoring himself to her presence, to this moment, to this connection he never wants to loosen.
This is what he and Y/N are supposed to look like.
A promise.
A bond.
A choice.
His chest feels full: painfully, beautifully full.
And in the doorway, Damian watches the scene unfold, a knot tightening inside him, his breath catching in a different kind of ache as another thought curls into his head, soft as poison.
She should have chosen you.
Night turns into dawn, and when the sunlight starts to seep through the curtains, Y/N blinks.
She barely remembers pulling herself out of bed after checking on Tim twice more throughout the night. She feels wrung out but steady as she falls into step beside him on their way downstairs. Tim is pale, tired, but walking under his own power, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie like he’s trying to hide any tremble leftover from the collapse.
Damian is nowhere to be seen in the hall.
She doesn’t know he stayed by her door for hours after she went to sleep, waiting for her to open it, to say goodnight, to acknowledge him.
He doesn’t know why he waited, only that he kept searching for her shadow under the doorframe, hoping she’d remember he’d been the one outside protecting her.
She didn’t come out.
She didn’t call his name.
And the ache of that truth sits in his chest like an old wound reopening.
So this is what she felt all those years, he thinks, pacing the corner of the dining room before they arrive, trying not to grip the chair too hard. Left out. Forgotten. Choosing me, but never being chosen back.
The realization hurts more than he expects.
It hurts that she didn’t look for him.
It hurts that she didn’t think of him when she needed comfort.
It hurts that she chose Tim so naturally, effortlessly, without hesitation.
He was the younger brother.
She was supposed to try harder.
She was supposed to keep trying even when it was difficult.
Why didn’t she?
Why didn’t she fight for me?
His breath stutters, but he forces himself to be calm before she and Tim walk in.
Chapter 13: We're Supposed to Be A Family
Chapter Text
The manor’s tall windows let in warm morning light, dust motes swirling lazily in the air. The aroma of pancakes and Earl Grey hangs softly around the long dining table, and Alfred moves with his usual quiet efficiency, placing dishes down with a faint clink.
But the silence is wrong. Not peaceful. Not comforting.
Suffocating.
Y/N and Tim sit on one side of the table. Tim is still pale, still recovering, still pretending he isn’t leaning subtly toward her for balance. Y/N stays close without making a big deal of it, guiding the plate closer when his hand wavers.
Across from them sits Damian.
Rigid.
Still.
Eyes dark and unreadable.
He slices his pancakes into perfect squares but doesn’t eat a single bite. The knife movement is so sharp it looks more like dissection than breakfast.
Y/N glances at Tim.
Tim glances at Y/N.
Just Damian being Damian, they both think.
They’re wrong.
Damian’s jaw clenches so tightly his ears ache. Each soft laugh between Y/N and Tim makes his stomach twist. Every time she pours Tim more juice or brushes a crumb off his sleeve, Damian’s pulse spikes with something ugly, something he doesn’t want to name.
The whisper from the night before lingers like a bruise on the inside of his mind:
She didn’t choose you.
He grits his teeth hard. No. He won’t let the thought root itself. He’s stronger than that. But something coils inside him anyway, tightening, stabbing.
Alfred notices.
“Master Damian,” he says gently, placing a steadying hand on Damian’s shoulder, “perhaps some tea? It may ease the morning.”
Damian jerks violently away from the touch.
“I’m not hungry,” he snaps, voice thin with strain.
He stands abruptly, chair scraping sharply. Without a word, he stalks toward the doorway, cape snapping behind him like a wounded animal trying not to limp. Alfred watches him go, concern tightening his features.
Once Damian disappears, Alfred turns back to the table with a soft sigh.
“I fear something weighs heavily on his mind,” he murmurs.
Y/N watches the empty doorway. “Yeah… he’s been like this since last night.”
Tim rubs the back of his neck. “He’ll burn through it. Damian runs hot, but he cools down eventually. It’s sort of his… cycle.”
Alfred gives them a slight, encouraging nod, though worry lingers in his eyes.
“Well, if either of you require anything, I will be running a few errands for Master Bruce.” He checks his watch. “Try to relax. The morning is meant to be light.”
Tim offers a faint smile. “We’ll manage.”
Alfred leaves with his usual graceful efficiency, and the soft click of the door closing feels like the tension growing thicker without him there to diffuse it.
Y/N and Tim sit for a moment in weighted quiet before Tim abruptly straightens.
“So,” he says, as if forcibly injecting life into the room, “horror movies?”
Y/N blinks. “What?”
“Your favorite genre,” Tim prompts, the corners of his mouth lifting, “you said you like horror?”
“Oh.” She laughs, warming. “Yeah. The darker, creepier, supernatural kind. The ones that make you double-check your closet.”
Ironic, isn’t it?
“I knew it,” Tim says smugly. “You’re absolutely that type.”
“And you?” she challenges.
“Psychological thrillers,” he replies without hesitation. “Stuff that messes with your head. But I can handle horror too.”
“Oh please,” Y/N teases. “You look like you cover your eyes behind your hand.”
Tim sniffs with mock offense. “I cover them strategically. There’s a difference.”
Their laughter comes easily again. They drift into casual conversation: their favorite games, genres they can’t stand, movies that made them cry, even if they’ll deny it until death. Tim asks rapid-fire questions like he’s trying to gather every tiny detail about her before anyone else can.
Eventually, Y/N leans slightly closer. “You sure you’re okay?”
Tim’s expression softens. “Yeah. I really am.”
He tilts his head. “What about you? You okay?”
She smiles. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
Tim returns the smile. It’s small. Warm. Real.
Then hesitates.
“You, uh… didn’t run into Thomas again, did you?”
Y/N lifts a bright thumbs-up. “Totally fine.”
The lie glides out effortlessly.
But Tim watches her too long, eyes narrowing slightly, something curious flickering behind them.
Damian’s boots strike the metal stairs leading to the Batcave with clipped intensity, the sound harsher than usual. When he reaches the cave floor, the air feels strangely charged, as if electricity is humming through the stone walls. He tries to ignore it, chalking the sensation up to leftover anger.
He heads straight to the case files.
A drawer slides open, and his gaze lands—almost magnetically—on a folder titled:
Riddler — Minor Disturbances
A collection of minor, strange incidents that GCPD couldn’t categorize. Too minor for Bruce to waste time on. Too messy to provide any obvious clues.
He isn’t entirely sure why he chooses that one, but he does.
He removes the flash drive and feels the faintest tremor in his fingers. He hates it. He forces them to steady. He is not shaken. He is not weak.
He plugs the drive into the Batcomputer and begins browsing the footage. Grainy clips. Empty streets. Alleyway cameras flickering in and out. Nothing useful. The monotonous scrolling lulls his mind into a dull haze.
Then the case file slips off the console.
Just slides right off the edge.
It hits the ground with a soft thump, scattering a small pile of papers.
Damian mutters under his breath, annoyed, and kneels to gather them. He stacks them neatly, irritation pulling tight at the corners of his mouth. As he stands, he sets the file back on the console, and the Batcomputer flickers.
It’s subtle. Barely noticeable. A line of static cutting across the screen briefly.
He doesn’t look up. He’s too irritated to care. He simply returns his hand to the mouse and clicks “Next.”
The footage changes.
And everything inside him halts.
Y/N fills the screen.
Handcuffed, tied to a chair, gas curling around her head and shoulders like toxic mist.
Her face—pale, furious, terrified—stares straight at the camera. The footage is silent, but Damian swears he can hear her gasp.
His chest tightens painfully. His lungs burn. The world sharpens to a single point of focus.
Someone touched her. Someone hurt her.
Someone put her in chains like she was powerless.
The thought rips something open inside him.
The chair behind him clatters to the floor as he jolts upright, breath coming hard and uneven. He doesn’t bother picking it up. He doesn’t bother steadying himself.
Rage and terror coil so tightly in his gut that he feels sick.
He won’t stand for this.
He won’t let anyone hurt her.
He won’t let this sin go unanswered.
He’s already sprinting toward the stairs before he realizes he moved, the Batcave falling away behind him.
Somewhere in the shadows, the screen flickers once more, as if something unseen watched him go.
Y/N laughs softly at something. A real laugh, not the tight, forced ones she’s been giving for days. The sound lifts the heaviness of the morning just a little. Tim feels his chest loosen in response, something warm unspooling inside him at the thought that maybe, just maybe, things are settling.
He barely has time to enjoy the feeling before the air in the room shifts. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that tightens the air before a storm breaks. Then Damian appeared in the doorway, and the tension snapped into place like a trap springing shut.
He looked nothing like the boy who had stalked away from breakfast earlier. His face was pale, almost grey with restrained fury; his shoulders trembled with a sharp, uneven breath, and his eyes went straight to the space where Y/N’s hand rested on the table near Tim’s arm. Something twisted behind his expression, something wounded and volatile, and before either of them could respond, he crossed the space between them in only a few strides.
Y/N flinched back in surprise, but Damian grabbed her wrist before she could even fully stand. His grip was hard—too hard—and his fingers dug into her skin with instinct more than intention.
“Damian—ow! What the hell is wrong with you?” She jerked against his hold, but he only clenched tighter.
Tim pushed to his feet so quickly the room tilted. His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the edge of the table, breath punched out of him, but he still tried to reach them. “Damian, stop—stop it!”
Another wave of dizziness hit, and he stumbled back down into the chair. His hands fumbled shakily for his phone, nearly dropping it twice before he finally hit the call button.
“Dick! Jason! Are you nearby?” His voice was strained. “I need you here now. Damian grabbed Y/N! He’s dragging her!”
Dick answered instantly, the sound of footsteps already pounding through the line. “I’m downstairs. I’m coming.”
Jason’s voice chimed in next, calmer but urgent. “I’m still minutes out. Don’t let him do anything dumb.”
Tim ended the call just as Damian pulled Y/N down the staircase. She dug her heels into the floor and twisted sharply, ripping her wrist out of his grasp. The second she was free, the shouting erupted.
“Let go of me!” she snapped.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Damian’s voice cracked under the weight of too many emotions at once. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?!” She threw the words back at him with equal force.
By the time Tim reached the bottom of the stairs with Dick behind him, both of them out of breath, the two were standing on opposite sides of the cave entrance, yelling over one another. Their words collided and tangled in the air—anger, confusion, pain—but none of it made sense yet.
Tim tried to step between them, but a flash on the Batcomputer monitor caught his eye. Something about the glow, the sharp contrast of colors on the screen, pulled him toward it before he even realized he’d moved.
When the image came into focus, everything inside him seemed to drop straight through the floor.
Y/N sat bound to a chair, wrists cuffed behind her, head bowed slightly under a cloud of greenish gas that curled around her like toxic smoke. Her face was tight with fear and pain, her eyes wide and sharp. Even on a silent feed, the terror was unmistakable.
Dick tensed beside him, shoulders going rigid in shock. But Tim barely registered it. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. He could only stare at the image, feeling the cold spreading through his chest.
Y/N had smiled at him this morning. She had laughed. She had sat beside him and told him everything was fine. She hadn’t even hesitated. Not once. He replayed her soft grin, the way she nudged him, the bright thumbs-up she gave when he asked if she was okay.
Why would she lie?
His hands tightened on the back of the chair. It felt as if the answer should be simple, but nothing in him could settle on anything that made sense. Family wasn’t supposed to lie about things like this. Not after everything they’d shared in the last twenty-four hours. Not after he’d opened himself up and trusted her with parts of him he didn’t even trust the others with sometimes.
A slow panic began rising in him. Not the frantic kind, but something hollow and unstable. He had gained so much in such a short amount of time—almost a sibling bond, a sense of belonging with her that he hadn’t let himself hope for in years. Now he was staring at evidence that she didn’t trust him enough to tell him something real. Something dangerous. Something that could have killed her.
His breath shook. His ribs tightened. It felt like the ground beneath his feet had cracked in two.
Unless she doesn’t trust me at all.
The thought hit him harder than he expected. If she didn’t trust him, then maybe all of this—her concern, their morning talk, the gentle teasing—didn’t mean what he thought it did. Maybe he’d misread it. Maybe he had been stupid enough to hope again.
His pulse hammered unevenly. He tried to breathe through it.
No. She wouldn’t lie just to hurt him. That wasn’t who she was. Something else had to be going on. Something bigger. Something wrong. She must have been afraid and or confused, or traumatized. Something must be affecting her judgment.
And if something was wrong… then he had to fix it.
The thought settled over him like a certainty he didn’t question. He had lost too many people in his life—friends, partners, mentors—either to distance, fear, trauma, or death. He couldn’t lose Y/N, too, not when he’d barely had time to feel what it was like to have a sister. Not when he finally felt part of something again.
He watched her terrified face on the footage and felt the panic shift into something sharper.
If family breaks, you repair it.
If someone lies, you get to the truth.
If someone is hurt, you protect them, even if they don’t ask.
Especially if they don’t ask.
He swallowed hard. That quiet, icy certainty in his chest solidified.
She was his family now.
And if she’d lied, then something inside her was fractured.
Something he needed to set right.
He wasn’t going to let her slip away.
Not after he’d just found her.
Not ever.
The shouting between Y/N and Damian continues, both tugging on the ends of the fraying rope that finally snaps. Their voices bounce off the cavern walls in sharp echoes, growing louder with every retort.
“I didn’t lie!” Y/N’s voice is tight, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “I didn’t know how to even explain what the hell that was. I was trying to process it myself.”
Damian steps closer, jaw tight enough to crack. “You expect us to believe that? You expect us to believe you just ‘forgot’ to mention being handcuffed and gassed?”
“I didn’t forget.”
“Then you hid it.”
“I didn’t hide-”
Damian cuts her off, pointing at her with an anger that looks far too close to fear. “You want to be part of this family, but you don’t act like it.”
Y/N recoils as if slapped. “I never said I wanted that!”
Tim flinches slightly at her tone. “You said we were close. You said you trusted me.”
“I said I trusted you,” she fires back. “That isn’t the same thing as you being entitled to every detail of my life!”
Tim looks wounded, eyes darkening. “I just thought… I thought we were family.” His voice cracks on the last word, thin and weak. “I thought you cared enough to tell us.”
Damian scoffs sharply. “Look at that. He’s finally admitting it.”
Tim’s head snaps toward him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Damian says, voice low with a bitter edge, “that you barely knew her until your little movie date, Drake, and now you’re clinging to this fantasy of being her brother.”
“At least I’m trying,” Tim shoots back, anger sharpening his features. “You had years with her. Years. And you did nothing. You ignored her. You mocked her. You pushed her away.”
Damian stiffens, eyes flashing. “Watch your words.”
“No,” Tim says, voice shaking with emotion and exhaustion, “you watch yours. You’re not a brother to her. You’re territorial. That’s not family.”
The accusation cuts deep. Y/N can see the hurt flicker across Damian’s face before he masks it behind a cold glare.
Dick rushes between them, hands raised. “Enough! Both of you. You need to think very carefully about what you’re saying right now. We’re all family.”
Jason arrives halfway down the stairs just in time to hear the tail-end of Tim’s words. He walks over to the Batcomputer, and the footage hits him like a punch to the stomach. His eyes flick from the screen to Y/N.
He shakes his head slowly.
He doesn’t speak, but the disappointment is unmistakable.
Y/N’s heart sinks. “You too?”
Jason exhales a heavy sigh. “Kid, that’s not a small thing to hide.”
Dick snaps immediately, stepping into Jason’s path. “Don’t start. She doesn’t owe you all an interrogation.”
“She scared the hell out of them,” Jason argues.
Dick’s eyes flash. “She’s scared too. That doesn’t make her stupid.”
The boys turn on her like a storm changing direction.
Tim’s voice breaks, heavy with something like betrayal. “You should have told us. Told me. I would’ve helped.”
Damian’s anger sharpens to something cutting. “You used to be pathetic for our attention. Now that we finally give it, suddenly you don’t want it?”
It’s a blade to the heart, really. That’s the only way Y/N can attribute the feeling in her chest.
Her breath stutters, heat rising behind her eyes. “That’s not the attention I wanted.”
This can’t be the attention she wanted. The attention the Wayne girl wanted.
“Then what did you want?” Damian demands.
“That isn’t your business,” she fires back. The pain in her voice is raw, trembling. “And don’t you dare put words in my mouth. I never asked to be your family. I never asked for any of this.”
Tim looks stricken, as if she’s ripped something out of him. “Then what am I to you?” he whispers.
“Someone I care about!” Y/N snaps. “Someone I’m trying to understand without being smothered. Which none of you,” her voice trembles “, none of you have ever tried giving me the same courtesy. The moment I reach out, it’s like a fight all over again!”
Damian’s face twists, frustration and guilt flickering through every line. “Because you withhold information that’s detrimental to this case! To you! You say you’re not a child, and yet I’m constantly reminded of your childish act. If you want attention, well, we’re right here.”
Y/N’s jaw drops. She feels like the room tilts beneath her.
“What happened to the girl who stayed silent? The one who begged us, who clung to us? What’s changed? Who changed you?”
He’s talking about the Wayne girl.
The original girl. The one she replaced. The one whose trauma she inherited without consent. The one they still see when they look at her.
Anger boils in her throat. “That wasn’t me!”
Damian’s brows slam together. “What do you mean it wasn’t you?”
“I mean,” her voice breaks, and she hates it, “that you don’t know me. Not really. You’re yelling at a person who doesn’t even exist anymore.”
Confusion flashes across Tim’s face, followed immediately by hurt. “So everything from the last few weeks—everything we’ve talked about—you’re saying none of that was real?”
“That’s not what I said!”
“Then tell us!” Tim demands. “Tell me why you didn’t say anything. Why you lied. Why you hid this. If we’re not family, then what are we?”
“You don’t get to decide what I am to you,” she throws back.
The argument splinters all at once: Tim’s logic turning into interrogation, Damian’s anger turning personal and cruel, Jason caught between stepping in and stepping back, and Dick shouting over all of them to stop.
The noise echoes until it fills the whole cave.
That’s when another presence makes itself known.
A deep voice, cold and final, cuts through the fighting like a blade.
“Enough,” Bruce says from the top of the stairs. “All of you.”
Silence slams into the room.
But the tension, the accusations, the broken trust, none of it disappears.
It hangs in the air, choking and heavy, while Y/N slowly realizes:
The damage is already done. Y/N doesn’t wait for another breath. She shoves past the boys and marches toward the stairs, the anger shaking through her limbs, making her steps clumsy but fast.
“Y/N… wait!” Dick calls out, already moving after her.
She doesn’t turn around. Her chest is tight, her vision blurring as she bolts up the stairs two at a time. Dick reaches the bottom step just as she hits the main floor.
“Y/N, please… just stop for a second!”
“I can’t,” she throws back, voice raw and breaking, but she never slows.
She pushes through the manor doors with both hands, the cold air slamming into her like a wall. She doesn’t feel it. She just keeps running, barefoot, coatless, tears burning her eyes as she heads for the gates and away from all of them.
She gets halfway to the front gates when the hum of an engine rolls up behind her, low and familiar.
Jason.
“You know the drill,” he calls, voice annoyingly casual for someone tailing her on a motorcycle. He tosses the spare helmet toward her in an underhand arc.
Y/N smacks it away like it’s a spider, sending it spinning back into Jason’s chest. “Not happening,” she mutters, refusing to even look at him as she keeps walking.
Jason sighs, scooping up the helmet and placing it back on the bike. Then he does the most Jason thing imaginable, he eases the motorcycle forward at a crawling pace beside her, matching each of her angry steps like she’s a runaway shopping cart and he’s assigned to aisle duty. If it weren’t for the ache inside her, she’d almost laugh at how ridiculous it looks.
He doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t speak.
The rumbling engine fills the silence between them.
Five full minutes pass like that, her stomping forward, him slowly rolling along beside her like a sarcastic metal shadow, before she finally exhales shakily and mutters an address.
“Hallow Motel.”
Jason’s eyebrow shoots upward, skeptical and surprised. “That place? Really?”
“Just take me there.”
There’s something brittle in her voice that keeps him from making a joke. He nods once and hands her the helmet again. This time, she doesn’t throw it. She puts it on with shaking hands.
The ride is short, almost too short. The wind hits her face and pulls the tightness from her muscles, bit by bit, giving her something to breathe besides pain and disappointment. Jason feels it too, her grip on his waist loosening slightly, the tension easing from her shoulders.
The motel parking lot is nearly empty, the neon sign buzzing weakly in the afternoon light. Jason parks in front of the door she leads him to. Before he can say anything, the door swings open.
Aggie stands there with a bright grin that softens as soon as she sees Y/N’s face. “Oh, honey,” she murmurs, immediately pulling Y/N into a warm hug. Y/N melts into it like someone finally letting themselves exhale.
Aggie’s gaze drifts to Jason. Something playful sparks in her eyes as she reaches out and catches a tuft of the white streak in his hair between her fingers. “Well, look at you…”
Jason jerks back so fast it startles even the air around them, a low growl rumbling out of him. “Hands off.”
Aggie lifts both hands in apology, laughing lightly. “Ah. Understandable.”
But something in her expression flickers. Something sharp, assessing.
Something Jason doesn’t trust for even a second.
He narrows his eyes, posture shifting subtly, weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders blocking half of Y/N from view. It’s protective without being blatant, but Aggie notices. She smiles anyway, warm and sweet, though her eyes glint with something that keeps Jason’s gut prickling.
Y/N doesn’t notice. She’s already stepping inside, needing distance from everything she left behind. Jason follows slowly, letting the door shut behind them.
Whatever comes next, he’s staying close.
If only because something about this place, and especially something about Aggie, sets every instinct he has on edge.
The hotel parlor feels like stepping into another world, with soft yellow lamps, old velvet cushions, and the faint smell of cinnamon that always seems to cling to Aggie’s clothes. Y/N sinks onto the couch with a tired thump while Jason stays stiff by the door like a guard dog who refuses to sit.
Aggie returns from the kitchenette carrying a plate of warm cookies.
“Here,” she says, offering the plate to Y/N first.
Y/N takes one immediately, biting into it with an exhausted groan. “God… this is therapy.”
Aggie beams, then turns the plate toward Jason. “Cookie?”
“No.”
Her smile doesn’t drop. “Eat.”
“No.”
Aggie raises an eyebrow. Then, with deceptive grace, she pops a cookie directly into Jason’s mouth.
Jason sputters around the chocolate chips, glaring at her like she performed a personal betrayal. “Wha-! Seriously?!”
“Chew,” she orders patiently. “You’re impossible when you’re hungry.”
Jason chews —very dramatically, as if proving how offended he is —and swallows. A heavy beat passes. “Do you have milk?”
Aggie lights up like he handed her a Christmas wish list. “Of course I do, sweetheart.”
She brings him a full glass, which he takes with the grumpiness of a man who would rather die than admit he likes being cared for. He sits heavily in the armchair, cookie plate balanced on his knee, muttering under his breath.
Only once Jason is settled —or at least, no longer growling —does Aggie turn fully back to Y/N.
“Now,” she says, scooting closer. “Talk.”
Y/N lets out a breath she’d been holding since the manor, words tumbling out before she can stop them. She paints the argument in simplified colors: the yelling, the accusations, how everyone seemed to speak over her or for her. She doesn’t mention the Riddler, or Thomas, or anything supernatural. She pretends it’s all just family drama, wealthy siblings with too much emotional weight and not enough emotional intelligence.
Aggie listens with that familiar mix of amusement and worry. “Rich people,” she mutters. “They think love means invading your personal space until you cry.”
Y/N laughs weakly, scrubbing at her eyes. “It was awful. They kept acting like I owed them something. Like I’m supposed to be grateful for them smothering me.”
Aggie hums. “And what do you want?”
Y/N hesitates. Her mind drifts, not to the manor, not to the boys, but to her real home. Her mother’s voice in the kitchen. Her father’s warmth. The familiar comfort of her own bed, her own world.
Her real family. The one she would do anything to get back to.
Even if it meant… darker things, even if it meant choices she didn't want to examine too closely. This world wasn’t real, not the way hers was. If breaking something here got her home… wasn’t that worth it?
Before she can drown in that thought, Aggie touches her hand gently. “You’re shaking.”
“I just…” Y/N’s voice catches. “I didn’t expect them to turn on me like that.”
“People who love poorly often shout the loudest,” Aggie says. “Doesn’t make the love useful.”
Y/N tries to smile, but it collapses. “Tim looked like I ripped something out of his chest. Damian was angry, but underneath that… he was hurt.”
Aggie opens her mouth to respond —but something shifts in the room.
Y/N hears a faint snnrrk.
She and Aggie turn their heads at the exact moment.
Jason is slumped sideways in the armchair, completely unconscious. Half a cookie hangs out of his mouth, the milk glass still precariously balanced on one knee. Pride and Prejudice is open on his stomach, and his soft, rumbling snore sounds like someone trying to murder a chainsaw.
Aggie claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
Y/N can’t help it. She smiles for real this time — not a tired stretch of lips, but something gentle and human and alive.
Her gaze drifts over the cookie crumbs on his shirt and the book dangling from his fingers. Jason Todd, terrifying ex-Robin, is out like a light after half a romantic novel chapter and one cookie.
Her chest loosens.
Just a little.
Aggie observes her, eyes softening.
“You fled from a storm,” she murmurs, “and ended up in the quiet with someone who chose to follow you.”
Y/N looks down, guilt and longing twisting deep inside her. “I shouldn’t need that.”
“Need isn’t a sin,” Aggie says simply.
Y/N swallows, and her thoughts tangle again with her real family, her true home. She wants out of this world more than anything. She would tear dimensions apart if she had to. But seeing Jason, ridiculous and snoring, she feels the faintest crack in her resolve.
Cost isn’t always the price.
She doesn’t say it aloud, but the thought lingers, heavy.
Aggie shuffles a small deck of worn tarot cards, setting three face-down between them.
“Let’s see what the world thinks,” she whispers.
Y/N’s breath freezes.
Aggie flips the first card: The Tower. The second: The Lovers — reversed—the third: The Moon.
The air thickens.
“You can’t protect others by becoming their secret,” Aggie says, voice low and steady. “Secrets rot when they’re buried too deep.”
Y/N goes still.
“And someone in that house is already rotting from the inside.”
Aggie taps The Moon card with a painted fingernail.
“The shadow you fear isn’t outside, girl,” she continues softly. “Sometimes it’s born from love that forgot how to breathe.”
By the time the tea has gone cold and Jason wakes with a confused grunt—wiping drool and a cookie crumb stuck to his cheek, Y/N knows she can’t stay in Aggie’s little hotel parlor much longer. The room smells faintly of cinnamon, old carpet, and whatever incense Aggie swears isn’t hexed. It’s warm, safe, lived-in… something the manor hasn’t felt like in far too long.
Y/N stands, slipping her shoes back on, and crosses the tiny parlor to Aggie.
For once, she doesn’t wait; she just pulls Aggie into a hug. No hesitation, no stiff shoulders, no awkward half-lean. She clings—tight, desperate—as if the moment she lets go, the world outside will swallow her whole.
“Thanks,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “For… everything.”
Aggie cups her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks the way only someone who’s known you five minutes but somehow understands your soul can do. “My girl,” she murmurs, “some doors back home can’t be opened by walking. Some you crawl through, some you’re shoved through… and some, child, you only survive because someone else carries you across.”
Y/N blinks, confused and unsettled. “Aggie… what does that mean?”
Aggie doesn’t answer. Not directly. She never does. Instead, she just steps toward the back door of the parlor, leaning her shoulder against the frame, watching Jason stretch and crack his neck like a grumpy guard dog waking from a nap.
“I mean,” she says lightly, “you’re not meant to go through this alone. Not this time.”
“That doesn’t help,” Y/N mutters. “Can you ever just say a normal sentence?”
Aggie smiles, slow and knowing—the kind of smile that makes Y/N’s stomach twist. “You’ll understand when the path darkens.”
Jason snorts under his breath, “Creepy,” and shoves Y/N's helmet. Aggie waves a dismissive hand.
As they step out into the hallway, Aggie calls after them one more time:
“You all need therapy! The whole lot of you! And don’t give me that look—yes, you too, Y/N!”
Jason stiffens, as if he’s been personally attacked.
Aggie lowers her voice, muttering to herself as she shuts the door, “A whole family of emotionally constipated gremlins. Lord give me strength.”
Y/N almost laughs, but the sound catches in her throat. Then they’re outside the hotel, the air colder and unforgiving as Jason helps her onto the bike.
The wind cuts along Y/N’s helmet like icy blades, and Gotham blurs by in streaks of neon and rain-polished pavement. Her fingers tremble against the visor, no matter how tightly she curls them. Every breath feels uneven, shallow, like her lungs are trying to escape her ribs.
Jason doesn’t speak for the first few blocks.
He just keeps his hands steady on the handlebars. The bike’s hum grounds her, anchoring her, making sure the cold doesn’t rip her away.
Then, in that gravel-deep voice that always sounds like he’s halfway between exhausted and annoyed, he finally says:
“Y’know… whatever is bouncing around in that little head of yours right now? I get it.”
The words hit her harder than the wind.
Jason’s voice stays level, but there’s something raw beneath it.
“I spent years convincing myself I had to handle my shit alone. Thought needing anyone made me weak. Thought keeping everything buried meant it couldn’t hurt me.”
He pauses to shift lanes, the engine humming beneath them like a heartbeat.
“Turns out,” he continues, quieter now, “lying to yourself is still lying. And you pay for it eventually.”
Y/N swallows, throat tight. She hadn’t expected him to say anything like that, not Jason, not now.
He looks back at her behind him through the side mirror—just a glance.
Just enough to make sure she’s listening.
“You don’t gotta give me details,” he adds. “I don’t need your life story. But be honest with yourself, at least once tonight.”
Another beat.
“Can you admit when you’re hurting? Or are you gonna keep pretending until it chews you up from the inside?”
Y/N’s breath catches. It feels like he reached in and pulled out the thought she’s been avoiding, the one hiding beneath all the guilt, panic, and fear.
Jason doesn’t push further after that. He falls silent again, leaving her alone with his words.
They echo louder in her head than the engine or the city or even her own heartbeat.
And for the first time tonight, she wonders if the fractures she’s trying to hide aren’t cracks, but chasms.
Chasms she can’t crawl out of alone.
Damian remained in the Batcave long after the others drifted away, long after the echoes of shouting died and the manor settled into its tense, exhausted quiet. He kept the CCTV feed open, eyes fixed on the front doors, as if he could will Y/N back into the house with sheer force of will.
He watched the moment she’d stormed out—jaw tight, face flushed, fury trembling in her hands.
He watched Jason run after her.
He watched them leave together.
And he stayed there. Watching. Waiting. Breathing through clenched teeth as the hours stretched.
At some point, he’d moved from the chair to standing in front of the monitors, palms braced on the console, shoulders rigid in a way that made the muscles ache. But he didn’t move.
Not until headlights swept across the gravel driveway outside.
Not until two blurred shapes returned to frame.
He leaned closer, breath catching.
Jason’s motorcycle rolled to a stop. They got off slowly, Y/N moving stiffly, Jason keeping a hand on her shoulder until she steadied. Then, as she murmured something he couldn’t hear through the audio-less feed, Jason lifted one hand and ruffled her hair.
Playful. Casual. Intimate in a way that made Damian’s jaw lock.
His nails dug crescents into the console. His breath left him in a slow, controlled hiss as something hot and unpleasant twisted in his gut.
She let him do that.
She let Jason touch her like that.
The shadows along the cave walls seemed to thicken, curling toward him like long, slithering fingers. The air shifted, humming softly, a vibration just under the range of human sound, brushing at the edges of his thoughts.
“You see?” something whispered. Not words. Not sound. A suggestion. A pressure. A slow wrap of cold silk around his spine.
If she had stayed home…
Damian’s pulse jumped.
If she hadn’t run…
His fingers twitched.
If she hadn’t left you… None of this would’ve happened.
His breath turned shallow: fury, fear, jealousy, all twisting together until he couldn’t tell where one emotion ended and the next began.
He could almost hear her voice — I’m okay, Damian. I’m fine.
Lying. Withholding.
Choosing someone else over him.
The whisper in the cave nudged deeper.
What if she never leaves again?
Damian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.
The shadows rippled behind him, like something unseen turning its head.
You could keep her safe.Keep her here.Keep her close.
A sick heat flushed under his skin. His heart thudded hard enough to hurt.
She’s clumsy, the whisper coaxed.
She stumbles in training. Accidents happen.
He flinched.
The whisper slithered closer.
If she were hurt… just enough… she’d have to stay. She’d be home. She’d be safe. With you.
Damian staggered back a step, blinking hard, as if shaking water from his ears. His throat tightened.
Those weren’t his thoughts. Not fully.
Not truly.
But they felt like his fears given shape. His worst impulses were given a voice that wasn’t quite his. The cave felt too small now, too dark, the walls curling inward like a closing fist.
Damian closed his eyes —just for a moment —trying to steady his breathing.
Trying to drown out the whisper that wasn’t a whisper. Trying to convince himself that the shadows weren’t listening back.
But behind him, deep in the blackest corner of the cave, something stirred.
And smiled.
Tim’s room is quiet except for the soft scratching of pen against paper. His desk is a war zone of scattered notes, half-open case files, printed psychological studies, and sticky notes with words circled too many times to be healthy.
He has been sitting there for hours.
Writing.
Crossing out.
Rewriting.
He tells himself he’s just organizing his thoughts, but the truth sits naked in front of him — a page titled:
Optimal Sibling Dynamics — Variables & Stability Points
Below that:
What makes a perfect sister? What makes a reliable sibling bond? How to encourage loyalty? How to nurture trust?
The questions look harmless in sterile ink.
They don’t feel harmless.
Tim presses the pen to his lips, thinking hard, the edges of exhaustion sharpening his focus instead of dulling it.
Maybe… maybe it isn’t manipulation if the goal is good.
He’s helping her, guiding her.
Clarifying things she can’t see yet.
Isn’t that what a brother does?
He taps the next line on his list:
Influence vs. Control — where is the ethical boundary? He stares at the words for a long time.
Then draws a line right through ethical.
He mutters quietly, “Boundaries shift depending on context.”
He flips to a new page, the handwriting growing neater, more rigid:
She wants family. I can be that. I can help her learn how to stay. How to trust. How to choose us.
His mind hums in a way that used to mean he was solving a case. But this isn’t a case. This is hope with teeth.
He thinks of how she smiled at him earlier, how her shoulder brushed his. How natural it felt sitting beside her. For a moment, a brief, fragile moment, it felt like the universe had corrected itself, like he finally had the sister he’d imagined in the dark halls of Wayne Manor long before he ever deserved one.
If he just… strengthened the connection. If he just nudged her in the right places…If he understood her code, line by line…He could rewrite the parts that didn’t fit.
He could help her love him.
Not romantically. Not obsessively. Just… As family.
As the sister he was meant to have.
The one who wouldn’t leave. The one who wouldn’t lie. The one who wouldn’t look through him.
Tim exhales slowly, almost shaking.
Maybe then he wouldn’t be alone anymore.
He picks up his pen again. Begins writing more variables. More methods.
More ways to gently, carefully shift her thinking.
If he just gets the code right, everything will fall into place.
Outside, down in the cold of the driveway, Jason sits on his motorcycle long after Y/N disappears into the manor. He watches the door close behind her, fingers tapping against the handlebars in a subtle, restless rhythm.
His eyes darken in a way that doesn’t match his usual anger, something more profound, quieter, uglier—not aimed at her. Never at her.
At himself.
He hadn’t meant to get involved in this mess. He swore he wouldn’t. She was just a civilian, and He? Too many memories, too many landmines, too much emotional shrapnel buried under his ribs. They were worlds apart, and yet, every time he spends more time around Y/N… he sees a reflection he hates.
He sees himself in her: the fear, the guilt, the fractured identity that keeps slipping through her fingers like water.
And Jason Todd hates what he sees when he looks in mirrors.
Too much blood.Too much regret. Too much that can’t be forgiven.
Y/N shouldn’t have to look at that same ugliness.
Not through him. Not through her own pain.
He wants to strip it away from her.
Scrape it out of her life like mold rotting through a foundation.
Maybe… maybe if he protects her hard enough. Maybe if he shields her from every crack he sees forming.
Maybe if he erases the parts of her that remind him of himself.
Then maybe the ugly parts of him will fade too.
This may be how he repents by fixing what looks like him before it breaks the way he did.
He lets out a long breath, staring at the closed door of the manor.
“Maybe you’re my second chance,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper. “My… salvation or whatever.” He snorts once, bitter at himself. “Just in the shape of a sister this time.”
He turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars, but it doesn’t drown out the new, dangerous thought forming in the back of his mind:
Maybe he needs her more than she needs him.
Chapter 14: A Little Fear Never Hurt No One
Chapter Text
There is a heaviness.
A heaviness in a way that settles into the beams and the floorboards, the kind of heaviness that doesn’t come from weather but from people. It clings to the walls, hangs in the air like humidity, sits at the bottom of every breath.
Conversations don’t happen so much as flicker in passing. A murmur at the top of the stairs. A quiet argument behind a closed door. Footsteps that move too quickly. Doors that shut before a sentence can finish. The whole house seems to be speaking in fragments, stitching together half-formed apologies and swallowed accusations.
Y/N keeps her head down.
She moves through the hallways like someone navigating a minefield; slow, quiet, careful with every turn. She times her exits so she won’t cross paths with anyone.
She avoids Damian without hesitation. The moment she sees even the edge of his cape in her peripheral vision, she turns the other way. Not out of fear —that part burned out days ago —but because she doesn’t trust herself to keep her voice steady if she has to look him in the eye.
Tim isn’t any easier. He tries to approach once, notebook tucked under his arm, expression neutral in a way that is absolutely not neutral. She feels his gaze on her back more than she hears his voice. She slips away before he can say anything at all.
Dick tries the gentlest.
He smiles at her in that careful, practiced way, the way that says I see you’re hurting, but I won’t push. But kindness feels too sharp today, so she murmurs “Later” without meeting his eyes and walks past him before he can ask anything more.
Jason is the hardest to avoid.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t corner, doesn’t scold. He just shows up in doorways or leans on the railing when she walks by, offering casual jabs that skim a little too close to what she’s actually feeling.
“You good?” he asks once.
“Fine,” she lies.
“Mmh. That’s a new tone of ‘fine.’ You practicing your lying or—”
She keeps walking before he can finish the sentence.
It’s like the whole house is holding its breath, waiting for someone, anyone, to snap first. Tension crawls along the walls like static, ready to spark.
Alfred watches it unfold with a calm that isn’t really calm. He moves about his duties like always, but there’s a pressure behind his polite smile, a tightness in his posture when he sees another one of the boys stalk down the hallway, bristling with frustration.
When he looks at Y/N, he doesn’t see fear anymore.
Not the trembling, wide-eyed worry she carried when she first arrived.
Not the flinching softness she worked so hard to hide.
What Alfred sees now is fatigue.
Profound, bone-level exhaustion that settles behind her eyes and makes her shoulders sag just slightly when she thinks no one is watching. The exhaustion of someone constantly being pushed into roles she never asked for: savior, sister, scapegoat, and punished when she doesn’t play them correctly.
Alfred’s eyes soften with something close to worry.
In the quiet, suffocating weight of Wayne Manor, she looks less like a guest and more like a candle burning low, too much wax melted, flame flickering, dangerously close to going out.
It was late when Alfred found Bruce in the study, the manor steeped in a silence so thick it felt like dust settling in the lungs. Bruce sat behind his desk reviewing case files under a single lamp, its yellow glow casting long shadows across the room. Papers were stacked with surgical precision. None of them involved Y/N.
Alfred closed the door behind him. His footsteps were soft against the carpet, but he knew Bruce heard him.
“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?” Alfred said, voice calm, controlled.
Bruce didn’t look up.
“The shift,” Alfred continued. “The distance. The way the house has begun to suffocate her.”
Bruce turned one page, eyes scanning without interest. “They’re dealing with it.”
Alfred’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I wouldn’t call it dealing with it, sir. I’d call it circling. They move around her like wolves now. Each day a little closer, a little sharper.”
Bruce still didn’t look up. “They’ll manage.”
“No,” Alfred said quietly, “they won’t. Not like this.”
Bruce finally flicked a glance upward; brief, almost dismissive, like checking a notification he didn’t intend to read.
“They’re emotional,” he said. “It’ll settle.”
Alfred’s patience cracked. Not loudly, not dramatically, it cracked like fine china, splintering under a hairline fracture.
“Sir, they’re no longer protecting her. They’re possessing her.”
Bruce didn’t react at first. He merely set the page down with careful precision, as though the conversation was an inconvenience rather than a warning.
“You’re getting jumpy,” he said lightly. “Paranoid.” A lesser man might’ve flinched. Alfred did not.
“Perhaps so,” Alfred replied, “but paranoia does not negate truth.”
Bruce leaned back, exhaling through his nose. This was the Bruce he had worn like a mask since his earliest days in the cowl: clinical, restrained, pragmatic to the point of coldness.
“She’s not my priority right now,” Bruce said flatly. “Gotham is. The rest is noise.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in disbelief. “You do not think this will come back to haunt you?”
Bruce shrugged one shoulder. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll handle it.”
“Handle it how?” Alfred asked quietly.
Bruce held his gaze for the first time. “By interrogating them,” he said. “Tim. Damian. Whoever’s causing the disruption.”
There was no hesitation. No conflict.
Just a solution stated like the weather.
Alfred’s breath hitched, not out of fear, but out of a deeper, older ache. “Sir,” he murmured, “You cannot keep treating your children like suspects.”
Bruce returned to his files without comment, flicking to the next page as though the conversation were over.
Alfred watched him for a long moment, something breaking slowly and silently behind his stern composure. Then he turned and left the study without another word.
Behind him, Bruce didn’t call out. Didn’t follow. Didn’t reconsider. He simply read the following line in the file.
And upstairs, two of his sons were arriving at a plan they might not be able to turn back from.
The fight didn’t begin when Tim stepped into the study. It had been coiling between them for hours, maybe days, winding tighter every time either one of them thought about her. By the time the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt too small to hold both of them and the thing that had been growing in the space between their ribs.
Tim’s fingers were locked around a stack of papers: printouts, timelines, surveillance notes—crumpling at the edges from being clenched too long. He looked half-feral from lack of sleep, hair sticking up from where he’d dragged his hands through it too many times, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and something else neither brother wanted to name yet. Damian stood already waiting at the center of the rug like a sentinel carved out of stone, arms folded, chin lifted, shoulders stiff with the moral righteousness that usually made him predictable. Tonight, it made him dangerous.
When Tim spoke, his voice didn’t so much break the silence as cleave it down the center. “You actually think this is her fault?” He paced immediately, tight steps, restless energy. “You think she wanted any of this?”
Damian didn’t blink. “She protected him.”
Tim stopped sharply, the word hitting him like a slap. Slowly, he turned with eyes that were too bright to be stable. “Protected who?”
“Her stalker,” Damian said, and there was a clipped precision in his tone as if he’d been practicing that line for hours. “She protected him over telling the truth to her family. She chose him instead of me.”
Tim’s laugh came out wrong; dry, incredulous, teetering on anger. “Truthful to us, Damian. Not just you in whatever twisted delusion you’ve built where she owes you something special.”
A muscle in Damian’s jaw jumped. “She withheld everything. The details. The timeline. The fact that he got close enough to touch her.” He stepped forward, almost daring Tim to challenge him. “She hid it from me.”
Tim moved to meet him, closing the distance with a force that made the floorboards groan. “She hid it from all of us, not just you. Do you hear yourself? You’re talking like she’s orbiting your gravitational pull. You’re acting like she’s yours.”
Damian’s posture sharpened, the air around him shifting. “She is my family.”
“She’s our family,” Tim snapped back, and there was something brittle in his voice now, something that could shatter if touched wrong. “Not yours to corner. Not yours to claim. Not yours to keep.”
The room contracted around them, the atmosphere tightening the way it does right before a lightning strike. They stared at each other with the kind of intensity that made even the rafters seem to brace themselves. Damian’s hand twitched first, as if his body had made the decision to strike before his mind caught up, and Tim’s foot slid instinctively into a defensive stance. The moment stretched, bent, threatened to snap into violence.
And somewhere beneath their thoughts, threading between their tempers with serpentine ease, something whispered.
Hit him. Prove you’re the one she’ll side with. Make him bleed first, and she’ll run to whichever of you cries louder.
Tim flinched. It was barely noticeable, a tightening of his fingers, a breath caught halfway in his throat, but it was enough for the moment to falter. He forced himself backward, dropping into the nearest chair as though surrendering to gravity was the only thing keeping him from lunging forward.
Damian stood rigid, chest rising and falling too quickly, but he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe any easier.
Tim pressed both palms to his eyes, his voice coming out rough. “This is pointless. We’re wasting time tearing each other apart.”
Damian didn’t argue, which somehow made the air grow colder.
“Thomas Vane is still out there,” Tim continued. “He’s escalating. And she’s running from us instead of trusting us.”
Damian moved toward the desk, shadow falling over Tim’s scattered notes. “She shouldn’t run,” he said quietly. “This house is where she belongs. It is the only place she is safe.”
Tim dug his nails into the arm of the chair, the words settling into him like a truth he’d always known but hadn’t dared acknowledge. “I know. She keeps defending him. Protecting him. Hiding things from us. Leaving the manor even when we tell her it isn’t safe.”
“She’s reckless,” Damian murmured.
Tim looked at him, the word not quite strong enough. “She’s vulnerable.”
Damian inclined his head. “She needs guidance.”
“She needs fear,” the whisper slid through both of them at once, though neither would have admitted hearing anything except the sound of their own heartbeats.
Tim swallowed. He shouldn’t entertain the thought. He knew that, and yet the idea perched on his shoulder like a dark bird waiting to be fed.
“What if she was scared badly enough… that she didn’t want to leave again?” he said slowly, voice deliberately soft, careful, measured in a way that was more frightening than anger.
Damian didn’t recoil. He didn’t even look surprised, only contemplative, as though the idea had already been circling him all night. “Fear keeps people where they belong.”
Tim’s breath shuddered in his chest. “Not hurting her. Not that. But something that proves how dangerous it is out there. Something that keeps her close.”
By now, the whisper was a hum behind their thoughts, warm and approving.
Damian stepped nearer, eyes dark and steady. “Scarecrow’s toxin. A single diluted drop would be enough to induce fear without lasting damage. She would understand. She would stay where she is protected.”
Tim stared down at the papers still clenched in his fists, barely seeing the ink anymore. “Bruce keeps reserves under the east platforms.”
“I know,” Damian replied, not bothering to hide the fact that he had clearly checked more than once.
Tim worridly looks at the door, hesitating, “Do you think she’ll inform Bruce?”
“No. She doesn’t trust him. Dick and Jason might be a problem. But if we have anything to go by her past actions, she won’t tell them either.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt like something was unfurling in the room, stretching out limbs it had kept tucked for far too long.
Damian spoke again, voice softer than it had been all night but infinitely more unsettling. “She should not sleep alone. She’ll start to have nightmares. She needs someone with her.”
Tim’s breathing steadied in a way that wasn’t healthy. “We can alternate nights. Bring mattresses. Stay in her room. She’ll get used to it.”
“She’ll adapt,” Damian agreed.
“She’ll trust us more.”
“She’ll depend on us.”
“She already does,” the whisper crooned, nestling itself deeper.
Tim exhaled, long and shaky. “And during the day… we split her time. One of us stays with her int he morning. One accompanies her at night. Keep her close. Keep her safe.”
Damian nodded as though the world had already rearranged itself to fit their new plan. “We can protect her better than anyone else.”
“She’s helped us,” Tim murmured, and his voice softened with something almost childlike. “She makes us better. She pulls us out of the places we drown in.”
“We owe her our devotion,” Damian whispered. “And devotion requires structure.”
Tim looked up, meeting his brother’s gaze with something fractured but resolute. “We can’t lose her.”
Damian rested a hand on the desk, fingers curling with suppressed emotion. “We won’t.”
Neither of them smiled.
Neither of them blinked.
Neither of them stepped back from the line they had crossed.
The whisper in their heads spilled into the silence between them, content and full:
You love her. You need her. You’ll keep no matter what it takes.
And nothing in the world, not Bruce’s rules, not rationality, not their own fading sense of morality, could guarantee they wouldn’t act on it.
Tim and Damian stepped out of the study together, though neither acknowledged the other at first. The study had grown stifling over the last hour; heat from the lamps, the dusty smell of old case files, and the thick silence from avoiding the one subject neither dared mention out loud. Now the hallway outside felt cooler but just as tense, shadows stretching across the walls like fingers reaching toward them.
Tim shut the study door gently, his movements slow from weariness. He rubbed the corner of his eye, exhaustion written in every small gesture. Damian stood beside him, stiff and arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw clenched and unclenched in a restless rhythm, a tell he would usually bury if he weren’t too preoccupied.
They had only made it a few steps down the hall before Bruce appeared at the opposite end, hands at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed. He didn’t bark their names or stride toward them with righteous fury. He stood there, immovable, unreadable, blocking their path with nothing more than his presence.
The overhead lights cast his face in partial shadow. The rest of him was outlined in a stark glow, giving him that familiar, unsettling silhouette that looked more like the Bat than their father.
“Good,” Bruce said, and the clipped tone suggested this wasn’t a request. “I needed a word with both of you.”
Tim and Damian exchanged a glance, barely a flicker of eye contact, so fast it might not have existed at all. But it was enough.
He suspects something. Stay aligned. Stay controlled.
Bruce approached with slow, measured steps, steps he used in interrogations, not in family discussions.
“What’s happening with her?” he asked, stopping just in front of them. “I want everything. Every file. Every note. Every sighting. All of it.”
Tim made himself look composed, though Bruce noticed the faint tremor in his breath. “We’ve handled it already. The stalker’s been quiet. No point in riling her up by dredging it all back up.”
Bruce didn’t blink. “I didn’t ask for your conclusion. I asked for your documentation.”
Even Damian stiffened at that. Bruce wanted proof. Not summaries. Not watered-down versions.
The proof they had very intentionally disposed of.
“We don’t have anything to show you,” Damian said, stepping forward half a pace, not aggressive, but like he was shielding Tim without thinking. “She’s safe. That’s all.”
Bruce’s jaw flexed. “I’ll decide what’s relevant.”
“And we’ve already taken care of it regardless,” Damian countered. “The threat was neutralized.”
Bruce’s response was immediate. “By who?”
“Us.” Damian didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink.
It was the calmness that bothered Bruce. Damian was confident on missions, yes, but never this smooth when lying. And Tim, who always tensed, always fidgeted, was unnervingly still. The two of them together looked like a pair of locked gears, turning in the same direction with perfect synchronicity.
It triggered a deep instinct in Bruce’s mind—one honed by decades of interrogations.
This wasn’t a rebellion.
This felt like a cover-up.
Bruce crossed his arms. “Then I want to see your logged analysis. Surveillance feeds. Notes. Patrol summaries.”
Tim wet his lips, a tell Bruce immediately caught. “They’re… not really important anymore. We didn’t think she should have reminders lying around the Cave, so we didn’t keep the raw files.”
“You didn’t keep everything?” Bruce repeated slowly, like the words were jagged in his mouth. “You two record everything.”
Damian’s expression didn’t falter. “Not this time.”
Tim added, “We agreed she deserved privacy.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, gaze cutting between them. “Privacy isn’t the same as destroying evidence.”
He stepped closer, studying them the way he studied suspects. Tim’s eyes were red, not from exhaustion alone. Damian’s palms were marked with half-healed cuts where he’d dug his nails in too deeply.
Both boys were composed, but not polished. The edges were frayed.
Something had shaken them enough that they weren’t hiding those flaws well.
Bruce dropped his voice a notch. “What aren’t you telling me?”
The air tightened.
Tim’s knuckles brushed Damian’s arm, barely, but intentionally. Damian tapped his thumb twice against his sleeve—a silent signal: Stay the course.
Tim took a breath, steady but not relaxed. “Bruce, we handled the situation. She’s safer now than she has been in weeks. Digging through scraps of old footage won’t change anything.”
“It will,” Bruce said, tone flattening to steel. “It will show me what you’re excluding.”
Damian didn’t flinch. “There is nothing left to investigate.”
Bruce studied them long enough that the silence became pressure. Not anger.
Pressure.
The kind he used when waiting for a suspect to slip.
Tim didn’t avert his eyes. Damian’s spine stayed perfectly straight.
Their breathing matched unnervingly well.
They had rehearsed this. Together.
In advance.
That realization cooled Bruce from the inside out.
“If you won’t give me the information,” he said, stepping back with measured calm, “I’ll find it myself.”
Tim’s composure faltered for half a heartbeat. “There’s nothing to find.”
Bruce didn’t acknowledge the statement with more than a quiet hum. His mind was already shifting into detective mode, gears turning, connecting dots they thought they’d thrown away.
Their too-synchronized posture. Their unified lies. Tim’s tired eyes. Damian’s scraped palms. The missing case files. The shift in Y/N’s behavior. Alfred’s warnings.
And now, this.
Bruce turned toward the stairs without another word, cloak brushing the ground like a final punctuation mark.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t scold. He didn’t threaten.
He said, calm and unmovable:
“I’ll confirm that myself.”
And then he disappeared into the manor, leaving two of his sharpest sons standing perfectly still, calculating just as hard as he was.
Bruce wasn’t the only one playing chess now.
For the first time, his sons were playing against him. And none of them intended to lose.
The hallway felt strangely hollow once Bruce disappeared down the stairs, as if his absence left a pressure behind rather than relieving one. Tim and Damian lingered longer than either intended, both staring at the space he’d occupied moments before. Even the manor itself seemed to hold its breath: no creaking floorboards, no distant hum of appliances, only the faint thrum of tension settling into the walls.
Damian straightened first, rolling his shoulders back like he was trying to shed something clinging to him. The effort didn’t help. A low, indistinct hum pressed at the edges of his thoughts, not a voice, not even a sound, more like the sensation of someone guiding his mind with a firm hand. It didn’t push him toward emotion so much as clarity, sharpening his instincts into something colder and more absolute.
“He doesn’t understand her,” Damian said, tone steady and matter-of-fact. “And he doesn’t need to.”
It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t a rebellion. It was a simple conviction, spoken like the conclusion to a long equation.
Tim’s gaze flicked toward him before drifting down to his own hands. He rubbed his thumb across the inside of his palm, grounding himself out of habit, though the motion did little to soften the tightening in his chest. The same pressure that clouded Damian’s edges curled inside Tim’s thoughts as well, guiding them into place with unsettling ease. Ideas didn’t feel forced; they felt… right. Logical. Necessary.
“Bruce interferes,” Tim murmured, as if he were observing a fact rather than criticizing their father. “He always has. Whatever he can’t control, he breaks. It’s a pattern he doesn’t even notice anymore.”
Damian glanced at him, the faintest flicker of agreement passing between them. “And he’ll make this worse.”
The two of them stood aligned more naturally than they had in months. There was no argument, no friction, no instinctive pushback. Just two sharp minds drifting into the same logic at the same pace. The mansion felt too quiet around them, almost expectant.
Tim let out a slow breath, his shoulders lifting and falling. “He’s already started pulling at threads. If he keeps digging, he’ll expose everything. He’ll put her at risk instead of keeping her safe.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t see what we do.”
Tim nodded, the certainty settling deeper. “We can protect her better than he ever could.”
There was a pause, a curious moment where both boys seemed to be listening to something neither could hear. The air around them thickened with an invisible weight, a pressure that guided their thoughts toward the same conclusion without feeling unnatural.
“She’ll trust us,” Tim said quietly. The words came out calm, assured. “She will. Once she understands we’re doing this for her.”
Damian didn’t hesitate. “She’ll trust us because we won’t fail her the way he fails people.” His voice held no judgment, only certainty.
Neither of them voiced the thought that followed, but it hung heavy in the air:
And if she doubts us now, she won’t forever.
That silent agreement sealed something between them. A thread tightened, thin but strong, pulling their thoughts into alignment.
Tim exhaled again, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes tightening as he imagined Bruce already tearing through files in the cave. “We’re running out of time. If he’s checking the cave, he’ll move to the older archives next. He’ll notice the missing logs.”
“Then we make sure he finds nothing,” Damian replied. He lifted his chin slightly, posture shifting into that sharp, disciplined readiness he wore in the field. “We’ll meet tonight and finalize everything.”
Tim nodded, mirroring the resolve. “Tonight.”
They parted ways, each moving down the hallway with a sense of purpose that hadn’t been there before. Tim headed upstairs, mind clicking through contingencies. Damian walked toward the training rooms, shoulders squared, already thinking three steps ahead.
Neither looked back.
Neither realized the shift in their thinking wasn’t entirely their own.
The pressure settled deeper, content with the course it was shaping.
Bruce didn’t storm into the Batcave. He didn’t slam his gloves onto the console or roar orders into the empty cavern. He simply descended the stairs with the same controlled precision he used on patrol, cape trailing behind him in a dark, soundless sweep.
But the second his boots hit the stone floor, the shift was immediate.
He went to the primary console first—straight to the folders that Tim and Damian insisted “didn’t exist.”
Nothing.
No case notes.
No flagged incidents.
Not even a corrupted scrap of metadata.
That alone sent a subtle ripple through him.
Bruce Wayne did not panic. Bruce Wayne did not ever allow himself to panic.
So when he moved to the secondary terminal with sharper movements, it wasn’t panic; it was efficiency. He opened archived directories, manually entering bypass codes he alone knew, checking for hidden logs, encrypted backups, anything his sons might have overlooked.
There was nothing.
He checked the auxiliary drives next. Then, the black box recorder beneath the main desk. Then the emergency relay that captured every CCTV feed.
Each time he opened a file and found emptiness, his movements grew more clipped. More exact. More… urgent.
By the time he checked the off-grid surveillance server, something only three people in the world even knew existed, the muscle in his jaw was ticking a steady rhythm.
Still nothing.
His sons hadn’t missed a spot. They’d wiped the entire trail clean. Why?
Bruce stared at the blank monitor, and in the hollow reflection, he saw only himself, older, darker, more worn down than he ever let himself feel.
His mind started moving the way it always did when faced with a puzzle: fast, cold, surgical. He retraced each step, each moment in the last two weeks where things had shifted.
Was it when he asked Damian to watch her more closely?
No—Damian had already been restless before then.
Was it before that, when Tim started combing through civilian footage, muttering about inconsistencies? Maybe. But that didn’t explain the unison. Tim and Damian didn’t align like this. They didn’t align like anything.
Unless something else had bound them. Unless something had escalated right under his nose.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn’t type. Instead, he leaned back slowly, letting the pieces rearrange in his mind.
When did it begin to slip?
Was it back when he first ignored Y/N’s presence in the manor, assuming giving her a civilian life meant keeping her out of danger? He’d treated her like a fragile truce, a temporary guest he didn’t need, and who didn’t need him.
Then Stephanie got shot. Not Y/N’s fault. Not directly.
But Tim had been helping Alfred with Y/N instead of scouting the perimeter that night. And Bruce, angry, misdirected, exhausted, had blamed Y/N.
Then Tim. And maybe that was when the fractures started.
He closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose in a controlled, steady breath.
This should have been simple. A stalker. A threat. A case. He could handle cases in his sleep.
But this wasn’t a case anymore. It was a contamination; she had seeped into every corner of his home, his team, his family.
Tim was unraveling. He could see it in the red-rimmed eyes. Damian was bristling like a cornered animal. Alfred was distracted, more distant, more anxious. Dick and Jason were acting out, snapping, intervening, showing cracks they never showed before.
All of it circling around her.
Y/N.
Bruce opened his eyes, the blue wash of the monitors painting him in cold light.
This was his house. His mission. His family. His responsibility.
And he would not let one outsider fracture it.
He straightened with rigid finality, pressing his palms to the desk.
He didn’t care if the boys erased the trail. He would find what they were hiding. He would uncover the root of this corruption.
He would restore control.
Because if there was one thing Bruce Wayne did not tolerate—
It was distractions.
And she had become the biggest one of all.
Jason didn’t catch on at first. It wasn’t obvious. No alarms were blaring, no arguments, no dramatic confrontations. It started quietly, like a temperature change in a room you don’t notice until you’re shivering.
Y/N was still furious with Tim and Damian. She barely looked at them, barely spoke to them. If either one entered a room, she found an excuse to leave it. She answered their questions with short, clipped replies and didn’t bother hiding her annoyance.
She thought they were giving her space. They weren’t.
Tim and Damian adjusted around her silence with unsettling ease.
If she walked into the living room, one of them was already sitting on the armchair nearest the door. If she went to the kitchen, the other drifted in under the guise of grabbing something from the fridge. If she tried to sit outside on the back steps, Tim would appear with a book or laptop, “coincidentally” choosing the exact spot that blocked anyone else from joining her.
None of it is loud. None of it is forceful. Just… constant.
Dick noticed first in the smallest way: Y/N walked through the foyer, phone in hand, clearly heading toward the front door. Before she could even reach the knob, Damian appeared at her side, saying nothing, just standing close enough that she instinctively changed course and went upstairs instead.
Dick frowned, watching the exchange. “Huh,” he murmured under his breath.
Later, Jason noticed something too. He’d been in the Batcave, half-asleep on the couch with his boots kicked up, when he saw Y/N on one of the monitors crossing the dining room. Two seconds later, Tim got up from the console and followed, not calling to her, not announcing himself, just trailing behind her at a distance that was too close to be a coincidence and too far to be normal.
Jason sat up straighter, chips forgotten. “What the hell…?”
But the real moment he understood something was wrong came later that afternoon, when he descended the stairs into the Cave with a bag of chips and a half-formed insult ready to hurl at whomever looked most stressed.
He froze mid-step.
Tim and Damian were huddled together at the central console; heads tilted inward, expressions sharp and focused, shoulders almost touching. Whatever they were discussing, the tension in their posture was palpable. Something flickered on the screen, just long enough for Jason to catch the edge of a file name.
Before he could blink, Tim hit three keys at once. All monitors snapped black.
Damian reached across and shut down the secondary terminal just as quickly, the motion smooth, practiced, not panicked.
Jason blinked. “Okay… what the hell was that?”
Neither boy answered.
Tim finished logging out with movements too precise, too quick. Damian folded his arms over his chest, posture iron-straight, gaze refusing to meet Jason’s. It wasn’t the bratty teenage wall Jason was used to.
It was secrecy. Deliberate secrecy.
“Seriously?” Jason said, descending another step. “You two got a secret club now?”
Damian’s response came instantly and sharply. “Stay out of it.”
Jason let out a low whistle. “Whoa. Okay. And here I thought bonding was a good thing.”
He expected Damian to scoff. Expected Tim to mutter something about being busy.
Instead, Tim murmured, quiet, cold, dismissive, “You wouldn’t understand.”
Jason felt that one land in his chest like a dull punch. Tim wasn’t joking. He wasn’t annoyed. He sounded shut away.
Like, Jason wasn’t welcome.
Like he no longer belonged in a conversation about Y/N.
Jason’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer. “Try me.”
Tim didn’t turn around. Damian didn’t blink.
The silence around them felt thick, like they were guarding something, and whatever that something was, it involved Y/N.
Jason’s stomach twisted. Salvation wasn’t supposed to look like this.
He thought protecting her meant becoming better, meant undoing the ugliness inside him.
But watching Tim and Damian box him out, hover around her like watchdogs, made him feel that ugliness rising again. It made him feel replaced. Irrelevant.
Threatened.
Upstairs, Dick started noticing too. The way Tim and Damian always arrived in whatever room Y/N was in within thirty seconds. The way they stood was just close enough to make approaching her awkward. The way they didn’t talk when they hovered, they just… existed around her, creating an invisible barrier no one else could cross.
Twice, Dick tried to strike up a conversation with Y/N, only for Damian to appear silently at her side, arms crossed, like a statue planted between them. Another time, Tim stepped right into Dick’s walking path, pretending to scroll his phone as if he couldn’t see Dick standing there.
They backed down when confronted—always polite, always civilized, always with a “Sorry, we didn’t realize”—but it didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt like a strategy.
Jason watched this pattern grow over the next day. Saw the subtle glances. The calculated positioning. The quiet shut-outs.
And each time Y/N turned away from them with anger they refused to acknowledge, Jason felt something sick curl in his chest.
They were making things harder. Harder to protect her. Harder to help her. Harder to redeem himself through her.
Harder to believe she could still save him from the worst parts of himself.
Tim and Damian weren’t just pushing him out.
They were tightening the circle.
And Jason was starting to realize he wasn’t sure he was inside it anymore.
Y/N set the last plate in the rack and let the warm water run over her fingers, watching droplets slide down her wrist and disappear into the drain. The rhythm of it steadied her breathing, quieted the trembling in her chest. Behind her, she could feel Tim and Damian still standing there, not speaking, just watching.
She ignored the tightness in her shoulders and focused on the warmth building in her fingertips instead.
Because for the first time in days, she felt something she hadn’t felt since arriving in this world:
A spark of control.
Small, fragile —but real.
Tim shifted behind her. She didn’t turn.
Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. She didn’t turn.
Let them hover. Let them linger. Let them pretend they held the reins.
They had no idea she was already slipping out of their hands.
She wiped her hands on a towel and set it down carefully, taking her time with the smallest movements to buy herself space to think. Her mind was buzzing now, not with fear, not with exhaustion, but with possibility.
The fight in the Cave replayed in her head, but this time she didn’t flinch. She remembered every word, every accusation… And instead of drowning in guilt, she felt something else rising:
Resolve.
Yes, she hadn’t told them everything. Yes, that part was on her.
But Thomas Vale…
He was the real fracture line. The reason she kept secrets. The reason she was terrified.
And the reason she suddenly felt awake.
Because he slipped.
Twice.
He didn’t know about the seamstress. He didn’t know about the note. And when she said “Riddler,” for the briefest second, the confidence cracked.
She replayed that moment, over and over, like checking a lock she wasn’t sure was truly broken.
Thomas Vale was meticulous. He was calculated. He reveled in being ten steps ahead.
So why had he faltered?
Because she was catching up.
The realization sent a pulse of adrenaline through her, warming her veins. For the first time since waking up in this hell-world of vigilantes and trauma and collapsing boundaries, she felt like she wasn’t just surviving a script someone else wrote.
She was learning it.
She was reading between the lines.
She was turning the page on her own.
Behind her, Tim edged closer. “Y/N… if you’re tired, we can...”
“I’m fine,” she said smoothly, surprising even herself with how calm she sounded.
Tim’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
Damian’s eyes narrowed fractionally.
She felt stronger for it.
She untucked a stray strand of hair from her face and leaned her weight into her hip, relaxed, confident, like they hadn’t rattled her at all. She kept her back to them because that felt like the power move she needed.
Her thoughts spun faster now.
If she kept meeting Thomas…If she pushed harder…If she cornered him the way he’d cornered her…
She could get answers. She could unravel what tied him to all of this. Maybe she could scare him the way he’d been scaring her.
She wasn’t going to jump him with the truth. Not yet. Not until the timing was perfect.
If she was going to beat Thomas Vale —really beat him —she needed to understand him first. She needed to watch how he moved, how he spoke, when he lied, and when he slipped. She needed to learn the rhythm of his conversations, the places he liked to lead her, and the places he avoided. She needed to match him step for step, mirror his tone, give nothing away until she was ready.
And when the right moment came, when she had him just off-balance enough, maybe then she’d drop the truth. Not as a plea. Not as a confession.
As a weapon.
If she told him she wasn’t from here, that she’d been thrown into this world like a puzzle piece cut from the wrong box, maybe the shock would force him into clarity. Maybe it would break through whatever smug mask he kept wearing. Maybe it would make him talk.
For the first time since meeting him, she felt something like leverage forming in her hands.
A small advantage. Barely a sliver.
But it was there. And for now, that was enough.
She wiped down the counter with a steady, deliberate motion, letting the idea settle deeper in her bones.
She was going to see him again. Without Tim. Without Damian. Without alarms or tracking devices, or interrogations.
She needed him confused. She needed him cornered. She needed him talking.
She needed the truth.
Because of that truth, whatever it was, felt like the first thread she could pull to unravel this entire world. To find the seam. To find the exit.
She was tired. She was scared. But now?
Now she felt something dangerously close to excited.
The kind of excitement that came with the possibility of winning.
She drew in a slow breath, finally turning just enough to meet Tim’s gaze. “I’m heading upstairs,” she said lightly. Tim straightened. Damian watched her like a hawk.
Neither moved to block her path, not outwardly, but she felt the tension ripple through them.
Good. Let them watch. Let them hover. Let them think she was vulnerable.
Tomorrow, she would start her plan.
And it began with Thomas Vale.
Not to run from him. Not to hide.
To beat him.
And maybe, just maybe..
To find her way home.
Chapter 15: Hey! He's Your Age! You Should Meet Him.
Notes:
A/N: Hiiii!! I wanted to take a minute to talk about the themes of this book. This is a Dark Psychological Thriller Yandere Fanfic. While we have been having fun in the first couple of these chapters, please remember this is a yandere fic; it's going to get bad real fast. I want to emphasize that some of the content moving forward may be unsuitable for specific audiences. The Content Warning will be changing to accommodate different chapters, so you can make informed decisions. This is my only and final warning for this!
Chapter Text
Y/N woke with a heaviness that clung to her skin, the kind that didn’t belong to nightmares but to the residue they left behind. Her tongue felt coated, her throat oddly tight, and for a moment she lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if the ache in her chest was fear or exhaustion. Eventually, she pushed herself out of bed and moved toward the bathroom, letting the cold tiles shock her into full awareness.
Everything felt too quiet. Even the manor’s usual hum seemed muted.
She went through her morning routine by instinct, sitting on the toilet half-asleep, flushing, washing her hands with water that felt too cold.
She hoped brushing her teeth would clear the fog from her head. She squeezed a line of toothpaste onto her brush, the familiar minty scent grounding her. That tiny bit of normalcy steadied her enough to lean over the sink and begin brushing.
The mint burned sharply this morning.
Stronger. Almost metallic.
She ignored it and brushed harder. When she spat into the sink, she expected white foam.
Instead, a ribbon of black slid out with the toothpaste, thick and glossy like tar catching the light in slow motion.
Her breath stopped.
She stared, toothbrush frozen midway to her mouth, as another droplet formed and fell, clinging to her lip before stretching downward. It didn’t look like toothpaste gone wrong; it looked alive, like something that had been waiting under her tongue.
A tremor rippled through her.
She spat again, trying to force it out, but more black poured from her mouth, mixing with foam and covering her chin. She tasted bitterness as it spread over her tongue, something chemical, something wrong. Her throat tightened sharply, closing as though the goo were crawling deeper instead of coming out.
Panic rose fast and bright.
Her breath snagged.
She leaned over the sink and tried to spit harder, but the blackness slid the wrong way, swallowing itself, choking her from the inside.
She gasped for air, but nothing came. Her airway shrank, her lungs clawing uselessly for breath. She stumbled backward, hands gripping her throat as her legs buckled, the toothbrush clattering against the tiles.
I’m dying.
I’m actually dying on this floor.
Her vision pulsed. Colors dulled to gray at the edges. And for a terrible moment, just a moment, she wondered if this was escape. If letting go meant waking up back home, in her real world, far away from vigilantes and stalkers and houses that felt more like cages than shelter. A quiet death, alone, would mean no hands grabbing her shoulders, no frantic brothers hovering, no Damian or Tim tearing open the door like she was theirs to save.
Going quietly almost felt merciful.
But then her vision blurred into white blobs drifting across her sight, and instinct snapped back violently. She didn’t want to die, not like this, not choking on something she didn’t understand, not on the cold floor of a house that had never really been hers.
Her body heaved, desperate. She forced her fingers into her mouth despite the gagging reflex, reaching past her tongue, digging deeper as her throat convulsed around her hand. She felt something slick and solid, horribly real —and grabbed it with shaking fingers.
With a violent pull, the mass tore free from her throat. She gagged and vomited, collapsing onto her hands as bile and thick foam splattered onto the floor. She coughed until her ribs burned, until air finally —blessedly —rushed back into her lungs.
For several seconds, she stayed there on her hands and knees, trembling, hair falling around her face. When she finally dared to look at the mess she’d expelled, she saw…
Nothing.
No black sludge. No tar-like substance smeared across the tiles. Just watery toothpaste and bile spreading in a thin, harmless stain.
She stared, breath still shuddering, pulse racing in her ears. The floor blurred, then refocused. She blinked hard, once, twice, but the blackness didn’t return.
It was gone.
Completely. Effortlessly.
As though her mind had invented the whole thing, except the rawness in her throat told her otherwise, as did the ache in her jaw where she’d forced her hand inside.
She backed away until her spine hit the wall. Her fingers pressed to her neck, feeling the tenderness, the lingering burn. Her reflection in the mirror wavered into view, pale, breathless, wild-eyed.
She felt herself shaking, not from cold but from the horror of having no proof except her own terror.
Whatever was happening to her wasn’t normal. It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t imagination.
It was something creeping into her in the quiet moments, in the mundane routines, in the places she was supposed to feel safe.
And the worst part wasn’t the choking or the near-death.
It was the silence that followed, the emptiness where the evidence should’ve been.
And the terrible, sinking certainty that something was watching her struggle, then erasing the proof.
Y/N moved through the kitchen as quietly as she could, tying her hair up and slipping essentials into the small tote she kept hidden beneath the counter. She tried to look casual, but every movement carried an undercurrent of tension, the kind that came from watching doorways out of the corner of her eye, listening for soft footsteps on hardwood, waiting for someone to appear behind her like a shadow.
Jason was perched on the kitchen counter, finishing his coffee, legs swinging just enough to knock gently against the cabinets. He watched her tie her bag shut with mild curiosity, head tilted like he was piecing something together.
“You’re heading out again?” he asked, lifting his mug slightly as if to toast the absurdity of the question.
Y/N cast a small glance over her shoulder, no Tim, no Damian, no soft scuff of boots approaching, and leaned closer to Jason so only he could hear her. “Yeah. Aggie wanted to talk about something.”
Jason snorted. “What, more ghost tea?” He raised the mug to his lips. “Maybe she’ll tell me if I’m haunted again.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and nudged his knee. “Just help me. You’ll live.”
Across the room, Dick sat at the table half-suited in his Nightwing gear, chest plate strapped on but mask still resting beside his datapad. The soft glow from the screen lit his face in pale blues. He lifted his eyes at the sound of their voices, not entirely, not dramatically, just a flick of attention that felt too sharp for morning.
“You’ve been letting Jason tag along a lot lately,” he said in a tone so polite it almost sounded harmless.
Almost.
Y/N didn’t notice the way his gaze dipped at her bag, nor the strange, dark flicker in his eyes before he looked back at the screen. She was too focused on the bag’s zipper, too focused on keeping her breathing even.
“He’s easy to talk to,” she said simply.
The words landed heavier than she intended. They hit Dick like a blade disguised as a compliment. His slight smile faltered, only for a fraction of a second, so quick she would’ve missed it even if she were paying attention.
He shut his datapad a little too quietly, stood a little too smoothly, and brushed past her with the faintest brush of fabric. “Never mind,” he said. “Just… be careful, okay?”
Before she could answer, he added, “I’ll be out late,” and slipped out of the kitchen. He didn’t look back.
Jason watched him go, brows pulling together. “He’s upset with you.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “I noticed.”
Jason hopped off the counter, landing with a soft thud that broke whatever thin thread of awkwardness lingered in the air. He dusted his hands off and nodded toward the back door. “Ready?”
As she crossed the hall to leave, she glimpsed Dick speaking quietly to Bruce near the living room. Dick didn’t look up when she passed. Didn’t pause. Didn’t say goodbye. Just murmured something about a lead and walked off with Bruce without acknowledging her presence at all.
Y/N slipped into the foyer with her jacket half-zipped, hoping she could make it outside before anyone realized she was leaving again. Jason was already waiting by the door, leaning against the banister with her bag slung over his shoulder and an easy, almost lazy confidence in his posture. He gave her a slight nod when she approached, the kind that wordlessly said ‘Let’s go’.
She reached for the doorknob and froze at the sound of footsteps behind her.
Tim stepped into the foyer first, a mug in his hand, the steam curling toward his tired eyes. Damian followed close behind, posture rigid and controlled, though the tension radiating off him made the air feel heavier.
“You’re going out again?” Tim asked, voice gentle but edged with something sharper underneath. It wasn’t anger, not exactly, more like worry with nowhere to go.
Y/N nodded, adjusting her jacket. “Aggie wanted to see me.”
Tim’s gaze shifted immediately to Jason. “With him?” His tone softened and tightened at the same time.
Jason let out a dry breath. “Still standing right here, by the way.”
Y/N tried to ease the tension. “I’m not going alone.”
Damian took a slow, precise step forward. “You could have asked me,” he said, voice low but unmistakably pointed. “Or Tim.”
Tim nodded. “It’d make more sense if one of us came. We know how to keep you safe.”
She blinked, taken aback by their sudden insistence. “It’s not that serious. I’m just visiting Aggie.”
“Then let us go with you,” Tim pressed, his thumb tapping once against the handle of his mug, an old nervous tic.
Damian shifted beside him, eyes locked on her. “It’s the logical choice. Better options than him.”
Jason stiffened at that, his smirk fading just enough to show the irritation underneath. “Easy, kid. She asked me.”
Damian didn’t acknowledge him, keeping his attention fixed on Y/N, waiting for her to reconsider.
The pressure built slowly, as if the space around her were shrinking. She felt both of them waiting, expecting, almost demanding an answer that kept them right beside her. She drew in a breath and tried to keep her tone steady.
“I’m more comfortable with Jason.”
The effect was immediate.
Tim stopped mid-breath, his fingers tightening around the mug until the ceramic gave a faint crackle. His expression flickered through surprise, confusion, and something faintly wounded before he managed to conceal it.
Damian went still in a different way; less shaken, more frozen. His jaw clenched hard enough that a muscle ticked near his cheek. His eyes sharpened with a brief flash of disbelief before he forced his face back into a calmer mask.
Jason didn’t move at first. He looked at her slowly, almost cautiously, as if he needed to confirm she actually meant it. When the realization hit, something warm and startling opened in his chest. It was subtle, a shift he didn’t show on the surface, but he felt it—an unexpected swell of pride, then something deeper, something almost reverent. It wasn’t an obsession, not yet, but the beginning of a devotion that made his breath catch in an unfamiliar way.
Y/N didn’t see it. Tim and Damian refused to.
But Jason felt it as clearly as his own heartbeat.
Tim cleared his throat, voice thin but controlled. “If… that’s what you want.”
Damian gave a stiff nod, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Very well.”
They didn’t argue again. They didn’t try to block her. They simply stepped back, quiet and unreadable, letting her pass as though the hallway had suddenly opened for her alone.
Jason pushed off the banister and handed her the helmet, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t cocky this time. It was softer, almost disbelieving.
“They let you go pretty easily after that,” he murmured.
Y/N zipped her jacket all the way up, avoiding the heavy look in Tim’s eyes. “I guess they did.”
Jason watched her closely, something flickering behind his expression. Part relief, part awe, part something darker he wasn’t ready to name. It felt unreal to him—her choosing his company, her trusting him over the others. The idea spun quietly in the back of his mind, circling like an orbit.
He opened the door for her, careful and deliberate. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” she replied, slipping out into the cool air.
Jason followed, closing the door behind them.
Inside, Tim and Damian stood in the foyer long after the two had gone. Neither said a word, but something unspoken passed between them; a shared knot of confusion, hurt, and something sharper forming beneath it.
Outside, Jason exhaled the breath he’d been holding. His thoughts lingered on her choice, her trust, the way she had looked at him before turning away from the others.
This felt different. This felt right.
If she let him stay by her side… maybe he could be something good. Maybe he could fix things. Maybe he could be saved.
And maybe —just maybe — she was the only one who could do it.
Jason held the door open long enough for Y/N to slip into the cool morning air before he followed, letting it shut behind them with a soft click that sounded a lot like relief. The manor’s tension stayed behind those walls; outside, the breathless pressure finally lifted.
He handed her the helmet, more gently than he meant to, and she slid it on with a familiar ease. Something about the way she tightened the strap made Jason’s chest tighten, not out of longing, but out of that fierce, quiet responsibility he kept buried under sarcasm. She trusted him. She picked him. And that alone was enough to ignite something bright and protective in him.
“Come on,” he muttered, swinging his leg over the bike. “Scoot.”
She climbed on behind him, settling in with the kind of practiced familiarity that made something warm pulse behind his ribs. When her arms circled his waist, light at first, then firmer as the engine rumbled to life, Jason felt himself exhale for the first time that morning.
He wasn’t used to people holding on to him. Not gently. Not because they wanted to.
“You good back there?” he asked over the growl of the engine.
“Yeah,” she said, though her voice wavered just slightly.
Jason didn’t comment on it. He just nodded once and guided the bike down the long driveway, gravel crunching under the tires as the wind caught them. Her grip tightened as they sped up, and he instinctively adjusted his posture, making sure she stayed steady.
The city blurred into streaks of neon and rain-slick reflections as they hit the main road. Her helmet tapped lightly between his shoulder blades when she leaned in to brace herself against a sharp turn.
Jason felt each small movement, each shift, each tiny sign that she felt safer with him than with anyone else in that house, and something proud and protective unfurled in his chest.
Not the possessive kind. Not the unhealthy kind. Just the bone-deep certainty of an older sibling who finally has someone to look after.
Someone worth protecting.
“You’re quiet,” he said at a stoplight, glancing back slightly. “You don’t usually go this long without talking.”
Y/N let out a breath. “Just… thinking.”
“About Aggie?”
“About everything.”
Jason hummed, the kind he only used when he was actually listening. “Whatever it is,” he said carefully, “you don’t gotta deal with it alone. You’ve got people now.”
He didn’t say me, but the implication hung between them like a solid thing.
She rested her forehead against his back for a moment, exhaustion, comfort, maybe both. “I don’t know if I have choices,” she murmured.
Jason’s hands tightened on the handlebars. “Sure you do,” he said, steady and certain. “And if you run out… I’ll help you make more.”
She didn’t answer right away, but her hold around him softened, shifting from tension to trust.
He drove the rest of the way in silence, weaving through traffic with practiced precision, making sure every turn was smooth so she wouldn’t jolt. The wind whipped past them, cold but grounding, and the city lights flickered over their helmets like passing constellations.
To Y/N, the world felt less suffocating the farther they rode.
To Jason, the world felt clearer, like he’d finally found something worth fighting for that wasn’t drowning in guilt or anger.
He didn’t think of her as a burden, or a mission, or someone he needed to fix. He thought of her as family, the kind that wasn’t forced or inherited, but chosen somewhere deep inside the bones.
When they finally slowed near Aggie’s street, he glanced back again, just once.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” she said, and for the first time that morning, it sounded true.
Jason nodded and pulled into the lot, shoulders straightening.
She’s my kid sister, he thought.
She picked me.
And that simple fact made him sit a little taller on the bike.
Not as a hero.
Not as a replacement.
But as someone who finally had a purpose again.
Someone worth protecting.
Aggie’s hotel door swung open before Y/N or Jason even had the chance to lift a hand to knock. The smell of incense and cinnamon drifted out first, followed by Aggie’s familiar, fox-sharp smile.
“My favorite strays return,” she declared, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe like she’d been expecting them for hours.
Jason muttered, “You’ve really gotta stop calling me that.”
“Then stop looking like one,” she shot back without missing a beat.
Y/N snorted behind her helmet, the sound muffled but unmistakable.
Aggie’s gaze flicked down to where Jason and Y/N stood closer than they probably realized, the way Y/N hovered slightly behind him, and the way Jason’s body angled instinctively toward her like a shield. Aggie didn’t comment. The observation tucked itself into the corner of her smile.
“Move,” she said lightly, squeezing herself between them and reaching out to loop her hand through Jason’s arm as if corralling a large, reluctant cat. She tugged him inside the narrow hallway.
Jason bristled immediately. “It’s called personal space. Ever heard of it?”
Aggie patted his arm like she was calming a skittish horse. “Oh, you’ll outgrow that.”
“I’m not twelve.”
“Yet you’re whining like one. Come along.”
He yanked his arm back, but, because it was Aggie and she radiated the kind of stubborn chaos no one could fight, he still followed her into the small parlor space. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the city noise.
Y/N slipped in behind them, hiding her laugh behind her hand. “You’re impossible,” she teased.
“I’m charming,” Aggie corrected primly, waving them both toward the mismatched couch and velvety armchair. “There’s a difference.”
Jason muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Debatable,” but he sank into the armchair anyway, shoulders loosening as the warmth of the room wrapped around him. Y/N settled beside him on the couch, still shaking off the cold from the ride.
Aggie swept past them with theatrical flair, already heading toward the kitchenette. “Tea? Cookies? Emotional support carbohydrates?”
Aggie returned from the kitchenette not with tea or cookies this time, but with a generous slice of cake balanced on a plate. Without ceremony, she placed it directly into Jason’s hands. His eyebrows shot up, instinctively offended for half a second, then he caught the smell of chocolate and frosting, and all resistance evaporated.
He didn’t even argue.
He simply drifted back into the same armchair he’d claimed last time, sinking into it like muscle memory guided him there. Within moments, he was comfortable, boots kicked out, fork in hand, taking slow, thoughtful bites as if he’d earned this cake through heroic effort.
Y/N shook her head, amused despite herself, and settled onto the loveseat beside Aggie. The older woman crouched gracefully over a small table and poured steaming herbal tea into two mismatched mugs.
The warm scent of chamomile and lavender filled the room. Y/N exhaled slowly, letting the comfort of the smell seep into her shoulders.
“Things have gotten worse at home,” she admitted quietly, tracing her fingertip along the rim of the mug.
Aggie’s lips formed a dramatic pout. “Oh, sweetheart. Not that circus again.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Aggie slid onto the loveseat beside her, their knees almost touching. “Families are exhausting,” she sighed, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. “Believe me, mine is in such disarray that we have to label our leftovers, and even then someone steals them.”
Y/N managed a small smile, though the heaviness didn’t lift. “It’s not exactly leftover drama.”
Aggie softened her voice, leaning in. “Let me guess… the little princes are acting up?” She didn’t need names. She never asked for them. She spoke like she already knew the shape of every problem.
Y/N nodded. “Tim and Damian. It’s like they’re… watching me. Following me. And I don’t know if I’m imagining it, or if…”
“You’re not imagining it,” Aggie cut in gently, stirring her own tea. “And remember something important, my love.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t belong there.”
The words slid into Y/N like a spark into dry wood. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
The note. The one she’d found in the grocery bag.
You don’t belong here.
She swallowed, panic creeping into her throat. “I don’t belong there?”
Aggie simply grinned, breezy and cavalier, waving one hand dismissively. “You’re better than them, darling. You belong in a beautiful penthouse with calming candles, lavender incense, and proper herbal tea.” She tapped Y/N’s cup. “And I have a room there too. Obviously.”
Relief loosened Y/N’s chest. Aggie was teasing. Or maybe she wasn’t. Aggie’s tone was always somewhere between joke and omen, but at least she wasn’t accusing Y/N of being out of place in some cosmic nightmare way.
Y/N tried shifting the subject, curiosity getting the better of her. “You said your family is in disarray. What happened?”
Aggie just smiled, long and slow, like she was listening to a question from a child. “Oh, darling, every family is a mess. Yours. Mine. Everyone’s.” She brushed off the question smoothly and continued stirring her tea, refusing to elaborate.
Y/N felt that familiar tug, the sense that she never got a straight answer from Aggie, but still trusted her anyway.
As if sensing the shift, Aggie brightened suddenly. “My nephew is coming tomorrow, you know. And I’m afraid I don’t have anything interesting for a young man to do here.” The dramatic sigh that followed made Y/N blink.
A nephew? Maybe someone her age? Someone normal?
“How old is he?” Y/N asked, trying not to sound too curious.
“Twenty-four,” Aggie chirped, eyes glinting. “And aren’t you twenty-four as well?”
“Twenty-three,” Y/N corrected, “but close enough.”
Aggie’s grin widened. She glanced over at Jason, who’d already started nodding off, fork still in hand, half-eaten cake resting precariously on his stomach, then looked back at Y/N like she’d found the perfect opportunity.
“Would you be so kind as to help him settle in? I don’t want him stuck with only his old aunt for company.”
Y/N hesitated, only for a moment. A new ally. Someone outside the house. Someone who could help her get answers, or even offer her a sense of normalcy.
“Sure,” she said slowly. “Give him my number if he wants to hang out.”
Aggie clapped her hands delightedly. “Marvelous! He’ll adore you.”
Y/N wasn’t convinced, but she let it go.
They kept talking afterward, about mundane things, ridiculous things, comforting things, until Y/N realized her shoulders didn’t feel as heavy as they had when she arrived. Aggie’s laughter filled the room, warm and distracting. Jason’s soft snoring added a strangely grounding rhythm to the background.
Jason was long gone from the world by the time Y/N finished her tea. Half the cake was missing, the rest smudged on his shirt, and his fork lay discarded on his chest. He snored softly, head tilted back, looking so utterly unguarded that Y/N couldn’t help a tiny smile tugging at her mouth.
Aggie pretended not to notice, though the sparkle in her eye suggested otherwise. She set her empty mug aside and folded her hands atop her knees, looking entirely too pleased with the chaos around her. The room had taken on its familiar glow, amber lamp light, herbal scents, scattered tarot cards that she claimed weren’t for reading “today,” but still managed to place strategically around the table.
After another half hour of conversation and Jason’s increasingly loud snoring, the sky outside had dimmed into shades of lavender and blue. Gotham’s distant hum seeped into the hotel walls.
Y/N reached over and nudged Jason’s boot with her foot. “Hey. Come on, sleeping beauty. Alfred’s gonna have our heads if we get back too late.”
Jason groaned, stretching like a grumpy cat. “You talk too much for someone so small.”
“And you nap too much for someone so loud,” Y/N countered, snickering.
Jason wiped cake crumbs from his chin, glancing around with bleary confusion before finally spotting the empty plate. “Did you let me eat all that?”
Aggie chimed in from the kitchenette, voice full of mock innocence. “I encouraged you. That’s different.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and stood, pulling her jacket on. Jason reluctantly pushed himself upright, muttering something about “ambushing bakers” and “dangerous old ladies” under his breath.
Aggie walked them to the door, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders like a queen in exile. She paused before opening it, looking at the two of them with a softness she rarely revealed.
“You take care of each other now,” she said quietly. “You’ll need it soon.”
Jason stiffened slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that Y/N felt the shift beside her. His brows drew together, wary but not disrespectful. “Yeah,” he said. “We do.”
Y/N smiled, trying to lighten the moment. “Always.”
Aggie opened the door with a slow creak, ushering them out into the cool, thinning dusk. The hotel hallway was dim and smelled faintly of incense and old carpet, familiar in a comforting way.
But as they stepped outside, Y/N caught something out of the corner of her eye, in the reflection of the glass door. Aggie’s silhouette lingered inside even after the real Aggie had moved away from the threshold.
The reflection stood still just a second too long, head turned slightly, watching them go even after her physical steps echoed back into the parlor.
Y/N blinked, and the image corrected itself.
She held onto him as they rode off into the darkening Gotham night, Aggie’s last words threading themselves through her mind like a whisper that wouldn’t settle.
You’ll need it soon.
Behind them, in the glass door, Aggie’s reflection faded last.
By the time they pulled away from Aggie’s, Gotham had sunk entirely into the night. The streetlights smeared across Y/N’s visor in long golden streaks, and the calm wind pressed her closer to Jason’s back. He felt the soft shift of her weight each time the bike hit a curve, familiar by now but affecting him a little more deeply.
The feeling settled into his chest like warmth he didn’t know what to do with, lingering beneath his ribs long after he told himself to keep his thoughts straight.
He thought about the way she had smiled when leaving Aggie’s. Not the brittle smile she used around the manor or the tense one she wore when Damian hovered too close, this smile was loose, unguarded, almost light. It glowed at the edges, the kind of expression someone made when the world felt briefly livable.
Jason’s grip on the handlebars tightened just a little.
He should schedule these visits more often. He could make them a routine. If each time she saw him, she also felt the safety and warmth of Aggie’s… If she began to associate him with comfort, with that softness in her smile…
Well, his brain supplied before he could stop it; that’s just how conditioning works. Pavlov could make a dog salivate with a bell. Maybe he could make her think of warmth, of peace, whenever she looked at him.
Maybe that’s how she’d come to love him. Not romantically, not in the tangled way he used to think about affection, but in a familial, necessary way. A bond she’d choose.
A bond he could build.
He swallowed that thought, letting the engine’s rumble drown the dangerous edges of it. But the idea didn’t vanish; it curled into him quietly, like a seed waiting to sprout.
They reached the manor faster than Jason wanted. The long driveway loomed, dark and silent, the house towering with its usual watchful weight. He slowed reluctantly, letting the quiet settle between them before kicking the stand down.
“I’ll walk you in,” he said, as naturally as he could, handing her the helmet to remove.
She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to…”
“Sure I do,” he cut in easily. “Gotta make sure those two weirdos aren’t lurking to interrogate you again.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but the undercurrent was clear: he wasn’t letting her walk into that house alone.
Y/N laughed, a real one, unforced, and something warm flickered through Jason again. “They’re probably asleep,” she said, heading up the steps.
“Yeah,” he muttered, following close behind, “and I’m the Queen of England.”
Inside, the manor was dim and quiet. Most of the lights had been turned off, aside from the soft glow near the stairs. Jason walked her all the way up, matching her pace without crowding her. When they reached her room, he pushed the door open first, leaning on the frame and scanning inside with exaggerated suspicion.
“Clear,” he announced dramatically. “No lurking Tim, no brooding Damian, no booby traps. You’re safe.”
She snorted and stepped past him. “Thank you, oh mighty guard dog.”
Jason grinned, but the expression faltered when he noticed the way her eyes darted toward the bathroom. It wasn’t a long look, but it was loaded, something like fear shadowing the edges of her face. His stomach tugged tight.
He didn’t comment. Not yet. If he pushed, she would close off.
But he filed it away quietly, the way he gathered ammunition before a fight. He would figure it out. He’d make sure she told him, eventually, when she trusted him enough not to brush it off or pretend nothing was wrong.
And she would trust him.
He would make sure of it.
Y/N turned toward her bed, rubbing at her eyes, exhausted in a way that made Jason’s chest feel heavy. “Thanks for today,” she said. “Really.”
He nodded once, stepping back toward the door but not entirely leaving the room. “Anytime,” he said softly. “You know that.”
She gave him a tired, grateful smile, one that hit him harder than it should have, and he stepped into the hallway, leaving her with the quiet of her room.
He didn’t go far at first. He lingered outside her door for a moment, listening to the soft rustle of her moving inside. Not because he doubted her safety, but because he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone needed to stay close.
Someone who wasn’t using her. Someone who wasn’t watching her like a puzzle or a threat. Someone who actually cared.
Jason exhaled slowly, pressing his hand once against the doorframe before forcing himself to walk away.
“She trusts me,” he thought as he headed toward his own room.
“She chose me.”
And that steady, dangerous warmth swelled again in his chest, warming him.
Comforting him. And anchoring him to a purpose he didn’t want to let go of.
It was only the beginning.
And Jason Todd was already planning the next time he could make her smile that way again.
Y/N slipped into bed with the kind of exhaustion that felt bone-deep. The manor was silent, the air still, and for once, she didn’t feel eyes tracking her or footsteps shadowing behind her. She curled beneath the blankets, letting the cool fabric brush her skin as her breathing began to slow.
Sleep pulled at her in gentle waves. Her eyelids drooped. Her muscles relaxed.
And then her phone pinged.
The sharp sound sliced through the quiet, making her eyes snap open. She blinked at the ceiling for a moment before turning over and reaching blindly across her nightstand.
The notification glowed brightly in the darkness.
Unknown Number: Hey! My aunt told me to text you immediately lol. I'm too scared of her not to.
A small, startled laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Her thumbs moved before her brain fully caught up.
Y/N: She is a scary woman when she wants to be. She coerced my hard-ass of a brother with cake and cookies.
She hit send and sank back into her pillow, smiling to herself. A moment later, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Yeah, that sounds like her. She weaponizes sugar like no one else I know.
Y/N giggled, a real, unguarded sound she hadn’t made in what felt like weeks. The manor’s heaviness lifted for a moment, replaced by something simple and easy.
Y/N: So, mysterious nephew of Aggie’s… what’s your name?
The reply came quickly, like he’d been waiting for her to ask.
Unknown Number: Blake Selvyn.
Y/N stared at the name, realizing she needed to give her own. Her real one —the one no one here knew. Her heart thudded once, hard, as if sensing the risk, but her fingers moved anyway.
Y/N: My name is Y/N Williams. Nice to meet you.
She hesitated only after she sent it, wondering if Aggie had mentioned a different last name. Wondering if she’d just tangled herself in a new knot.
But Blake responded almost instantly.
Blake: Nice to meet you, too, Y/N. My aunt said you were cool, but didn’t warn me you were funny. That feels like sabotage.
She snorted softly, burying half her face in her pillow.
Y/N: Please, she’s the funny one. I’m just tired. And hungry. And possibly delusional.
Blake: Great. I like delusional people. Makes conversations more interesting.
And somehow, that made her laugh even harder.
Minutes turned into an hour.
An hour turned into two.
They talked about nothing and everything, random stories, favorite drinks, worst movies, the weirdest thing Aggie had ever said (he won that one easily), the best takeout in Gotham, and what he planned to do tomorrow when he arrived.
At some point, she rolled onto her stomach, phone glowing under her chin, blanket kicked halfway off the bed. She didn’t notice how late it was getting. She didn’t notice how her shoulders had loosened or how her breathing had softened.
She didn’t even notice when her eyes started getting distant and warm. But she did notice the last text he sent her before she finally drifted off:
Blake: Hey, if you’re free tomorrow, want to hang out? Pretty sure all my friends are busy, and I don’t remember Gotham like that anymore lol. And I could use a guide who doesn’t scare me.
She smiled, soft, small, but real, and typed back through heavy eyes:
Y/N: Yeah, I’d like that.
After she hit send, the phone slipped from her fingers.
Her breathing steadied.
The room went still.
Y/N fell asleep with her real name on someone’s screen for the first time since she arrived in this world.
And, down the hall, two brothers who were very much awake had no idea her world was quietly expanding beyond their reach.
Blake felt the shift in the air the moment he crossed the city limits.
Gotham weighed it —a heavy, humming sort of tension that clung to the skyline and slipped under the skin, equal parts alluring and unsettling. Even with the windows up, he could almost taste it.
The Accord’s tires hissed along rain-slick pavement as he eased into the parking lot beside the Hallow Hotel. The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a flickering violet glow across the hood. He cut the engine, letting the quiet settle for a moment before leaning forward to check his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Not bad.
His hair, somewhere between deep blue, black, and storm-gray, fell into his eyes in a way that looked styled even though it wasn’t. He pushed it back with one hand, letting the light catch just enough to reveal the cool steel tones threaded through the darker strands. The angles of his face are sleek: high cheekbones, soft mouth, eyes that could look gentle or predatory depending on the tilt of his head.
He looked like trouble disguised as charm. The kind of charm people trip over themselves for.
He smiled at his reflection; slow, confident, knowing.
New city. New people. Mystery girl.
Her messages were cute. Funny. A little shy, but sharp. He liked sharp things. He liked imagining what her voice sounded like when she laughed, how her expressions might shift mid-conversation, whether she’d blush easily or try to hide it. He didn’t know how she looked yet, but he enjoyed the anticipation.
Surprises often turned out to be the best parts of meeting someone.
With a smooth stretch, he stepped out of the car, tall and lean, the kind of posture that made strangers glance twice without knowing why. The night breeze tugged at his hair and his jacket as he slung a duffel bag over one shoulder. The faint shine of his eyes in the hotel’s twilight glow gave him an almost unreal edge, too polished, too perfect, like he’d walked off a magazine cover and wandered into the wrong city.
The door to the hotel swung open before he even reached the steps.
“There’s my baby!” Aggie called out in that voice she used only for people she actually liked.
He grinned, lighting up effortlessly, and closed the distance in a few quick strides. When he hugged her, he lifted her slightly off her feet; gentle, affectionate, practiced. She smelled like cinnamon and worn books, a mix he’d always associated with safety.
“Aunt Aggs,” he said, voice sliding into warmth without effort. “The drive was hell. Gotham’s trying to flood itself again.”
She flicked his forehead with two fingers. “You complain like you’re eighty. You’re tall enough to walk above the clouds, quit whining.”
He laughed, teeth flashing, the kind of smile people either trusted way too quickly or backed away from without understanding why. The kind of smile that made hearts stutter and alarms ring at the same time.
Aggie’s eyes narrowed. “Still showing off, I see.”
“Only for you,” he teased.
“Mm-hmm. Liar.” She hooked her arm through his and tugged him up the steps with surprising strength. “Come on, get inside before Gotham decides to drop a gargoyle on your pretty head.”
He grabbed the rest of his bags, shouldering them effortlessly. The porch light hit his hair again, revealing the streaks of gray-blue like metal in motion. Even exhausted from driving, he moved with a natural grace; relaxed, confident, almost glowing against the gloomy backdrop of the street.
The sort of presence that didn’t need announcing. The sort of presence people remembered.
The sort of presence that could make someone like Nightwing grind his teeth without knowing why.
Aggie opened the door for him. “Come in, sweetheart. I’ve got tea ready, and you’re going to pretend you like it.”
“I always pretend convincingly,” Blake replied, stepping past her with an easy grin.
She snorted. “You’re impossible.”
“And charming,” he added.
She waved him inside. “Yes, yes. A menace wrapped in good cheekbones.”
Blake only laughed and followed her into the warm-lit parlor, his shadow stretching long behind him across the hotel floor.
Perfect posture. Perfect smile. Perfect boy.
And if the air seemed to tilt strangely around him as he entered, if something in the hotel shifted like it recognized him.
Aggie didn’t comment.
Blake Selvyn had arrived.
And Gotham felt a little less steady for it.
Chapter 16: Dead Calm
Chapter Text
Y/N descended the stairs slowly, almost cautiously, as if expecting someone to jump out and ruin the stillness. When no one did, the absence felt like a gift.
Alfred stood at the stove, immaculate as always, whisking eggs with the quiet rhythm of someone who understood the power of steadiness. She approached him hesitantly, then leaned her shoulder into his with a soft bump, the kind she reserved only for him.
If she belonged to anyone in this house, it was Alfred.
He glanced at her, and the slight smile he offered warmed her more than the morning light. “Good morning, Miss Y/N. You look far more yourself today. I daresay it’s a relief.”
She sat at the table, letting the normalcy seep into her bones. “Morning,” she said, unable to hide the tiny hint of uplift in her voice.
Alfred plated her breakfast and set it in front of her with the same gentle precision he offered all the boys when they were injured, physically or otherwise. She began to eat, humming faintly under her breath without realizing it.
Alfred noticed. Alfred always noticed.
Halfway through breakfast, she cleared her throat. “Can I… go out today?”
One eyebrow lifted, Alfred-polite skepticism. “To see Miss Aggie again?”
She shook her head. “No. Not today.” She hesitated, then continued, “Aggie asked me to show her nephew around Gotham. He hasn’t been in the city for a while, and he wants to explore. Or, well… Aggie wants him to explore. I’m just a volunteer.”
Alfred paused, pouring his tea, the warm stream cutting off mid-motion. “A young man, then?”
Y/N nodded quickly. “Yes. And it’s nothing weird, I promise. He seems nice. He’s around my age. And it’d be good to just… do something normal. Outside all of…” She waved vaguely at the manor. “This.”
He studied her silently. Behind his eyes, thoughts clicked like locks being tested; concern, calculation, suspicion, sympathy. He knew she needed space. He also knew the boys had become overbearing, suffocating, and dangerous in ways that made even him uneasy.
Part of him wanted to keep her inside forever, safe beneath the same roof he’d raised four damaged, brilliant, unmanageable sons.
But another part—the better part—knew she was slipping away piece by piece.
And if he didn’t let her breathe, she would break.
“Miss Y/N,” Alfred said slowly, setting down his teacup, “given recent… tensions in this household, I believe you are owed a moment of peace.” He softened as her eyes widened with hope. “Very well. You may go.”
Y/N brightened instantly. “Really?”
“Yes.” He lifted a finger, stern despite the warmth in his voice. “On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You will text me on the hour, every hour. Should you fail to do so, I will not hesitate to send half the city’s emergency response teams to retrieve you.”
She nodded rapidly. “Deal. Definitely. I swear.”
He gave a quiet hum of approval, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Then enjoy your outing. Lord knows you deserve a day free from… intrusive supervision.”
Relief unfurled inside her so quickly she didn’t think, she leaned forward and hugged him. Alfred stiffened briefly, then melted into the embrace, patting her back once, then again, as if reassuring himself she was real and safe and still here.
When she stepped away, his expression was softer than she had ever seen it. “Do take care, my dear.”
She finished her breakfast with renewed energy and practically bounced from her chair. The moment she crossed the threshold into the hallway, her mind was already racing—what to wear, what to say, how to make this normal. Blake hadn’t been to Gotham in years, just visiting his aunt after so long away.
A boy her age.
Someone outside the manor.
Someone untouched by the chaos, by the lies, by the claustrophobic obsession closing in on her.
A meeting at a warm coffee shop downtown. A real conversation. Neutral ground. A fresh start.
For the first time in weeks, she felt like she was choosing her own steps, and not the ones being pushed beneath her feet.
Y/N’s room looked like a boutique that had exploded.
Jeans, skirts, tops, and jackets were scattered across her bed and draped over her desk chair as she stood in the middle of the chaos, chewing on the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t a date, God, no, but her hands kept trembling like it was something important. Like, meeting Blake meant more than it should.
She held up a denim skirt, eyeing it critically. Cute… but maybe too much. Too try-hard. Too, “I’m desperately attempting to look presentable, so please don’t judge me.” With a huff, she tossed it aside and grabbed her favorite jeans instead. Comfortable, flattering, and, most importantly, safe.
A soft-fitted top came next, simple enough to look casual but nice enough to feel put-together. She slipped it on and felt just a bit steadier, as if fabric could anchor her nerves.
Shoes were another battle. Combat boots felt too intense. Sneakers seemed too lazy. She finally settled on her ankle boots with the small chunky heel, cute without trying to be dramatic. They clicked softly on the floor as she tested a few steps, and the sound made her feel grounded again.
Her hair was the final decision, and she hesitated in front of the brush. Up might look too formal. Down might get frizzy. But down also felt softer, less like she was going to a job interview with Blake. She let it fall around her, fixing it around until it looked effortless, even though it wasn’t.
She looked around once more, exhaled, and moved toward the mirror for a final check before leaving.
That was when everything shifted.
Not visibly. Not violently. Just… wrong.
The air thickened as she neared the glass, like she had stepped into a room that wasn’t hers. The mirror seemed larger than it had any right to be, swallowing the edges of her reflection, pulling her gaze deeper than she intended. The walls felt farther away, the floor felt unsteady, and her focus narrowed until the rest of the room blurred.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Not again.
She took a slow step backward, boots sliding over the carpet. For a split second, the reflection seemed to drag behind her movement, lagging as if something in the mirror needed time to catch up. The edges warped faintly, an almost-imperceptible ripple.
She blinked hard.
The room snapped back into place.
The mirror was just a mirror again. Her reflection was just herself, standing a little too stiffly. She swallowed, throat tight, and pressed a hand to her chest. She’d experienced this before—these moments where reflections didn’t behave, where mirrors felt like open mouths rather than panes of glass. Enough times that she’d learned to avoid looking too long.
But today, she needed this. She needed to feel normal. Human. Present.
She gave herself one glance, hair fine, shirt straight, nothing out of place, and stepped away immediately before the glass had a chance to shift again.
“Okay,” she murmured under her breath, picking up her bag. “You can do this.”
She flicked off the light, shut the door behind her, and didn’t look back at the mirror.
Today wasn’t about fear or shadows or whatever was happening behind her reflection.
Today was about Blake.
Y/N left her room still feeling the faint buzz of the mirror’s wrongness humming beneath her ribs. It wasn’t the sharp, electric fear she’d grown used to living with these days, more like the slow, residual pressure of being observed by something she couldn’t see. But choosing an outfit, something casual enough not to look like she was trying, cute enough not to look like she wasn’t, and the warm steadiness of Alfred’s approval pushed the unease to the edges of her mind.
After breakfast, Alfred insisted on driving her himself. He said it calmly, with a soft smile and a gentle pat on her shoulder, as if he were simply being polite. But the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel each time a car swerved too close said everything he didn’t voice. She wasn’t sure if that made her chest ache or swell. Maybe both.
Collata Café sat farther out than she usually dared to go. Sandwiched between a tiny florist spilling roses onto the sidewalk and a bookstore with peeling gold lettering, the shop smelled like espresso and warm pastries the moment Alfred eased the car to the curb. People drifted in and out with paper cups and sleepy smiles, and for the first time in a while, the world didn’t feel like it was leaning toward her.
Alfred turned in his seat, his expression soft but firm. “Text me on the hour, Miss Y/N. And let me know the moment you need a ride back.”
“I promise,” she said, squeezing his hand. He watched her walk onto the sidewalk, his eyes following her until he merged back into traffic.
She checked her phone.
Blake: I’m out front—gray jacket. Look for someone who definitely looks like he’s lost.
She smiled and typed a quick reply.
Y/N: I’m here! I’ll find you in a sec.
She hit send, and nearly leapt out of her shoes when a notification chimed directly beside her ear.
She spun, startled, and found Blake standing right next to her, tall enough to block half the morning light. His hands were raised in surrender, and a bright, easy grin stretched across his face.
“Sorry to spook you,” he said, laughing. “You’re Y/N Williams, right? Aggie’s told me plenty.”
For a heartbeat, Y/N forgot how to speak. Not because he scared her, but because he was unfairly, almost disarmingly handsome. Tall, lean, that blue-black-steel hair falling just slightly into bright eyes, the type of smile that suggested he could sweet-talk an entire courtroom into forgiving a felony.
Her brain glitched—full blue-screen error.
“Oh—uh—yeah, I’m Y/N.” She winced as she said it. “Please tell me Aggie didn’t roast me.”
“I’ll let you fear the worst,” Blake teased, flashing just the hint of canines.
Y/N groaned, already imagining Aggie lounging in her parlor with the most devious smile. “She’s never letting me live this down.”
Blake shrugged with a grin. “Then it’s your turn to traumatize me. Coffee?”
They stepped inside, picked drinks, Blake insisted she take the hazelnut latte, claiming her face “lit up like it was destiny,” and fell into stride beside each other with a surprising ease. When he mentioned wanting to see old childhood spots, she suggested the natural history museum.
“Haven’t been there since I was twelve,” he said. “Pretty sure the whale had it out for me.”
“Oh yeah… the whale.” She nodded with confidence she did not have. “It’s huge. Memorable.”
She had never been. But pretending made her feel normal again.
Blake chuckled. “All right, if it tries to eat me this time, you’re legally obligated to save me. Emotional support Y/N, remember?”
She snorted a laugh that felt embarrassingly natural, and they started walking toward the museum.
The streets buzzed with mid-morning life; buses hissing at stops, pigeons scattering, a couple arguing about the correct way to pronounce “gnocchi.” Blake pointed things out as they went: a mural he thought he remembered from childhood but wasn’t sure existed, a tiny bookstore that advertised “psychic readings” for five dollars, a hotdog cart run by a man who gave them a suspicious side-eye as if sensing trouble.
Y/N found herself laughing more than she expected, her nerves smoothing into something light and even.
The museum’s glass façade shimmered beneath the overcast sky. Inside, cool air and the faint scent of old varnish greeted them. Crowds shuffled toward different exhibits, but the noise didn’t overwhelm her. It felt… muted, cushioned somehow.
They wandered between fossil displays and shimmering gemstones. Blake made fun of a prehistoric mammal whose taxidermy eyes looked a little too human. Y/N mimicked a pterodactyl pose so earnestly that a passing kid gasped and copied her.
She should’ve felt self-conscious.
Instead, she felt steady. Pleasantly quiet inside.
When they reached the massive suspended whale skeleton, Blake lifted both eyebrows. “See? Horrifying.”
She folded her arms, pretending to study it deeply. “I mean… it’s kind of majestic. Majestic and threatening. The ideal combination.”
“Like me,” he said, nudging her shoulder.
“Oh please,” she laughed. “More like Aggie.”
“That’s fair.”
They lingered under the whale as sunlight filtered through the overhead windows. For a moment, everything felt strangely serene, like the world had lowered its volume just for her.
Too serene.
Almost unnaturally calm.
But she didn’t question it, not with Blake beside her, not with the easy laughter between them.
They walked out of the museum when the afternoon light turned warm gold. Blake pointed down a narrow alleyway and insisted they try a small Italian place tucked away between two brick buildings.
“It’s the best pasta in Gotham,” he declared.
She raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been here in years.”
“Some truths transcend time.”
Inside, the restaurant glowed with dim golden lights and smelled like garlic, basil, and fresh bread. They were seated in a quiet corner booth, the table lit by a single candle.
When her plate arrived, she didn’t even pretend to be polite. She took one bite and melted into her chair.
“Oh my god,” she said, nearly moaning.
Blake watched her with an amused, slightly smug expression. “Should I order a second plate now, or wait for you to inhale that one first?”
“Shut up and let me have this,” she muttered, stabbing another bite. “This is my first good meal out in, like… weeks.”
She froze the second the words left her mouth.
Blake’s expression softened; not prying, but undeniably concerned. “Weeks?”
“Just… family stuff.” She reached for a glass of water, trying to keep her tone breezy. “It’s been tense. Nothing dramatic.”
Blake didn’t push. He only nodded, his attention quiet and steady in a way that somehow made her chest loosen instead of seize.
Maybe that was why she started talking.
Slowly at first. A comment about feeling watched. A slip about arguments. A hint of the tension that made her chest tighten at home. Not the dangerous details, not Tim’s spiraling fixation, not Damian’s creeping intensity, not the stalker-shadows bleeding into her nightmares, but enough that she felt her own words brushing against the edges of confession.
She wasn’t supposed to say this much.
She never said this much.
And still, the calm spread deeper, smoothing every rough edge inside her.
No panic. No trembling. No fear of saying the wrong thing.
Just this gentle, velvety quiet, like something in her was being lulled into transparency.
Blake listened with a warm kind of attentiveness that made it feel easy to keep talking. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t analyze her the way Tim would or challenge her the way Damian would.
He simply… listened.
And something about that, calm, steady, deceptively safe, made everything inside her loosen until she didn’t know if this comfort was absolute…
…or quietly, terribly alarming.
By the time they stepped out of the little Italian restaurant, the sky had settled into a heavy gray that hovered on the edge of rain. Their breath fogged faintly in the cooling air, and the street smelled faintly of wet pavement and simmering pasta from the kitchen vents behind them. Blake fell into step beside her easily, hands in his jacket pockets, their shoulders brushing now and then as they made their way back toward the café where he had parked.
The rain had settled into a steady, rhythmically pattering drizzle by the time Blake guided the Accord out of the cramped parking lot. Gotham at dusk looked almost soft beneath it, streetlights smudged into hazy orbs, neon reflected in wet pavement like molten color, the usual frenetic edge replaced by a watery blur. The windshield wipers swept back and forth with a steady, unhurried motion, giving the car a cocooned quiet that made the city outside feel far away.
Y/N relaxed into the passenger seat, watching the mist gather along the glass. The day had been… unexpectedly nice. Calm. Easy. Blake had been easy; his humor, the effortless way he matched her stride, the warm attention he gave without hovering. She hadn’t felt like that in a long time.
Normal.
Almost safe.
She texted Alfred to let him know Blake would give her a ride, carefully keeping her message vague. Then she sent Blake the fake drop-off address, rehearsing the ten-minute walk she’d take from there to the manor.
The drizzle thickened. Blake slowed for a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the faint music playing on the radio. When he glanced over, giving her a half-smile, she found herself smiling back.
And then she looked out the window.
A sleek black sedan eased up beside them—precisely the kind Wayne Enterprises used for corporate events. The tinted windows caught the glow of the stoplight, revealing just enough of the interior for her to see the silhouettes inside.
Tim at the wheel.
Damian in the passenger seat.
Both in suits. Both rigid.
Her breath hitched.
She ducked automatically, though part of her wondered why she even bothered. Her chest didn’t constrict the way it should. No spike of fear. No quickening heartbeat. Just the steady hum of calm she’d felt all afternoon, wrapped thick around her nerves like cotton.
Blake noticed. “People you know?”
“Unfortunately,” she muttered, sinking lower in the seat.
Tim’s head turned slightly, scanning his mirrors. Damian’s jaw flexed. If either of them saw Blake’s car, they didn’t show it, but the tension in the sedan was palpable even from outside.
Y/N’s thoughts should’ve devolved into panic. She should’ve imagined Tim storming into the manor later, or Damian cornering her with quiet, cutting questions. She should’ve felt the familiar dread coil tight in her stomach.
She didn’t.
It unnerved her almost as much as seeing them.
“You look like someone planning your own funeral,” Blake said lightly, watching the sedan as the light remained red. “You okay?”
“I just need to get home fast,” she murmured. “Maybe we can… skip ice cream today.”
He smirked at that. “Clearly fate is testing you.”
The light flicked green.
Tim’s sedan rolled forward.
Blake didn’t move.
Cars behind them honked, angry bursts echoing through the wet street. One swerved around. Another braked too hard. The windshield wipers dragged noisily, sweeping droplets off in slow arcs.
“Blake…?” Y/N sat up slightly.
He didn’t answer. His hands rested on the wheel, relaxed, too still. Something in his posture had shifted, like someone had wiped clean the warm, easy manner he’d shown her all day and replaced it with something quieter, deeper, unreadable.
She saw it first in his eyes when he finally turned toward her, eyes that earlier danced with humor now smooth, still, almost serene to the point of unsettling. A kind of calm that felt practiced rather than natural. Intentional.
Measured.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice soft but absolute.
She did without thinking.
The honking behind them faded. The rain softened. The world narrowed to the quiet interior of the car and the too-even rhythm of her heartbeat.
Blake turned forward again, shifted into reverse, and pressed the gas.
The Accord shot backward so sharply she grabbed the seatbelt with both hands, the city spinning past the windows in a smear of color. Blake rotated the wheel in one fluid motion, slipping between rushing cars and sliding neatly into a side street.
“Blake—holy—Blake!” Her hand braced against the dashboard as he took a corner far too tightly. The tires skidded before gripping again.
He didn’t respond.
They sped down a narrow road lined with tall brick buildings, the rain hitting the hood in staccato bursts. He threaded between delivery trucks and taxis with impossible precision, never hesitating, never flinching.
Y/N’s pulse remained disturbingly steady.
Was she scared? She should be. This should feel like danger.
But the familiar instinctive terror remained stubbornly muted, buried beneath the strange calm that wrapped around her chest like weighted cloth. Even as the car lurched into another turn, narrowly missing a van, her breath barely hitched.
The city blurred by, traffic, flashing signs, slick pavement reflecting streaks of light. Blake drove like someone who had been doing this his entire life, every sharp maneuver smooth and deliberate, as if he wasn’t reacting but anticipating, predicting, and knowing precisely what the road would do before it did.
It was terrifying.
And she couldn’t feel the terror.
She looked at him fully now, rainlight flickering across his features, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead with an intensity that wasn’t aggression, wasn’t panic, but something far more controlled. Far more unsettling.
He didn’t look like the boy who laughed with her in the museum.
He didn’t look like someone trying to impress her.
He looked like someone following an internal compass she couldn’t see; unaffected, unbothered, unbreakably calm.
“Blake,” she tried again, her voice thinner this time, “what are you doing?”
His grip tightened minutely on the wheel, but he didn’t slow.
“You don’t have to be scared,” he said, eyes still on the road. “Not when you’re with me.”
Another car honked as he slipped past it. The rain thickened, streaking the windshield, but the calm under her skin didn’t break. Didn’t crack. It sat heavily in her, grounding her in a way that was beginning to feel unnatural.
The Accord veered into another alley, tires splashing through puddles. Blake exhaled slowly—as if this pace were leisurely, not reckless; as if he were taking a quiet Sunday drive instead of outrunning something unnamed.
“Just sit back,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And with the world blurring past her and her body refusing to panic, Y/N found herself sinking into the seat.
Not because she trusted him, not because she was safe.
But because the calm in her veins wouldn’t let her feel anything else.
Blake eased the car to a stop along the narrow service road, the drizzle stitching faint silver lines down the windshield. Y/N blinked at the trees around them—tall, shadowed, unmistakably familiar. She knew this bend, this slope, this hidden driveway carved into the back of the estate.
Her pulse stuttered.
She hadn’t given him this address.
She hadn’t even given him a nearby one.
This was the secret road only Alfred used when he needed to get them home quietly.
“Blake…?” she asked slowly. “Why here?”
For a breath, he didn’t answer. The dashboard cast a cool blue glow across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint gray sheen in his hair. His expression was unreadable, almost focused.
Then, with an easy smile, as if nothing about this was strange, he turned toward her.
“Good night,” he said, warm and smooth. “I had fun today.”
She opened her mouth to respond, still trying to understand, still trying to find her footing—
Then he dropped it. Softly. Casually. Almost playfully.
“Text me when you get home, Wayne.”
Every nerve in her body snapped.
Y/N froze, hand gripping the door handle so tightly her knuckles ached. The rain suddenly felt colder, sharper, as if the entire world had tilted.
He knew.
He knew.
The embarrassment hit her first; hot, mortifying, curling up her throat. He’d known she was lying the entire time. He’d known she wasn’t “Y/N Williams.” He’d known she’d fed him a fake address. He’d known she was pretending.
She wanted to sink into the floor.
She wanted to vanish.
She managed a small, breathless sound, but before she could form a word, Blake lifted two fingers in a lazy salute and shifted the car into gear.
The boyish grin stayed, but now she could see it for what it was. A mask. A controlled expression. A choice.
Then he drove away. Smooth, steady, unbothered.
Not even a backward glance.
His taillights disappeared around the bend, swallowed by the trees.
And all at once—all the calm she’d felt all day collapsed.
Her chest tightened violently. Her breath turned jagged. The world snapped back into harsh, icy clarity.
The calm hadn’t been hers. The calm had left with him.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, stomach churning.
If he knew her real last name… If he knew she was lying… If Aggie had told him—what else had she said?
Maybe he was right about fearing the worst.
Maybe I just embarrassed myself.
Maybe I told him way too much, and he was sitting there laughing at me the whole time.
Her hands shook as she stepped out of the car, legs unsteady from the sudden rush of nerves that hit like a wave. She felt exposed under the dim streetlight, every shadow too deep, every sound too sharp.
Her embarrassment bled into fear; real, primal fear that clawed beneath her ribs.
She started up the winding hill toward the manor, pulling her jacket tight, each step heavier than the last.
The silence pressed in. The night felt too close. The trees seemed to lean in, like they were listening.
Y/N slipped into the manor through the side entrance, rain still clinging to her jacket in cold little beads. She thought she could make it upstairs unnoticed, but Alfred was standing in the hallway as though he’d been waiting for her. His posture was composed, almost casual, though the flicker in his eyes told a different story.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N simply stepped toward him and brushed her shoulder lightly against his arm, a quiet gesture of affection she rarely dared in this house. Alfred’s expression softened in that subtle way he reserved only for her, and he gave a gentle nod toward the staircase.
Go on. I’ve got this.
But the moment she took a step, she heard voices from the living room. Sharp ones. Interrogating.
Tim’s voice carried first, tinged with something brittle beneath the surface. Damian’s followed—low, firm, too controlled to be anything but frustration.
And Alfred’s reply came smooth, even, unyielding.
“Miss Y/N was with Miss Aggie today. She kept in contact exactly as promised, and she returned safely. I trust her judgment. That should suffice.”
Y/N froze on the first stair.
Alfred hadn’t mentioned Blake. Not a word. He had rewritten her day without hesitation.
Damian’s voice dropped, skeptical. “You trust Aggie?”
“I trust Miss Y/N,” Alfred corrected calmly. “And I trust that her whereabouts were entirely appropriate.”
Tim pressed, “Then why do the camera timestamps look wrong?”
There was a beat of silence, and Y/N understood in that instant.
Alfred had tampered with the footage. Alfred.
For her.
“Because I adjusted them,” Alfred said smoothly, leaving no room for accusation. “There are private corridors in the manor. Miss Y/N has a right to privacy when she requests it.”
Y/N felt something swell painfully in her chest, a surge of gratitude. Alfred was covering for her without flinching, standing between her and her own protectors as easily as he might shield a candle from a gust of wind.
She turned away before she could get caught listening, climbing the stairs as quietly as she could. When she closed her bedroom door, the silence pressed in around her like a held breath.
The hot shower helped wash Gotham’s chill from her skin, but not the lingering pressure behind her ribs. Steam fogged the mirror completely, mercifully hiding her reflection. She brushed her teeth without opening her eyes, unwilling to risk catching that strange, shifting feeling she’d sensed earlier.
She dressed in soft pajamas, hair damp and skin warm, but her thoughts were anything but calm.
Blake’s voice lingered in her head; light, teasing, charming—his smile, warm and effortless. His eyes, when they changed, when that brightness turned into something still and unreadable.
The calm she’d felt around him, the heavy quiet he’d wrapped around her pulse…
She sat on the edge of her bed, trying to steady her breathing, when a knock tapped softly at her door.
Her nerves snapped taut.
She hesitated only a second before opening it, smoothing her shirt as she pulled it open.
Tim and Damian stood there, both still in their suits, ties loose, jackets unbuttoned. Their expressions were unreadable.
Tim’s eyes scanned her as though cataloging every detail. Damian’s gaze narrowed, taking in her damp hair, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held the door too tightly.
Neither spoke.
The calm Blake had given her, whatever strange thing it had been, had vanished completely.
And all that remained was the unease crawling back into her bones as the two brothers stood on her threshold, waiting.
Tim didn’t speak right away, and neither did Damian. They stood in her doorway like two shadows caught between intention and hesitation. Y/N stepped aside to let them in, tugging her pajama sleeve down her wrist as they entered. Tim hovered near her desk, posture tight but trying to seem casual. Damian lingered closer to the dresser, arms crossed in a neat, controlled fold.
The room felt smaller with the two of them inside it.
“So,” Tim started, voice gentler than she expected, “how was your day?”
Y/N paused. The question hit harder than it should’ve. Her day had been… strange. Liberating. Dangerous. It felt like a pocket of life carved out beyond the suffocation of the manor—hours where she wasn’t monitored, questioned, or treated like a fragile mystery everyone was desperate to solve. Hours where she could laugh without checking who was listening. Where she could talk without fear tightening around her ribs.
She thought about Blake. About the museum. About the pasta, the easy rhythm of walking beside someone who didn’t demand pieces of her.
About the terrifying calm that had settled in her chest during the drive, the way it vanished the moment she stepped out of his car.
For a second, she considered telling the truth, or at least, part of it. But she saw the intensity in Tim’s gaze, the stiff line of Damian’s shoulders, and she knew better.
Plus, she wasn’t going to throw Alfred under the bus after all he died. So she would keep this to her chest. She would not buckle.
“I went to Aggie’s,” she said, echoing Alfred’s lie with a steady voice.
Damian’s eyebrow lifted, not suspicion exactly, but something sharp and evaluating. Tim didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched her like he was waiting for her to fill in the blanks. She gripped the edge of her sleeve to ground herself.
“You go to her often,” Damian observed, tone neutral but weighted.
Y/N shrugged. “She’s a friend.” That was all she gave them. Enough to sound reasonable, not enough to let them in.
The silence that followed pressed around the three of them, thick and uneasy. Finally, Tim exhaled and cleared his throat like he was stepping into cold water.
“Listen… we wanted to talk about the fight.” He nudged Damian with a deliberate jab of his elbow.
Damian bristled, shot Tim a brief glare, then forced himself to look at her. “We behaved poorly,” he said, choosing the words with painful precision. “Raising our voices. Accusing you. It was… unnecessary.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. We shouldn’t have cornered you like that. Or jumped to conclusions. You didn’t deserve that.”
Y/N looked between them, their sincerity sharp enough to carve out an ache in her chest. She believed the apology. It didn’t erase what they’d done, but she wasn’t naïve enough to expect perfection from vigilantes who grew up mistrusting shadows.
Something about their apology, though, felt polished. Coordinated. As if they’d rehearsed it quietly on the walk over. Like they needed her forgiveness as much as they needed her compliance.
Still, she smiled. A small, soft thing she had perfected by now.
“It’s okay,” she said, meeting their eyes one by one. “I shouldn’t have yelled back. I overreacted.”
Tim’s entire face brightened. Damian’s shoulders eased for the first time since stepping into her room. They looked almost… relieved, as if her forgiveness had patched something they didn’t know how to fix themselves.
“Good,” Tim murmured. “I’m glad.”
Damian nodded, more subtle but no less genuine.
Tim hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Are you free this weekend? We thought maybe we could all do something together. Something fun. To make up for everything.”
Y/N felt the tiniest pinch in her chest. Blake had asked her too. The thought of canceling on him, of trading freedom for another day under the eyes of boys who watched her like she might vanish, irked her in a way she didn’t expect. A flicker of resentment. A spark of defiance. She had someone else now. Someone outside their tightly controlled orbit. Someone who made her feel calm in ways she didn’t understand.
But she kept her expression smooth, unbothered.
“Yeah,” she said. “I can go.”
Tim’s relief was instant. Damian’s exhale was quiet but palpable, like tension draining from a wound.
And Y/N felt something shift, subtle but undeniable.
She wasn’t trapped. She wasn’t powerless. She wasn’t at their mercy anymore.
She could lie as easily as they did. She could play along. She could navigate their questions and step around their suspicions without stumbling.
For the first time since she arrived in this world, she wasn’t just surviving the manor.
She was learning how to move through it.
And she was beginning, slowly, quietly, to take control.
Maybe this is her growth arc in Thomas's dumbass book. She hoped he was studying her now.
Just to see the look on his face.
The next couple of days slipped by with a strange, muted quiet. Nothing exploded. No shouting matches. No slammed doors. No stalking in the hallways, at least, nothing obvious. It was almost eerie how normal everything seemed.
Y/N went through her routines carefully, always feeling watched without ever catching anyone in the act. She still texted Blake when she could, thumb darting across her phone whenever Tim and Damian weren’t hovering close enough to read her screen. Their conversations were short but easy, little bursts of humor or warmth that eased the tightness inside her chest. Blake always replied quickly. Not too fast. Just fast enough to make her feel seen.
Jason crossed her path a handful of times, usually in the kitchen or in the hall. He didn’t push for details. Didn’t pry. He simply flicked her a slight grin, a shove to her shoulder, or a quiet, steady “You good?” that somehow made her feel safer than most things in this house. He seemed… lighter around her, in ways she didn’t know how to accept. Or maybe didn’t want to think about.
Dick, though—Dick was different.
She saw him only rarely, usually in motion, walking through the foyer or shrugging into his jacket before heading out. Each interaction lasted seconds at most.
“Morning,” she’d say.
“Hey,” he’d answer, clipped and brief.
Then he was gone again; no teasing, no warmth, not even the gentle big-brother energy he used to offer without thinking. If she hadn’t known better, she’d think he was avoiding her. And maybe he was. Or maybe avoiding her was easier than dealing with the changes happening inside this house.
Bruce remained a distant storm cloud, drifting silently from study to cave and back again, barely acknowledging her at all. That was fine with her. Bruce’s attention was the last thing she wanted.
Tim and Damian, on the other hand, had perfected a new rhythm—softer tones around her, careful touches meant to reassure rather than restrain. But beneath that veneer was something sharp, something calculated. They didn’t fight anymore, not around her. They moved in sync—two halves of a single idea.
She tried not to think about why that scared her more than their arguments ever did.
Every hour felt like a waiting game; little pockets of stillness where she breathed easier, then tense stretches where she felt as though someone had a string tied around her ribs, tugging gently whenever she drifted too far.
Still, despite everything, the days passed.
And each night, when she finally curled up under her blankets and reached for her phone, Blake’s messages were there waiting for her. Easy. Warm. A small reminder that there was a version of the world outside this house where she could breathe without permission.
For a few days, just a few, nothing catastrophic happened.
But quiet never lasted long in the manor.
It only ever meant the next storm was gathering.
By the time Saturday arrived, Y/N was a bundle of nerves wrapped in denim and a jacket she hadn’t worn since before the boys started hovering. She’d already texted Blake that she couldn’t make it this weekend. His reply had been brief but polite, and she couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or simply letting her go. A small part of her hoped it was the former. A louder part wondered if he’d see through her apology the way he seemed to see through everything.
Aggie certainly didn’t. The moment Y/N texted her, Aggie replied almost instantly:
He seemed happy coming home, good job, sweetheart! :)
The morning itself passed quietly, almost deceptively normal. She showered, dressed in something casual and straightforward, and headed downstairs to find Alfred lecturing all four boys- Jason, Dick, Tim, and Damian- about the recklessness of something they’d done on patrol. She only caught the tail end of it, Alfred’s voice sharp and clipped, the boys looking like oversized schoolchildren getting scolded. Jason kept rolling his eyes. Dick kept rubbing the back of his neck. Tim looked like he was trying to disappear into his hoodie, and Damian stared forward as if he were in military formation.
She snuck past that chaos before anyone could rope her in.
Tim and Damian met her by the door exactly when they said they would. Not early. Not late. Perfectly on time in a way that always made her suspicious.
They walked her through the city like bodyguards, even though they tried to pretend otherwise. Nothing about their posture relaxed, not the way their eyes flicked over rooftops and alleyways, nor how they positioned themselves on either side of her whenever they crossed a busy street. It was protective, yes, but too synchronized, too careful, like they had rehearsed it.
Their first stop was the natural history museum. Y/N kept her expression neutral as they walked inside, aware of how strange it was to be back so soon. She didn’t tell them she’d been there yesterday. She didn’t even hint at it. She let them guide her through the exhibits as if everything were new.
And yet, every turn felt like déjà vu. Every glass case reminded her of something she’d said and laughed at less than twenty-four hours ago. Blake’s voice echoed in her mind at the suspended whale skeleton, that ridiculous comment about it trying to eat him. She kept her reactions measured, nodding politely at Tim’s commentary and Damian’s critiques of mislabeled artifacts. Still, inwardly she was fighting off the uncanny sensation that the world was repeating itself just to shake her balance.
Tim stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of his sleeve. Damian hovered just behind her, correcting placards under his breath in a tone that was almost charming if the whole situation didn’t feel like a trap disguised as a bonding moment.
After the museum, they moved on to a nearby art gallery. The shift in atmosphere—soft music, low lights, polished floors—should have grounded her. Instead, the déjà vu sharpened. She’d never been inside this museum, yet she felt like she’d lived the movements before: strolling, glancing over her shoulder, feeling two sets of eyes on her back.
They asked her opinion on a few pieces. She gave vague answers. Tim nodded thoughtfully at all of them, even the ones that barely made sense. Damian tilted his head, studying her more than the art. She felt the tension coil tighter, the sense of being evaluated rather than accompanied.
Lunch helped in theory, but not in practice. The small diner near the gallery was warm and smelled like toasted bread. Her meal was good, the conversation gentle, but every time she felt herself soften, she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to trust this. Not this quiet. Not this normal. Not from them.
Normal was a mask here.
Normal had teeth.
She caught both boys watching her more than once, Tim with that analytical focus he couldn’t hide, Damian with the quiet intensity of plotting something he thought was righteous. She didn’t call them out. She didn’t need to. The unease in her chest did all the talking.
When they left the diner, she expected to head home or maybe to a bookstore. Something quiet. Something routine.
Instead, Tim led them a few blocks further until they stood beneath a colorful neon sign that flickered in rhythmic pulses.
The Pixel Forge: Games, Drinks, Chaos
She blinked slowly, trying to make sense of it.
“This is… an arcade?” she said.
Tim looked almost shy, rubbing the back of his neck. “We talked about video games once. I thought it might be fun.”
Damian looked like he wanted to evaporate. “Todd insisted it was tolerable. I remain doubtful.”
But Tim’s eyes shone the moment he looked toward the glowing rows of machines through the window. She’d never seen him look so young.
Something warm fluttered in her chest.
Something wary followed it.
She glanced between them, two brothers who rarely so much as breathed in sync, acting like this was something they’d planned out together, something coordinated, something purposeful. They never did anything together unless it involved a case or a crisis.
So why this?
Why now?
Still, she smiled. She owed them that much. “Well… I do love games. Thank you, Tim. Damian.”
It felt good to say. It also felt like stepping onto a stage without knowing the script.
Their expressions softened with clear relief; Tim’s shoulders loosening, Damian’s eyes lowering just a fraction.
But inside, her thoughts didn’t settle.
They sharpened.
Because Tim and Damian never acted like this together.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
And the more normal they made the day feel, the more she wondered what they were hiding behind their sudden, careful truce… and what they hoped to gain by pulling her into it.
She stepped into the arcade anyway, swallowed by neon light and laughter, all the while thinking:
What exactly are they planning?
And what do they think I won’t notice?
When they stepped inside the arcade, the first thing that hit Y/N wasn’t the lights or the colors—it was the noise—a rolling wave of chatter, laughter, buttons clacking, tickets spitting out of machines. The second was the smell: warm, hot dogs from the snack counter, soft pretzels heavy with butter and salt, and the sugary tang of slushies; beneath all that, the faint, unmistakable scent of alcohol drifting from the self-serve beer wall tucked into the corner.
Of all places the boys could have chosen, she didn’t expect this.
But now that she was here, part of her wasn’t surprised.
Maybe they think alcohol will loosen me up. Maybe they think a buzz will make me easier to handle.
The thought tasted bitter, but she swallowed it.
Tim was already scanning the room like he was trying to take it all in at once. His eyes lingered on an old cabinet machine from the 80s, something with pixelated aliens and a joystick coated in years of nostalgia. He glanced at Y/N as if silently asking for permission, almost like he was torn between entertaining himself and staying glued to her side.
She smiled and stepped behind him, nodding toward the machine. “Go ahead. I’ll follow.”
His whole face brightened—subtle, but real. She wondered, briefly, if that meant something to him. If moments like this made him feel like she was willingly moving into the space he always tried to carve out between them.
She wondered if this whole outing felt symbolic to them; her falling in line, letting them lead, letting them direct every step.
If only they knew.
They played a handful of games together. Tim became laser-focused the moment his hands hit the controls, explaining the mechanics with a small, enthusiastic ramble that reminded her he was, under it all, still awkward and painfully bright. Between machines, he pressed a cold glass into her hand, always cider, never beer. He’d seen her reaction to the first bitter sip and didn’t make her try again.
Damian pretended he wasn’t interested in anything, hovering behind them with the posture of a young noble forced into a peasant festival. But when they dragged him to the skee-ball lanes, he sighed like it was the most tremendous burden in the world, then proceeded to throw perfect score after perfect score without a hint of effort.
“Show off,” Tim muttered, annoyed.
“Seconded,” Y/N added.
Damian allowed himself the ghost of a smirk.
And somewhere between laughing at Tim’s frustration and watching Damian annihilate every game they put him in front of, she realized she felt…loose. Softer around the edges. Not quite drunk, but not entirely sober either. That warm, hazy place in between, where thoughts move more slowly and instincts feel padded.
She felt her rational mind tug once, gently reminding her she should stop drinking. She tried to hand the next cider back to Tim, saying she was good and needed a break.
But the refusal stuck in her throat.
Something about the way Tim looked at her—expectant, hopeful, so sure she’d accept—made her fingers curl back around the glass.
And she drank.
She didn’t know if it was pressure, or habit, or something else entirely threading through her, but every time she tried to say no, the word dissolved.
By the time they finished the last game, the afternoon light outside had turned a lazy shade of gold. Her eyelids drooped whenever she blinked too long, her balance softening, her thoughts drifting in slow circles. Damian and Tim exchanged one glance, and suddenly they were at her sides, gently guiding her toward the exit before the evening crowd made the place too loud.
“You’re tired,” Tim said softly.
“You should rest,” Damian added, less softly but with a strange tenderness.
She didn’t argue. Movement felt easier than resisting anything.
They led her to the car; Tim took the driver’s seat, Damian settled in front, and Y/N slid into the back, her head tipping against the cool window almost immediately. Her vision swam a little, her breath warm against the seat fabric.
She blinked slowly, letting the city blur around the edges.
And the whole time, one quiet thread of thought pulsed through her fog:
I should feel afraid. I should feel wary. I should feel something.
But she didn’t.
She just felt calm. Dangerously, suspiciously calm.
Like something had smoothed her nerves down and wrapped them in cotton before she even noticed.
Was Blake around here or something?
“How was Aggie’s yesterday?” Tim asked, trying and failing to sound casual.
Y/N blinked slowly. Her brain clicked into a higher gear even as her body let itself slump comfortably into the seat.
Here we go.
They thought she was pliant. Tired. Buzzed enough to slip up.
Little did they know, she had planned this.
Internally, she almost laughed. In her real life, she hadn’t been an everyday drinker, but she had absolutely known how to party. And more importantly, she knew how to fake it. College had trained her well in acting tipsy without losing her edge.
She let her following words come out with a gentle slur, stretching the pause between thoughts just enough. “It was fun,” she murmured, letting her head fall back dramatically before perking up again. “She did tarot cards for me, and we talked about this new show we’re both watching.”
That hooked Tim immediately. “Oh? What show?”
“The Umbrella Academy,” Y/N said, letting a giggle lace through her voice. “One of the guys reminds me of you, Damian.”
She added a hiccup, just for effect.
Damian’s eyebrow twitched upward. He crossed his arms with a scoff. “No one is like me.”
“Oh, no, he definitely is,” she insisted, flopping slightly to one side as if the car was swaying too much. “You have the same smart-ass commentary and the ‘I’m-better-than-everyone’ energy.”
Tim tried —and failed —to hide his laugh behind a cough. Damian shot him a murderous glare, but didn’t otherwise react. He seemed content to let her ramble for the moment, as if her slipping composure were proof that she was malleable, open, easier to poke for answers.
After all, they had questions.
And this —in their minds —was the perfect time.
The car rolled steadily through the city, lights streaking across Y/N’s half-lidded eyes. She let her head rest against the window, humming some off-key tune until the buildings outside shifted into an unmistakable pattern.
La Chantelle.
She stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Why were they passing this street? It wasn’t on the way home. Not even close.
“Oh, I remember this place,” Tim said lightly, tapping the wheel as if reminiscing.
Of course you do, she thought dryly. We all do.
Before she could redirect the topic, Damian cut in. “Did Thomas ever reach out to you again?”
There it was.
The real reason for the detour. The probing. The cider. The softened edges they’d tried to wrap her in.
Part of her wanted to snap at them, to tell them off for trying to corner her while she was supposedly compromised. But she didn’t. She held onto her plan.
Let them chase the shadow she wanted them to chase.
Let them think they were piecing together a mystery.
She lifted her head and blinked, her gaze heavy with exaggerated grogginess. “I saw him walking into some store on my way to Aggie’s,” she said, voice airy, casual. “He didn’t notice me.”
A perfect lie, with just enough truth to make it glow believable.
Tim and Damian exchanged a glance. Suspicious. Calculating.
For them… promising.
And Y/N let her eyes drift shut again, letting them believe she was slipping deeper into the haze.
She wasn’t.
She was the only one in the car fully awake.
Fully aware.
And entirely in control, at least for now.
“Some store?” Tim prompted, leaning slightly toward the backseat as if proximity alone could pull her out of her drifting haze. His tone was bright, careful, too casual to be real.
Y/N let her head roll to one side, eyes half-open, gaze unfocused. She hummed sleepily and nodded as if it took effort just to remember. “Mm-hmm. Another bookstore,” she murmured, tapping a finger lazily against her lower lip. “He sure seems to like those.”
Damian’s attention snapped to her instantly. “What bookstore?” he pressed, voice clipped, urgency leaking through the cracks.
But Y/N was already sinking into the seat. She let her lashes flutter shut, her breathing grow slow and steady, her body go limp in a way that suggested exhaustion more than alcohol. She offered no name, no street, no clue.
Just silence.
Damian leaned forward, tense and waiting for an answer that never came.
Tim called her name softly once. Twice. His voice edged with frustration.
Y/N didn’t move.
In her mind, she smiled.
That’s all you get for now, she whispered to herself, sinking deeper into her fake sleep, letting the hum of the car swallow the rest of their questions.
Let them wonder.
Let them worry.
Let them chase breadcrumbs that led nowhere.
For once, the silence belonged to her.
Tim watched Damian tense beside him, jaw locked, eyes flicking from Y/N’s sleeping form to the road and back again. The younger boy muttered something sharp under his breath, something about miscalculations, about pressing too far, too fast. Maybe they shouldn’t have handed her that last cider. Maybe they should’ve eased into their questions instead of circling her like wolves.
But Tim wasn’t thinking about mistakes.
Not entirely.
What caught him—what held him—was the way she looked slumped in the backseat. Soft. Trusting. Her features smoothed, all the sharp edges of the last few weeks melted into something quiet and childlike. Vulnerable. Innocent in a way she seldom let them see.
Malleable.
Tim’s heart fluttered painfully in his chest.
Not romantically. Not possessively. Just that deep, hungry ache for connection, for family, for someone who could actually belong to them without fear, without walls. A sister who fit the space he had carved out for her, before reality twisted her into someone they had to chase.
Like this, she was perfect.
Like this, she was his blueprint. His ideal.
He could shape this softness. He could teach her how to trust them again. He could build something with her the way he’d always imagined. He could—
His thoughts darkened around the edges.
Did she need to be hazy like this for it to work? Did she need help relaxing? Something gentle. Something warm. Something that wouldn’t set off Alfred or Bruce or the countless monitors that surrounded them.
Fear toxin might be too messy: too violent. Too obvious.
But something soft…Something subtle…Something that made the world feel safe…
Tim didn’t know what it was yet. But he would find it.
And when he did, everything would be easier for all of them.
Damian’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.
“Drake,” he said, low and steady, his eyes still on the road but his tone sharp as a blade. “Don’t push her when she wakes up about the bookstore.”
Tim blinked, pulled abruptly back to the present. “Why?”
“Because we need her trusting us,” Damian said. “If she remembers what she said, we brush it off. Act like we don’t care.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “We will find the answer ourselves.”
Tim inhaled slowly, then nodded.
Damian wasn’t wrong. Pressure would only make her retreat again. Gentle hands would lead her back. They have to be patient. Strategic.
Still, Tim’s mind kept drifting to the backseat, to her faint breathing, to the peace on her face.
He could learn to make her that relaxed on purpose. He could find a way to bring her to this state without alcohol.
He just needed time.
And time was the one thing he was willing to fight everyone for.
Chapter 17: My Turn
Chapter Text
Y/N woke slowly, her body surfacing through layers of fogged sleep like someone wading through warm water. Her head didn’t throb the way it should have if she’d truly been drunk, but there was a lingering grogginess behind her eyes that clung to her ribs. She blinked at the soft morning light pooling across her blankets and exhaled carefully, testing the edges of her thoughts.
The second the grogginess faded, all that was left was anger. Fury that brewed underneath her veins and sizzled out on the skin, red, hot, and ugly.
This is not good, she decided almost immediately. Tim and Damian teaming up for anything is not good.
She lay still for a few more seconds, letting her breathing settle, letting her mind sift through the night before. Bits and pieces returned in soft flashes; the museum, the art gallery, the arcade’s noise, the cider pressed into her hand, Damian’s sharp questions, Tim’s too-sweet smile when she pretended to slur her words. It fit together like a puzzle that someone else had forced into place.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, cataloguing every interaction she could remember, flipping through memories with the precision of someone who had learned survival through observation.
Four months ago, they barely tolerated me, she thought, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. They wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t speak to me unless it was necessary. So where was the pivot? What moment opened the door for this? When did their obsession start?
She mentally retraced the steps: Tim’s surveillance paranoia, Damian’s protectiveness masquerading as discipline, the whispered conversations, the sudden unity between two boys who usually snapped at each other like feral dogs fighting over the same bone. Somewhere along the way, something had shifted in them. Something had cracked. Something had latched onto her.
Y/N’s pulse ticked up gently, not with fear, but with clarity.
She thought next of Blake; of his ease, his charm, of the absolute stillness that lingered around him like a second skin. She pictured his boyish grin and the way his voice softened at the edges when he spoke to her. She remembered the calm he pulled over her like a blanket, unasked for but undeniably effective.
Then she thought of Thomas Vale; of the puzzle-box smile, the careful curiosity in his eyes, the way he folded stories like paper cranes. She thought of his questions, of her own, of the slow dance of information they circled.
And finally, inevitably, she thought of the Wayne family.
The manor’s walls felt like they were closing in more every day. The boys rotated around her like moons trying to claim a planet. Bruce watched her without watching her, not that he cared if she lived or died. Alfred hovered with gentle worry tucked behind every softened expression. Nothing about this house was neutral anymore.
She lay there for a long moment, letting everything settle into its separate corners.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
It wasn’t a bright smile. It wasn’t soft or relieved. It was sharper at the edges, born from a dawning realization that she was not powerless. She wasn’t cornered. She wasn’t as trapped as they wanted her to believe.
She had options.
She had leverage.
And she had at least one solution sitting right at her fingertips.
Y/N stretched her legs beneath the blankets, feeling the last of the grogginess slip away as her mind sharpened. The smile curled a little higher as she exhaled.
Alright, she thought. If they want to play a game, I’ll choose the board.
She pushed herself upright, brushing her hair out of her face, already planning her next steps. Blake. Thomas. The Waynes. All of it could be handled. One thread at a time.
But she’d start with the easiest one.
And she couldn’t wait to see how the boys reacted when the pieces moved in her favor instead of theirs.
Y/N never thought she’d find herself wanting Tim or Damian anywhere near her, not after the last few days, not after the museum, the arcade, the quiet interrogation disguised as bonding. Still, she was almost proud of how effortlessly she managed to gather them both before the afternoon.
A few well-placed comments to Alfred, a faint sigh about wanting to talk to them, a soft enough expression to catch Tim’s attention, and they appeared, like she’d rung a silent bell they were conditioned to obey.
Alfred watched her from the corner of his eye through the library doorway. Not suspicious, just mindful. But she didn’t need his protective attentiveness today.
She needed Tim’s.
And where Tim went, Damian inevitably followed. Predictable, rigid, loyal to the wrong things for the wrong reasons.
They stepped into the room together; Tim was curious, Damian guarded, and Y/N lifted her head with a brightness she’d practiced in the mirror.
“Good morning, Tim!” she chirped, letting the cheer land lightly, not overly sweet, just enough to feel believable. Enough to make him feel singled out.
Tim blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the warmth. His posture loosened almost immediately, shoulders dipping, eyes softening as he returned her smile.
“Morning,” he said, tentative but pleased.
Only after acknowledging him did she turn to Damian.
She let a beat pass. Just long enough.
Only then, casual, almost dismissive, “Good morning, Damian.”
His jaw twitched. A small movement, barely noticeable, but for Y/N it rang like a victory bell. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.
Gotcha.
Tim’s brows pinched slightly. “You’re in a good mood,” he observed, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the subtle note of curiosity beneath it. They’d spent days trying to crack her. Why wouldn’t a sudden shift unsettle him?
Y/N let her shoulders lift shyly, eyes dropping just enough to sell the softness. “Thank you for the day at the arcade,” she said, letting the sincerity bleed in around the edges. “I’m… really glad you came.”
The words floated in the space between the three of them.
She didn’t look at Damian, but she heard the quiet inhale he tried to hide. The hit was intentional, a clean strike to the solar plexus of his pride. Damian had followed along on that outing, too. But Y/N had directed her gratitude at Tim, let the moment center on him, let the warmth settle there.
She didn’t need to see Damian’s expression to know what it looked like, the faint tightening of his fingers at his sides, the quick flick of his eyes toward Tim, measuring what he received that Damian didn’t.
Tim, meanwhile, lit up beautifully.
The faintest flush crept along his cheekbones, his smile widening into something boyish and earnest. “Yeah? I’m glad you had fun,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh… we liked spending time with you.”
We, he said, too quickly, too defensively. As if Damian needed credit, he hadn’t been given.
Damian’s voice cut in a heartbeat later, sharp enough to betray how carefully he was trying to hold himself together. “Of course we came,” he said stiffly. “It was necessary.”
Tim shot him a warning glance, but Y/N kept her gaze on Tim, letting Damian’s words fall into the empty space she left for him.
She didn’t need to punish Damian outright.
She only needed to make him feel second.
For the first time since she arrived in this world, she wasn’t reacting to their game.
She was playing one of her own. And it just worked so well.
Y/N spent the rest of the day laying groundwork; nothing dramatic, nothing suspicious, just small, deliberate choices. A lighter smile for Tim. A slower response to Damian. A soft hum of agreement in one moment, a faintly distant look in another. Just enough difference for them to notice, but not enough for them to name.
This wasn’t the kind of game she could win by force.
She had to play it patiently. Controlled. Measured.
And why stop with Tim and Damian? Why not see how far the ripple could spread?
When she felt Dick return that late morning from patrol, it felt like a prickle under her skin, the same sense prey has when the predator prowls close, she paused at the top of the stairs. She had no proof he was involved in their tightening grip around her, but she wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the signs anymore.
Jason was the only one she almost trusted, but even that felt fleeting.
So when she saw Dick in the living room, leaning over his Blüdhaven case files, shoulders tense, jaw set like he’d been grinding his teeth all day, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
Perfect.
“Dick,” she called, stepping closer. Not as soft as she’d called Tim that morning, but warmer than she’d been with Damian. Purposefully in-between.
Dick’s eyes snapped up. For a split second, they softened, then hardened again as he flicked his attention back to the files, pretending they were more important than whatever she wanted.
He was still angry. Still sulking.
Good, she thought. Let him sit in it.
She came to a stop a few feet away, tilting her head like she was asking something minor, something innocent. “I was wondering… would you be able to take me to Aggie’s tomorrow? If you’re busy, I can always ask Ja—”
“Yes,” Dick cut in sharply. Too sharp. “I’ll take you.”
She kept her expression neutral, but inside, she laughed.
Stupid fuck.
He didn’t let her finish Jason’s name. Not even close. Like the idea of her asking someone else, him in particular, was intolerable.
Y/N gave him a weary, grateful smile, the kind that made her look tired but appreciative.
“Thanks, Dick. I really appreciate it.”
She didn’t wait for his response. She turned casually, almost gently, and walked out of the room before she had to breathe the same air as him a second longer.
The moment she reached the hallway, the smile dropped.
I can’t stand being around these assholes any longer, she thought, a pulse of irritation flickering deep under her skin. But I can fake it if I have to.
This was a test. A tug at the leash.
If she played it right, maybe they’d loosen their grip. Maybe they’d tighten it.
Either way.
Y/N intended to tug hard enough that somebody’s hand slipped.
The day had almost, keyword: almost, gone well.
Y/N had eaten lunch without anyone hovering. She’d even made it halfway through a show on her laptop before her mind began drifting into strategy again; Blake, Thomas, Tim, Damian, the careful game she’d begun weaving.
But then the headache started.
It wasn’t a normal headache. It split across the back of her skull like a fault line, sharp pressure blooming behind her eyes. The overhead lights seemed too bright, their glow stretching at the edges and distorting like heat ripples. The ambient hum of the manor grew louder, like footsteps echoing from far away, whispers brushing the edges of her hearing in a language made of breath and static.
She froze where she stood, fingers tightening around the arm of the couch.
This feeling again…Something is wrong.
And then she knew the reason before she even turned.
Damian.
He stood in the doorway of the living room, framed by shadow, posture straight as a blade, and eyes locked on her with unsettling precision. There was no movement behind him —no Tim, no Alfred, no Dick. Dick had gone downstairs earlier, humming like a benevolent older brother who thinks the world revolves around him again. Tim had vanished into his cases as usual. Alfred had retreated to the kitchen.
But Damian stayed and watched.
And waited.
Of course he did.
“You did all of this on purpose,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low, clipped, laced with something that vibrated beneath the surface. “Did you think I wouldn’t see through it?”
Y/N let herself blink. One calm blink.
And then, before responding, she permitted herself one single fantasy of grabbing him by the jaw and slamming his head into the mantle.
Just one.
It helped.
Then she stretched on her softest smile, easing the edges of her posture the way a seasoned liar did. “Damian,” she said gently, as if she were soothing a child on the verge of a tantrum, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you both I was happy we went out.”
“That is not what you meant.” No hesitation. No falter. His words struck like a blade with perfect aim.
But beneath the sharpness, she heard it —the part he didn’t want exposed.
The Jealousy, possessiveness, coiling tight and burning just underneath his skin.
Her stomach twisted with disgust.
Of course. He’s jealous. Over what? Over whom I smile at this morning? Over Tim getting a bit more of my attention?
This family is unhinged.
Damian stepped another few inches closer, and she felt the temperature shift as the air itself bent around his intensity. His jaw flexed, his fingers curled subtly, his posture vibrating with something fragile and dangerous.
“You think you can manipulate us,” he said quietly. “You think I cannot tell when you are lying?”
Y/N’s amusement almost cracked through her mask.
Oh, if only he knew.
She tilted her head slightly, letting her expression soften just enough to irritate him. “Damian, I was trying to be nice.”
“Exactly,” he snapped, stepping close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him. “You are never that nice.”
Ah. There it is.
The real crack in him, the real reason he confronted her alone.
She should’ve been afraid. He wanted her to be afraid.
But all she felt was exhaustion… and a dark, quiet thrill.
Look at you, she thought. You hate losing control. And you hate that I’m not playing your script.
Damian’s eyes searched her face with surgical precision, trying to find guilt, fear, or hesitation. Y/N offered him none. Her pulse stayed steady, her shoulders relaxed, her smile soft.
And his frustration grew palpable.
“You’re being strange,” he said. “Too strange. You expect me to believe your sudden change in attitude has no motivation behind it?”
Y/N offered a small shrug. “Maybe I just wanted to fix things between us, maybe I realized we could be family, maybe yesterday healed something.”
Damian could read between the lines.
The arcade healed something, just not between him and Y/N.
“Lies,” he breathed.
He was close now; too close for a normal brother, close enough that instinct told her to step back, but pride kept her perfectly still. His presence crawled along her skin like static. His breath brushed her cheek.
He wasn’t angry because she’d manipulated him.
He was angry because she’d done it well.
And because Tim had gotten the softer tone, the first smile of the morning, the invitation of trust before Damian could claim it for himself.
Y/N could see the jealousy and possessiveness more than ever now.
Deranged in a way she’d only ever seen hinted at.
Her thoughts sharpened.
If this is how he behaves when I smile at Tim… imagine how far they’d go if they thought I didn’t need them at all.
“Damian,” she murmured, tilting her head as if genuinely confused, “why does it matter who I say good morning to first?”
His eyes flashed, a brief spark of emotion he couldn’t mask quickly enough. Something ugly. Something almost hateful.
“You did it to provoke me,” he said. “Do not pretend otherwise.”
Y/N laughed, light and airy, and watched how the sound cut into him. “You’re reading too much into things.”
“I am not.”
“You always are.”
His nostrils flared, and for a moment, she swore the air in the room tightened around him like an aura made of barbed wire.
God, he’s terrifying, she thought. And God, I’m so done with this.
If she had been the real Wayne girl —the one who belonged in this house, who was raised with their chaos —maybe she’d know how to counter him perfectly. Maybe she’d thrive in this toxicity. Maybe she’d use their obsession as armor instead of a warning.
But she wasn’t that girl.
She didn’t need this family, or rather, care for them.
She had tried before, and they had dismantled her trust for ‘protection’.
And she was done pretending she had to play by their rules.
She let her smile sharpen just a hair—a warning hidden in sweetness.
“Damian,” she said softly, “if you have something to ask me, then ask. Otherwise?” Her eyes flickered toward the hallway. “I have better things to do than argue with you.”
He froze, just long enough to confirm she’d gained ground.
Y/N saw it all.
Anger flickered —panic. Confusion.
Something else he didn’t have a name for.
But Y/N knew the look.
She’d cornered him, and he didn’t know how to claw his way back.
Good, because the game was changing.
And she wasn’t playing defense anymore.
Y/N turned around, but didn’t get more than three steps before she heard Damian’s footsteps fall in behind her. His stride was unmistakable; sharp, purposeful, carrying the weight of someone who refused to be dismissed. She didn’t turn, didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her react. She kept walking, letting the quiet confidence in her posture deliver the message she didn’t bother saying aloud.
But Damian was Damian. He didn’t tolerate being walked away from.
“You’re not finished with me,” he said, his voice low and clipped as he closed the gap between them.
Y/N exhaled through her nose. She could feel his irritation like static crawling up the back of her neck, but she didn’t stop. The air around him felt hot and volatile —anger, jealousy, and something more tangled underneath.
“I said what I needed to say,” she replied, not bothering to look over her shoulder. “You didn’t like it. That’s not my problem.”
He surged one step closer, close enough that she could feel the tension radiating off him. “You think this is a game?” he demanded.
She almost laughed. If only he knew.
Before she could respond, a quiet presence slid into the other end of the hallway. Tim stepped forward with a mug in hand, his hair slightly mussed, shirt wrinkled like he’d been buried in work. He took in the scene instantly; the distance between Y/N and Damian, the heat in Damian’s eyes, the way Y/N was angled to leave.
His whole expression sharpened.
“Damian,” he said, voice low but firm. “Back up.”
“This doesn’t concern you,” Damian snapped.
Tim didn’t even blink. “Everything concerning her concerns me.”
That landed harder than either of them intended.
Damian’s jaw locked. “You’re interfering.”
“And you’re cornering her,” Tim said, stepping closer, closing ranks with calculated ease. “There’s a difference.”
Y/N caught the faintest tremor of anger ripple through Damian’s shoulders. She also caught the way Tim positioned himself; not blocking her escape, but aligning with it, giving her a silent out. It was subtle. Protective. Territorial in the way Tim thought he was hiding.
She used that.
“I was leaving,” she said softly, touching Tim’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We were done here.”
Damian’s eyes widened, a flash of disbelief, almost betrayal.
“No,” he said sharply, stepping forward again. “We’re not finished.”
But Tim was already moving, slotting himself neatly between them with a precision that only came from training and instinct.
“Do you want company?” Tim asked Y/N quietly. “I can walk with you.”
Damian stared at them both as though the world had tilted without warning.
Y/N let her gaze warm toward Tim, deliberately ignoring the tension crackling behind her. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I’d like that.”
Damian went still.
Not the kind of stillness that meant he was thinking, this was the stillness of someone absorbing a blow he didn’t see coming. A boy who had calculated a hundred outcomes and somehow missed the one where she chose someone else.
“You’re choosing him?” Damian asked, incredulous, voice dipping low with an emotion that was far too raw for someone as guarded as he was.
She didn’t look at him.
Tim straightened ever so slightly, a subtle victory settling in his posture. His fingers brushed hers briefly; light, almost accidental, but deliberate in all the ways that mattered.
“Let’s go,” Y/N said, stepping past Damian without hesitation.
The hallway echoed with the soft brush of her footsteps, and Tim was beside her. They walked close —close enough for the message to be unmistakable.
Behind them, Damian didn’t move at first.
Y/N didn’t turn back, but she could feel him; his breathing too sharp, his silence too thick, the weight of his stare burning between her shoulder blades. He stood frozen in the hallway, fists curled tight, chest rising and falling like he was holding back the urge to break the nearest wall.
She knew he was replaying the moment already.
Knew he was rewinding every second, every look, every word, trying to identify the failure point.
Where did he lose her? When did Tim get ahead? Why didn’t she look back?
The silence behind them vibrated with frustration, jealousy, and disbelief.
She hid her smirk behind a slow breath as she and Tim disappeared around the corner, leaving Damian alone in the hallway with nothing but the echo of the door shutting behind them.
Checkmate wasn’t loud.
It was quiet. Precise. Surgical.
And she could practically feel the moment Damian realized she had just moved a piece neither of them saw coming.
As Tim and Y/N walked, he kept glancing at her at intervals, in small, measured intervals. Calculated. Observant. Gentle on the surface but sharpened underneath.
“You okay?” he finally asked, tone warm and patient, even though his gaze flicked across her face like he was mapping it. “You got quiet.”
She straightened her shoulders, adopting an easy shrug. “Just tired.”
“Tired like… yesterday tired?” he pressed, voice pitched just right to sound casual but clearly seeking something more.
“No,” she answered, letting a little laugh slip through. “Arcade tired.”
He smiled —soft, almost affectionate —but there was something else in it, something that watched her the way a strategist watched a shifting board.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said, stepping a little closer. Not enough to crowd. Just enough to make it intimate. “If something’s on your mind, you can tell me. You know you can trust me, right?”
He said it like a reassurance. He meant it like a request.
She heard it like a test.
And something inside her clicked.
He wanted closeness, wanted her to hinge on him again.
He wanted to pry, to pull, to mold.
So she let her gaze drift; not at him, but past him, as though something had snagged her attention. Her expression softened into something thoughtful, distant… unguarded.
“Yeah… I guess,” she murmured, letting the words fall with careful, feigned carelessness. “It’s just… Damian’s been acting weird lately. Really weird.”
Tim’s head snapped toward her faster than he probably meant to.
It was a tiny reaction, barely there, but Y/N caught it immediately.
After all, she was getting good at reading people. She had Thomas to thank for that.
And oh.
There it was.
He latched onto it like a hook sinking into skin.
“What do you mean… weird?” Tim asked, too quickly to mask. His tone softened a breath later, like he realized the slip. “I mean… You know he’s intense. Maybe you misread something?”
She offered a gentle, uncertain shrug, eyes still distant. “Maybe. I don’t know… he’s just… off.”
Tim absorbed that in silence.
She watched the muscle in his jaw tick, the way his eyes sharpened.
The way his posture shifted by a fraction, as if Damian had become a variable in his equation, he didn’t like losing control of.
She hid her grin behind a slow exhale that she pretended was a sigh.
God, she thought they’d be smarter at this game.
Emotion really was one hell of an inhibitor.
Tim tried to pull his tone back to calm neutrality. “If he’s making you uncomfortable—”
“Just tired,” she interrupted softly, cutting him off with the faintest hint of vulnerability. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
But she saw it. The calculation begins to churn, a subtle shift as he categorized Damian not as an ally but as a potential obstacle.
Beautiful.
She nearly laughed.
If manipulating the Batboys was this easy…
A wild, reckless thought slipped into her skull like a spark lighting dry tinder.
Could this work with Thomas Vale, too?
Could she study him, pry at the right seams, tug at his emotional edges, and make him unravel?
Could she beat him?
Her pulse quickened; not with fear, but with something startlingly electric.
Power.
Real, precise, chosen power.
Tim slowed his steps slightly, watching her in a way that made it clear he was trying to read her next move. Trying to position himself at her side. Trying to win the game, he didn’t know he’d already lost.
Y/N let her shoulders relax, leaning into the role of tired, trusting, unsure. “Thanks for… you know. Asking.”
Tim’s smile returned —soft, warm —completely unaware that he was stepping exactly where she wanted him.
“Always,” he murmured.
She nodded.
And behind her neutral expression, behind her controlled breath, behind her meek little sigh…
She grinned.
Finally upstairs, Y/N closed her door behind her with a soft click, letting her back rest against the wood as the quiet of her room pressed in around her. She listened for footsteps, Tim’s measured tread, Damian’s sharp and purposeful, but the hallway stayed empty.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Blake: Hey, when are you making up our weekend date?
Her heart leapt in a way that startled her.
Not the calm like before, this was different.
Just a sudden spike of something electric; anticipation, adrenaline, something that woke her veins in a way she hadn’t felt since coming to this world. It wasn’t rational, but the thought of him —his too-bright smile, the darkness she caught under it, the way he’d said her name like he already owned it —sent a shiver racing across her skin.
Her pulse kicked hard.
She didn’t answer immediately.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the message, trying to decide if the thrill she felt was excitement or dread. It was hard to separate them now. Blake’s presence had lodged somewhere under her ribs, like a hook waiting to be pulled.
She typed nothing.
Just let the message sit in her palm, glowing.
The instant Y/N disappeared around the corner with Tim at her side, the hallway seemed to hollow out around Damian; he had to leave that place, and opted for the Batcave.
It didn’t help.
Silence pooled in the long stretch of cave, thick and stagnant, as if the air itself recognized what he refused to admit. His breath hitched once —just once —as he stared at the spot where she had been standing only moments ago, her voice still lingering in his ears. Her smile echoed. Her dismissal of him rang louder than footsteps.
He told himself he didn’t care, that her words meant nothing, that her touches were nothing.
He told himself she was only confused, misled, manipulated by something she didn’t understand.
But the lie cracked before it even finished forming.
The cave’s walls tightened around him, not literally, but perceptibly, like a pressure change before a storm. Shadows warped along the floor, stretching toward him with slow, sinuous curves that wavered at the edges of vision. He clenched his fists, but it didn’t ground him; if anything, it made the sensation worse.
A low, formless whisper slid along the back of his mind, nothing he could truly hear, nothing he could fight. Not fear. Not pain. Something colder.
You are losing her.
His breath stuttered.
He forced it steadily.
He is taking her from you.
His jaw locked hard enough that his teeth creaked.
Weak.
The word rippled through him like a blade drawn across glass. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, only stood there with perfect stillness, the way he had been taught in the League. But the stillness didn’t save him. It only made the pressure wrap tighter around his throat, heavy and suffocating, as though the hallway itself wished to crush him.
He inhaled sharply. Too sharply.
It wasn’t fear. Damian did not fear. He knew that.
He repeated it like a mantra.
But the thing clawing inside him didn’t care what he knew.
He walked with purpose until he was in the training room, then immediately pressed his back against the wall, fingers digging into the fabric at his sides, nails cutting into his skin. His pulse pounded rabbit-fast beneath the thin layer of control he tried desperately to keep intact. Somewhere deep in his memory, a buried reflex rose like a ghost:
When your mind fractures, count. When the room shrinks, breathe.
A lesson from years ago. From a mentor, he sometimes forgot how much he needed.
He closed his eyes and drew a careful breath.
Four seconds in.
Seven seconds hold.
Eight seconds out.
It didn’t work the first time. Or the second.
But the third eased the pressure. The fourth brought clarity.
The whispers curled away from the edges of his mind like smoke retreating from light, and the shadows in the hallway stilled once more. He slowly lifted his head, eyes sharp, expression neutral, but beneath it the tremor still ran through him, just quiet enough for him to pretend he didn’t feel it.
He didn’t realize Bruce was watching from the entrance of the training room until he finally pushed himself off the wall.
Bruce didn’t know what he expected when the elevator lowered him into the cave; quiet analysis, perhaps, or Damian sharpening the edge of a blade to burn off frustration. But when he saw the boy, he stopped mid-step.
Damian sat cross-legged on a training mat, back straight, eyes shut tight. His hands rested on his knees. His breathing was slow, unnatural in its deliberate control.
Bruce knew that posture. He knew those breaths.
He knew that technique.
A breathing drill designed not for combat, but for panic. Something Damian had abandoned years ago.
Bruce approached carefully, silently, studying him in the flickering cave light. Damian’s composure was flawless at a glance, but Bruce saw the tension in the shoulders, the faint tremor in the fingers, the way his lashes fluttered as though fighting off something crawling beneath his skin.
When Damian finally opened his eyes, they were too bright—too alive, too raw—a version of him Bruce had not seen since he was nine.
Bruce didn’t waste time.
“What happened?” His voice echoed, deep and steady, carrying the weight of authority he rarely needed to use anymore. “And don’t tell me nothing.”
Damian’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath. “I am fine.”
“You are doing breathing exercises.” Bruce stepped closer, folding his arms. “You haven’t needed those in years.”
Damian’s throat tightened. A flicker of something crossed his expression; anger, shame, something he refused to give a name.
“This started when you started interacting with her,” Bruce continued, not pushing, simply stating the truth he’d observed. “Your reaction to her is not normal.”
Damian’s breath hitched despite his efforts to hide it.
“It is not what you think,” he said finally.
Bruce waited.
Damian looked away toward the distant glow of the computer screens, jaw clenched in violent restraint.
“It is not what she does,” he murmured, the words low and steady but trembling at the edges. “It is what I failed to do.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
Damian straightened with rigid resolve, fingers curling into tight fists.
“I will fix it,” he said.
Bruce exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment settling deep in his chest.
This was no longer simple jealousy or sibling rivalry.
No longer childish possessiveness. No, they were too old, too trained for that.
Something darker was fraying Damian’s edges, pushing into the cracks he thought he’d sealed years ago.
And for the first time, Bruce understood:
This was not going away on its own.
The message sat on her screen like a glowing ember, small but radiating enough heat to warm the room around her.
Y/N read it over and over again.
Blake: Hey, when are you making up our weekend date?
The word “date” snagged on something deep inside her, sharp enough to make her pulse spike.
Not fear, this wasn’t the blankness she felt around him in person, nor the soft, unnatural calm that had wrapped around her during the drive. This was something else entirely, something too alive for comfort. A stirring under her skin that made her breath catch and her fingers tighten around the phone.
She should ignore it or leave him on read, especially after last time.
She should pretend Tim and Damian —their careful steps, their questions, their eyes —were still suffocating the house around her.
But Blake’s name glowed like a lifeline.
A promising danger.
She swallowed and typed back before she let rationality step in.
Y/N: Soon. I promise. Today was… a lot. But I didn’t forget.
She hesitated.
Her thumb hovered. Her heart thumped harder.
She could almost feel him reading it.
She added:
Y/N: Did you get home okay from that day?
It was casual. Innocent. The kind of question she asked to pretend she wasn’t thinking of the way his eyes changed in the car, or how easily he had sliced through traffic like it was silk, or how the calm had drained from her body the instant he said goodnight.
Blake responded almost immediately.
Blake: I did. I thought about you the whole drive. It was… distracting lol.
Her breath stilled.
Blake: Missed our fun, already, princess.
Her stomach dropped. She had to take a breath, turn sideways.
And scream into her pillow.
“Princess?” Y/N repeats incredulously to no one, as the word burned her from the thought.
Oh my god, he called me princess. What am I, a dog in heat? Control yourself.
But there it was again.
The implication that he could switch something on inside her. The thing she feared and craved in equal measure. Her throat tightened around a dozen unspoken questions:
What are you? Why do I feel different around you? What did you do to me?
She didn’t ask.
Instead, she typed slowly, deliberately:
Y/N: You’re intense, Blake.
He replied within seconds.
Blake: Only when someone’s worth the intensity.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
Her hands trembled because his words cut close enough to feel like a claim, and because she knew what men who claimed things were capable of in Gotham.
She set the phone down, pressed her fingers to her temples, and tried to breathe.
She didn’t hear Bruce approach until the door creaked. Too in her head about Blake’s message.
She straightened instinctively. Reflex. Respect. A sliver of intimidation was humming under her skin.
He shut the door behind him with a soft click.
“Y/N.”
Just her name. No warmth. No accusation. But there was a weight in it, an assessment, a calculation. The kind he usually reserved for crime scenes and suspects who didn’t yet know they were suspects.
She forced a breath. “Bruce.”
He didn’t step closer at first. He simply looked at her. Really looked at her. A thing he had not once done in all the years she’d lived under his roof. His eyes skimmed her face, the tension in her shoulders, the faint tremor she hadn’t managed to erase.
In that heavy silence, she felt something strange pass through him—brief, like static brushing skin, barely a flicker of interest —but she saw it.
“So,” he said finally, “you’ve lived here your whole life.”
Her throat tightened. “Yes.”
“You grew up in these halls,” he continued, pacing a slow, measured line across the room, “ate in this kitchen. Slept beneath this roof.”
She nodded silently.
“And not once,” he said, turning to her with razor precision, “did any of them bother acknowledging you.”
Y/N blinked. She didn’t expect him to start there.
Bruce clasped his hands behind his back. “Tim ignored you. Damian avoided you. Dick forgot you existed. Jason didn’t even realize you lived here.” His jaw tightened. “And I… overlooked you.”
Overlooked was such a sanitary word that it almost burned.
“But now,” he continued, voice lowering, “something has changed. Drastically. Suddenly, my sons are… unraveled.”
Her heart stuttered, but she kept her expression neutral.
Bruce stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the weight of his scrutiny like a gloved hand pressing against her sternum.
“When did it start?”
“What?”
He didn’t blink. “When did they start acting like this around you? I want dates. Patterns. Triggers.”
Triggers.
She almost laughed as if this house wasn’t one massive nest of triggers.
But she kept her voice calm. “I don’t know. They just… started talking to me. Being around me. Following me. Asking questions.”
“And that doesn’t strike you as strange?” he asked quietly.
“It does,” she said. “Everything about it is strange.”
He watched her again, that same flicker under the surface; curiosity, faint but unmistakable, like a spark buried deep under ash. He didn’t understand her. He didn’t understand the influence she seemed to have on his sons. Maybe he resented it. Maybe it intrigued him. He wouldn’t let either emotion reach the surface, but she saw the shadow of both.
Then his gaze sharpened further.
“Stephanie Brown was shot because Tim was distracted,” he said evenly. “He was thinking about you.”
Y/N froze.
There it was, the accusation she knew he carried, spoken aloud without hesitation.
Her voice came out cold. “If I were the one who got shot instead… Because Tim was thinking about Stephanie —would you be saying the same thing?”
Bruce’s jaw ticked.
She stepped closer. “Would you blame her then? Or would you say it was a hazard of the job?” She held his stare. “I didn’t ask Tim to care. I didn’t even know he did.”
Silence. Heavy. Thick.
For a long moment, Bruce said nothing, but something tightened behind his eyes.
Finally, he exhaled. Just once. A small, sharp sound of concession he would never name.
His tone shifted slightly, not gentler, but less rigid. “Tell me about the stalker.”
Of course. That was where this was heading.
Whatever Tim and Damian said to Bruce, he needed to know if her story aligned with Tim’s and Damian’s. If her edges matched theirs. If she lied, if they lied, if someone in this house was moving behind his back.
So she said what she thought was the best possible choice she was given at the moment.
“It’s handled.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger. It was a calculation again, cold and methodical. He was slotting her answer against everything he had been told. Checking for discrepancies. Testing for weaknesses.
“And Tim and Damian?” he asked after a long moment. “They handled it?”
She didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
She hopes she was right.
He held her stare for three beats —one, two, three —then nodded once and stepped back toward the door.
It should have felt like relief.
It didn’t.
He paused at the threshold.
“This family,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “is not functioning the way it should.”
She felt a prickle of dread crawl up her spine.
Tell me about it, Bruce.
Bruce turned his head enough for her to see the gleam in his eye; sharp, dangerous, hungry for answers.
“I don’t like secrets in my house, Y/N.”
Then he walked out and closed the door behind him.
She stood frozen for a long moment after, pulse hammering.
Bruce Wayne didn’t care about her, not as a daughter, not as a person, not like the others did. But something about her, something about this shift in his sons, something about what she had become in their orbit… it pulled at him.
A curiosity he didn’t want.
A threat he didn’t understand.
A mystery he would not let go of.
And Bruce Wayne hated —truly hated —not knowing.
Chapter 18: Bad Timing, I'll Explain Later
Chapter Text
Y/N got dressed with a restless focus she hadn’t felt in days. She pulled on a sweater, changed it, smoothed her hair, tied it up, then let it fall again. Nothing felt right. It wasn’t nerves about Aggie—Aggie was the one steady thing in her strange life—but because Dick was driving her there.
Dick Grayson, who had been distant for weeks. Dick, who came and went in shadows lately. Dick, whose silence felt sharper than Damian’s temper.
She needed him out of the way if she was going to think clearly today. She wanted space, freedom, and the familiar unpredictability of Aggie’s parlor. But when she glanced at her phone, she almost choked.
Blake: Morning! Aunt Aggs said you're coming by. I’ll be around.
A chill ran through her.
Shit. Blake.
She’d forgotten he was staying there. Forgotten his excitement and forgotten his habit of appearing exactly where she didn’t want him to be.
The last thing she wanted was for Dick to run into Blake. Dick noticed everything when he paid attention.
"Perfect," she muttered, shoving her phone into her bag. "Just perfect."
She went downstairs, the same tight knot twisting in her stomach.
Dick waited by the door, jacket zipped and keys in hand. He looked relaxed in that way that made it hard to tell if he was bored, annoyed, or just thinking. He nodded at her as she walked up.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her bag. “Thanks for taking me.”
He held the door open and followed her to the car without saying anything else. The silence wasn’t exactly tense; it felt like holding a breath, stretched thin but not breaking. Dick wasn’t angry, but his presence felt heavy. He was thinking about something.
That alone made her uneasy.
She got into the passenger seat, buckled up, and watched the manor disappear in the rearview mirror. They didn’t speak for a few blocks. The city passed by in gray, the early sunlight blurred by thin clouds.
Dick tapped the steering wheel with one finger, steady and absent-minded, not quite a fidget. Y/N tried not to watch him.
Finally, he broke the quiet.
“You’re in a good mood today.”
He didn’t sound accusing, but the hint of suspicion in his voice made her sit up straighter.
She forced a small smile. “Aggie’s fun to be around. I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
“Hm.”
That was it. A quiet, unreadable sound. Dick Grayson was good at saying a lot with just one word. One "hm" could mean anything—agreement, doubt, suspicion. She couldn’t tell which one this was.
She took a slow breath and decided to try her luck.
“I was thinking… You don’t have to stay. I can text you when I’m done. If you’re busy, or if you want to patrol early or, whatever it is you need to do.”
He didn’t look at her, but his jaw tightened a little.
“You want me to leave you there?” he asked, voice still calm.
“It’s just more convenient,” she said lightly. “Aggie loves talking. I don’t want you to have to sit through that.”
He made a small sound she couldn’t read; was it approval, disapproval, or doubt?
“She’s good company for me,” Y/N added, leaning into the casual tone. “It’s easy being around her.”
Dick didn’t miss the implication.
He didn’t comment on it, either.
The next few minutes were quiet, music playing softly and city traffic filling the silence. Y/N stared out the window, going over how she’d handle Dick dropping her off, what excuse she’d use, and how to make sure he left without coming back out of suspicion.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. Twice.
She didn’t need to check to know it was Blake. He always had a knack for showing up right when she wanted him to stay away.
Her pulse jumped, her chest tightening with a strange flutter. This wasn't just the odd calm he brought in person; it felt sharper and more electric, a warning. It puzzled her, leaving a lingering question: was Blake's presence triggering something magical or psychological?
Perhaps it was both, a mix of external influence and internal vulnerability. It was as if his very existence was interwoven with something beyond the ordinary, something that coaxed her instincts into confusion.
Dick's eyes flicked toward her at the reaction, though she tried to hide it.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just… Aggie. Letting me know she’s home.”
Another half-truth. Another careful piece in her growing web of lies.
Dick nodded, but the crease in his brow stayed. He turned onto the street toward Aggie’s hotel and slowed at a stoplight.
"You’ve been spending a lot of time there," he said quietly. "With everything happening here, you’re choosing to be away a lot."
She swallowed.
He wasn’t wrong.
But she wasn’t about to admit why.
"I need a break sometimes," she said quietly. "You guys can be a lot."
Dick let out a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“That’s fair,” he said.
The light turned green. He drove on, and she watched the familiar purple neon sign of Aggie’s hotel get closer.
Her stomach turned.
Blake was inside.
Aggie was inside.
Dick was about to walk her to the door, and she didn’t know what would happen next.
Her thoughts ricocheted between fear and caution, uncertainty gripping her like a vice every time she considered the possibilities.
What would Blake do if he saw her with Dick? What subtle clues might Dick pick up on, his watchful eyes catching something she thought she’d hidden away?
And Aggie, what truths might spill from her lips, truths that Y/N wasn’t ready to confront or reveal?
The risks piled up, ceaselessly gnawing at her comfort. If Dick learned the depth of her connection with Blake, would he see her as dishonest, or worse, a betrayer of trust? The thought of her world crumbling because of one unguarded moment sent a chill through her.
And emotionally, everything wavered on a fragile line. The familiar safety of Aggie’s parlor might shatter if lies caught up to her, erasing the only sanctuary she knew. Her heart hammered with each step closer to the door, reminding her that today might irrevocably change everything.
But she was sure of one thing: today was going to be risky, maybe not in a physical way, but emotionally and mentally. And strategically.
She let out a slow breath, bracing herself as the car stopped in front of the hotel. It was time to make her next move.
Dick walked Y/N up the narrow path to Aggie's door, his steps slower than necessary, as if he were testing how much time he could steal before someone noticed. The hotel's facade glowed warmly against the dim afternoon, all amber light and inviting windows, a place that looked harmless enough if you didn't linger on it too long. He lingered anyway.
Aggie opened the door before Y/N could knock, her smile bright and immediate, all practiced warmth.
“There you are, darling,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Dick before returning to Y/N as if he were only a decorative detail. The door opened just wide enough to let Y/N step forward.
Dick’s attention snagged on the space behind Aggie.
He didn’t see anyone. But he heard him.
A man’s voice drifted from somewhere deeper inside the hotel, casual and familiar, pitched just loud enough to carry.
“Y/N?”
It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t sharp. It was easy, like someone calling to a person they expected to answer.
Dick’s spine went rigid.
Aggie shifted instantly, smoothly, her body angling to fill the doorway as though by instinct. The movement was subtle, but deliberate, cutting off Dick’s line of sight entirely. “Inside,” she murmured to Y/N, still smiling, still pleasant, as if nothing at all were amiss.
Y/N felt Dick stiffen beside her. She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then stepped forward anyway, glancing back at him with a soft, almost apologetic expression.
“You don’t have to wait,” she said gently. “I’ll be fine.”
Dick opened his mouth. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to say. That he could come in. That he could wait nearby. That he didn’t like the sound of that voice or the way Aggie had blocked the door like a shield.
Aggie beat him to it.
“Oh, go on home,” she said kindly, but there was steel under it now. “No need to hover. I promise, I’ll take very good care of her.”
Y/N nodded in agreement, her tone light, disarming. “Really. You don’t have to stay.”
The words weren’t unkind, but they landed hard all the same.
Dick searched her face, looking for something he could latch onto: hesitation, fear, a plea she didn’t know how to voice. He found none of it. If anything, she looked resolute. Calm in a way that unsettled him more than panic ever would.
“…Okay,” he said finally, the word tasting wrong in his mouth. “Just… call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” she promised.
Aggie closed the door with a gentle finality that felt anything but gentle.
Dick stood there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the wood grain as if it might offer answers. Then he turned and walked back to his car, the sound of that voice replaying in his head with every step.
By the time he was driving away, unease had settled deep in his chest. It had been a man’s voice. That much he was sure of. Too relaxed to be staff. Too familiar to be a stranger. Was it Aggie’s nephew, the one he overheard Alfred mentioning?
If so, why hadn’t she told him outright?
Why did it feel like she was keeping something just out of reach, slipping sideways whenever he tried to close the distance?
Why didn’t she need him the way everyone else seemed to?
The questions followed him all the way down the street, looping and tightening until he found himself gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary, jaw clenched, thoughts turning dark and circular.
Inside the hotel, the moment the door clicked shut, Aggie’s smile vanished.
She turned sharply, fixing Blake with a look that could have cut glass. “I told you not to be seen,” she snapped under her breath. “Not heard. Not felt. Nothing.”
Blake stood a few steps back from the entryway, hands lifted in mock surrender, the easy grin still on his face but dulled at the edges. “I didn’t step forward,” he said mildly. “I followed your rules.”
“You spoke,” Aggie hissed.
His eyes flicked past her, toward Y/N, curiosity glinting there. “I said her name.”
Aggie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re pushing.”
Y/N slipped past them into the parlor, her heart still beating a little too fast, her thoughts tangled with Dick’s expression at the door and the sound of Blake’s voice carrying through the space. The room greeted her with its familiar warmth: low light, heavy curtains, the faint scent of incense clinging to the air.
As she crossed the threshold, the mirror on the far wall rippled.
Just once.
The surface warped as though disturbed by a breath she couldn’t see, the reflection bending and shivering before smoothing back into perfect stillness.
Y/N stopped short, her pulse jumping.
Blake noticed. His grin softened, eyes sharpening as he watched her reaction.
Aggie followed her gaze, then quickly turned away, clapping her hands once as if to dispel the moment. “Tea,” she announced too brightly. “We’ll all feel better after tea.”
Y/N didn’t look away from the mirror right away.
Something had shifted.
And whatever it was, it was already inside the room with her.
Y/N settles into Aggie’s parlor the way she always does, shoes kicked off, shoulders loosening almost against her will as the familiar scent of herbs, old books, and something faintly sweet curls around her. The room hums with quiet life —lamplight soft against the walls, the kettle murmuring to itself —and for a moment, it feels like stepping into a pocket outside of time.
Blake doesn’t sit right away. He lingers instead, orbiting the room with restless energy, leaning against doorframes, peering at knick-knacks like they’re museum artifacts. Every so often, he injects himself into the conversation with a dry comment or an exaggerated sigh.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding her,” he says, glancing between Aggie and Y/N. “No wonder she’s so calm. This place smells like witchcraft and chamomile.”
Aggie doesn’t even look at him. She stirs her tea with deliberate slowness, lips curling. “If I were practicing witchcraft, dear, you’d already be a frog.”
Blake grins, unbothered. “Worth it. Frogs have great legs.”
Y/N snorts before she can stop herself, covering her mouth with her hand. The sound surprises her —not because it’s funny, but because it comes so easily. She feels light. Unanchored. The tension she carried all the way here has slipped off her like a coat she didn’t realize she was wearing.
And yet.
There’s something else under it.
Not peace, exactly. Not relief. Something quieter. Heavier. Like being gently tugged in two directions at once while feeling nothing at all.
Aggie settles into the chair across from her, eyes warm, attentive, the way they always are when Y/N starts talking. Blake finally drops onto the arm of the couch beside her, close enough that his knee brushes hers, close enough that she registers his presence without effort.
Too easily.
As they talk about nothing important, about everything mundane, Y/N feels that familiar calm bloom again, spreading from her chest outward. Her thoughts slow. The sharp edges of her worry dull. The house, the boys, Bruce’s stare, Dick’s unsettled silence, it all fades into background noise.
But beneath it, there’s a pull.
A hollow tug, almost like gravity misbehaving.
She glances at Blake, just briefly. He’s watching Aggie now, chin propped on his hand, expression easy, amused, but his eyes are sharp in a way she can’t quite place. Not predatory. Not kind either. Just… focused.
Is it him?
The thought flickers, quick and instinctive. She’s felt this before, after all. The strange calm. The way her body reacts before her mind can catch up. Her heartbeat doesn’t slow around Blake; it speeds up, light and skittering, like it’s anticipating something and wanting something.
But the calm itself doesn’t deepen when he speaks. It doesn’t anchor there.
Her gaze drifts back to Aggie instead. A memory surfaces —her first visit to Aggie's parlor. She recalls the soothing way Aggie's voice had woven around her, the gentle pressure of a question that had unfurled an unexpected answer from her lips. Aggie is smiling softly, nodding as Y/N talks, fingers wrapped around her mug like she’s warming her hands at a fire only she can see. There is a steadiness to her presence, something grounding and ancient, something Y/N has leaned into from the moment they met.
Had it always been like this?
Y/N’s chest tightens slightly as the thought forms more clearly.
When did this start?
Not just today. Not just recently. All along, every visit, every conversation, every moment spent in this room. The way Aggie’s voice smooths her thoughts. The way decisions feel easier here. The way questions soften before they can hurt.
Why didn’t she notice?
She feels foolish for missing it, for assuming the calm was simply safety, simply kindness. Maybe it was. Maybe it still is. But the realization settles into her bones with a quiet weight.
Two forces are tugging at her now.
One sharp and bright, pulling her forward with curiosity and adrenaline.
The other slow and steady, pulling her inward, deeper, asking her to stay.
Blake nudges her knee lightly. “You just went somewhere,” he says, voice playful but eyes intent. “Earth to Y/N.”
She blinks, refocusing, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
Aggie watches her over the rim of her cup, eyes unreadable for the first time since Y/N arrived. Not cold. Not warm. Just knowing.
“Well,” Aggie says lightly, setting the mug down, “thinking can be dangerous in the wrong company.”
Blake laughs. “Hey, I resent that.”
Aggie finally looks at him. “You should.”
Y/N feels the tug again, both of them this time, and for the first time, the calm doesn’t feel entirely like a gift.
It feels like a choice she didn’t know she was making.
And she isn’t sure who’s been guiding her hand.
Aggie carries on as though the air in the parlor hasn’t subtly shifted, as though she hasn’t just brushed against something she shouldn’t have. She moves with her usual unhurried confidence, kettle humming, cups arranged just so, her voice filling the space in a way that usually grounds Y/N without effort. The hotel room smells like old books and herbs, warmth layered over age, comfort built carefully over time.
“You always think better when you’re moving,” Aggie says casually, her back turned as she spoons grounds into the filter. “Fresh air helps. It always has.”
Y/N pauses near the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame.
Always has.
The phrase lands wrong. Not sharp enough to draw blood, just the faint pressure of a bruise she hadn’t known was there. Her gaze drifts to the mirror near the door. For a second, she expects it to ripple, to betray something lurking beneath the surface. It stays smooth, reflecting Aggie’s shape as she hums, unbothered.
“Always has… since when?” Y/N asks, keeping her voice even.
Aggie glances back over her shoulder, and for a fraction of a moment her eyes sharpen, measuring Y/N in a way that feels older than this conversation, older than the hotel itself. Then the look softens into warmth, the moment folding neatly back into itself.
“Since before you let that house hollow you out,” Aggie replies lightly. “Now, coffee. You need a break. Both of you.”
Blake, lounging against the couch with the easy confidence of someone who knows he belongs wherever he plants himself, perks up immediately. “Ah,” he says, grin widening. “An officially sanctioned escape.”
“A gopher run,” Aggie corrects, pointing her spoon at him. “You’re handsome, they’ll give you a good discount. Y/N, bring me back a latte. Extra foam.”
Blake laughs, tipping his head back. “She’s using us.”
Aggie doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, she steps closer to Y/N and briefly touches her wrist, the contact light but deliberate. “Go,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel better once you’re out.”
Y/N nods, even though she doesn’t fully understand why she’s agreeing so easily. Maybe it’s the promise of space away from the Manor, away from the constant pressure of eyes and expectations. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s that quiet instinct she’s learned to listen to lately, the one that whispers when something is already decided.
The moment they step outside, the city greets them with cool air and distant traffic, Gotham breathing around them in its usual restless rhythm. And just like that, the calm descends.
It isn’t gradual. It doesn’t ease in politely.
It settles over Y/N all at once, smoothing the sharp edges of her thoughts, pressing down until everything inside her slows. Her shoulders drop. The vigilance she carries loosens its grip. She exhales, only now realizing she’s been holding her breath.
Blake walks beside her, close but not crowding, hands tucked into his pockets. He doesn’t look at her right away. He just matches her pace, steps syncing effortlessly with hers.
“You good?” he asks, tone casual, almost careless.
“Yeah,” Y/N answers, and the word feels true in a way that unsettles her.
They approach an intersection, the light shifting from green to yellow as cars roll through. Y/N registers the crosswalk signal only distantly, as if it’s happening somewhere far away. Blake steps forward.
It’s subtle enough she could excuse it later. A half-step too far. A moment of inattention. Like he just misjudged the curb.
She follows him without thinking.
A horn blares, loud and sudden, snapping through the air. Tires squeal as a car brakes hard, the driver shouting something sharp and angry out the window. Y/N hears it all, registers it, but her body doesn’t react.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t freeze.
She walks.
They cross the street like nothing’s wrong, like danger hasn’t brushed close enough to taste. Her heart doesn’t race. Her breath stays even. The calm holds her steady, wrapping her instincts in something soft and unyielding.
They reach the opposite curb, and only then does Y/N stop.
Blake turns to face her, concern flickering across his expression just enough to seem convincing. “You alright?” he asks. “Sorry about that. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
Y/N looks at him, really looks, and her pulse stutters now that it’s safe. His smile is still there, warm and boyish, but his eyes are different. Focused. Still. Watching her, not the street.
“I should’ve been scared,” she says quietly, more to herself than to him.
Blake tilts his head. “Most people would’ve been.”
“I didn’t feel anything,” Y/N whispers.
The realization sinks slowly, heavy and cold. This isn’t Aggie’s calm, the familiar steadiness that feels like being wrapped in a well-worn blanket. This is something else entirely. Something precise. Something that responded to him beyond mere presence. She wonders if he knows, if that ever-present warmth in his gaze is acknowledgment or simple charm. Blake’s smile softens. "You’re fine," he says gently. "Nothing happened."
That’s what frightens her.
Because something did.
She follows him into the coffee shop on legs that feel slightly disconnected from her thoughts, the calm still coiled tight around her ribs. The smell of espresso and sugar rushes to meet them, grounding and surreal all at once. As they wait in line, Y/N glances at him again, her heart beating faster now, finally catching up.
The calm hasn’t faded.
It adjusted.
And for the first time, Y/N understands that what just happened wasn’t a mistake. It was a test, quietly administered.
And she passed without even realizing she’d been examined.
Y/N doesn’t resist the calm at first.
It happens almost by accident—a reflexive tightening of her shoulders as she walks beside Blake, coffee warming her palms. She thinks of the crosswalk, the horn, the way the car should have frightened her. She tries to summon the feeling, to drag the memory back and make it hurt the way it should.
Nothing happens.
So she pushes harder.
She deliberately slows her steps, digs her nails into her palm, tells herself that something is wrong, that she should be afraid, that this is not safety but something masquerading as it. For a fleeting second, she feels the faintest flicker of resistance, like the first tug of a current against her legs.
And then the calm tightens.
It doesn’t fight her. Doesn’t push back. It just closes in, smooth and suffocating, wrapping around her thoughts until the panic dissolves before it can form. The sharp edges blur. Her breath evens out against her will. The instinct to flee goes quiet, like someone reached inside her and turned the volume down.
Y/N stumbles, not physically, but mentally, and Blake’s hand comes up just long enough to steady her elbow.
“You okay?” he asks, still casual, still easy.
She nods. It’s easier than arguing with her own body.
Later, much later, she will replay the crossing in her mind like a broken reel of film. She will slow it down, examine each frame, searching for the exact moment her instincts went silent. Was it when Blake stepped forward? When she followed him without question? Or had it started even earlier, when she’d first stepped out of Aggie’s hotel and felt that soft, false peace settle over her shoulders?
She can’t find the answer. That terrifies her more than the near-miss itself.
By the time Dick pulls up to collect her, Y/N is quiet in a way that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with being trapped inside her own head. She slides into the passenger seat, buckles automatically, and stares out the window as Gotham blurs past.
“So,” Dick says after a few minutes, trying for light, “how was your day?”
“It was… fine,” Y/N replies, the word thin and unconvincing.
He glances at her, then back to the road. “Just fine?”
“Yeah,” she says again, already distracted, her thoughts looping back to Aggie’s voice, Blake’s eyes, the way the calm had tightened when she fought it.
Dick exhales through his nose. “You went to Aggie’s, right?”
“Mhm.”
“And?”
“And we talked,” Y/N says vaguely. “I got coffee.”
“With Aggie,” Dick presses.
“Yes,” she answers, too quickly.
Silence stretches between them, taut and uncomfortable. Dick’s jaw tightens. He hates when she does this, when she retreats so far into herself that it feels like he’s talking to a wall instead of a person. He tries again, softer this time.
“Y/N. You’re not even looking at me.”
She blinks, startled, and turns her head, guilt flickering across her face. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been tired a lot lately,” Dick says, the edge creeping back into his voice despite his effort to keep it steady.
She nods, then looks back out the window, the words slipping before she can catch them. “Blake said the same thing.”
The car goes very quiet.
Dick’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Blake,” he repeats carefully. “Who’s Blake?”
Y/N freezes, then frowns, as if only just realizing what she’s said. “No one. I mean… just… Aggie’s nephew.”
“Aggie has a nephew,” Dick says slowly, suspicion flaring. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”
She shrugs, already withdrawing again, her attention sliding back into the maze of her thoughts. “It didn’t seem important.”
“It seems important now,” Dick snaps before he can stop himself. “How long have you known him?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters. “A bit.”
“What does ‘a bit’ mean, Y/N?” Dick asks, frustration bleeding through. “Did you go somewhere with him?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and that hesitation is answer enough.
Dick’s chest tightens. “You could’ve told me.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” she says, still not looking at him. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“That’s not the point,” he says sharply. “The point is you keep shutting me out.”
She winces at that, but the reaction fades quickly, swallowed by the noise in her head. Aggie. Blake. The calm. The way it scared her even as it soothed her.
By the time they reach the Manor gates, Dick is wound tight with questions she isn’t answering and resentment he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He pulls to a stop, barely glancing at her.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he says, already reaching for the door handle.
“Dick…” Y/N starts.
But he’s gone before she can finish, the car peeling away down the drive toward Blüdhaven without so much as a backward glance.
She stands there for a moment, the quiet rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind, then turns and heads inside.
Alfred meets her just beyond the foyer, relief flickering across his face when he sees her safe. “Welcome back, Miss Y/N. Master Dick promised he’d assist me with something this evening. Is he…?”
“He left for Blüdhaven,” Y/N says quietly. “Right after dropping me off.”
Alfred’s brows knit together, concern deepening. “That’s odd,” he murmurs. “He was quite insistent he’d stay.”
Y/N offers a weak shrug, the weight of the day pressing down on her again. Alfred studies her for a moment longer, clearly sensing that something is amiss, but he doesn’t press.
As Y/N climbs the stairs, her mind returns, unbidden, to the street, to the moment her fear failed her.
And to the unsettling certainty that the calm is still there, waiting.
Dick doesn’t head straight back to his apartment in Blüdhaven.
He tells himself he is, tells himself the irritation curling tight in his chest will burn off once the city skyline changes and the Manor is a smear of stone and shadow behind him. But somewhere between the bridge and the first familiar stretch of neon-lit streets, his hands tighten on the steering wheel and his jaw locks.
Blake.
The name echoes, unwanted, lodged under his ribs.
Y/N hadn’t even looked at him when she said it. That’s what bothers him most. Not secrecy, not the possibility of another person in her orbit, but the absence of awareness. She hadn’t been defensive. She hadn’t been careful. She had been distracted, distant, as the word slipped out of a different mouth entirely.
That isn’t like her.
By the time Dick pulls into his parking garage, the decision has already been made. He doesn’t bother taking his jacket off once he’s upstairs. He drops his keys on the counter, boots still on, and opens his laptop with the same quiet efficiency he uses before a patrol.
If Y/N won’t tell him who Blake is, he’ll find out for himself.
The name is frustratingly common at first. Blake Selvyn returns too many results, most of them dead ends or people who don’t fit. Dick refines the search, cross-references it with Aggie’s name, with property records, business licenses, hotel registries, anything that might create a line between them.
Aggie, as always, is a maze.
She doesn’t appear where she should on paper. Her hotel exists, but its ownership trails off into shell companies and trusts that fold in on themselves. Dick has seen this kind of thing before. Usually, it screams 'criminal enterprise' or 'money laundering'.
This doesn’t feel like that.
He digs deeper, pulling old census records, archived city permits, anything historical enough to slip past whatever digital obfuscation Aggie favors. That’s when he finds something that makes him pause.
Blake Selvyn did grow up in Gotham.
Not recently. Not continuously. He appears in school records for a handful of years, then disappears entirely, only to resurface elsewhere under the same name with the exact birthdate—no criminal record. No arrests. No obvious red flags.
Too clean.
Dick leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Clean records no longer comfort him. They unsettle him. In Gotham, clean usually means someone worked very hard to make it that way.
He pulls up traffic cam data next, searching for any overlap between Y/N’s known movements and Blake’s car. It doesn’t take long to find the Accord. It’s been in Gotham for weeks. Longer than Y/N implied. Longer than Dick likes.
There are gaps in the footage, too. Not enough to raise alarms on their own, but enough that Dick notices. Cameras that should have caught the car don’t. Feeds that stutter or loop for a second too long.
That bothers him more than anything else.
He exhales slowly, staring at the screen, replaying Y/N’s face in his mind. The way she hadn’t flinched when he pressed her. The way her attention slid away from him was like water off glass. Dick has spent his life reading people, tracking micro-expressions and tension shifts, the subtle tells that betray discomfort or fear.
With Y/N, something is different now.
It’s not that she’s hiding something badly. It’s that she doesn’t seem to feel the need to hide it at all.
Dick closes the laptop and stands, restless energy coiling in his limbs. He paces the length of the apartment once, twice, his thoughts circling tighter with every step.
Who is Blake Selvyn to her?
And why does the idea of Y/N not needing him itch so sharply under his skin?
He hates that question even as it forms. Hates the answer it threatens to imply.
Outside, Blüdhaven hums, loud and alive, but Dick barely hears it. His mind is already back in Gotham, tracing unseen lines between Aggie, her nephew, and the girl who has somehow become the axis his family is quietly unraveling around.
Whatever Blake is, Dick knows one thing for sure.
He isn’t accidental.
And Dick Grayson has never trusted coincidences.
Y/N becomes aware of Dick’s attention the way one becomes aware of pressure changes before a storm. There is no announcement, no confrontation, just a subtle shift in the air that tells her she is no longer moving unseen. His eyes follow her more often now, not openly, not in the sharp way Damian watches or the hungry, searching way Tim does, but with a thoughtful quiet that unsettles her far more than either of them. Dick watches like someone cataloguing patterns, like someone trying to remember when a room started feeling unfamiliar.
So Y/N adjusts.
She has lived long enough in other people’s spaces to know that survival is not about disappearance but about control of perception. She alters her routines by inches rather than miles. She lingers in doorways she used to pass through quickly, takes the long stairs instead of the shortcut, and pauses to pet the dogs or comment on a painting she’s already seen a hundred times. If Dick expects secrecy, she gives him transparency so mundane it becomes useless. If he expects avoidance, she offers brief warmth that never quite turns into intimacy.
A soft greeting in the morning. A casual question about Blüdhaven. A smile that fades at precisely the right moment.
She lets him see her, but never quite long enough to understand her.
Dick doesn’t relax because of it, but neither does he advance. He remains suspended in that uncomfortable middle space where suspicion has nothing solid to grip. Y/N can feel him recalibrating every time she moves, and she makes sure that recalibration never resolves into certainty.
Tim, by contrast, is painfully easy.
He always has been.
She finds him when his guard is naturally lower, not by accident but by design. Late nights in the Cave when the hum of machines fills the silence and his thoughts spill out faster than he can organize them. Quiet mornings in the kitchen when he’s running on caffeine and habit and doesn’t notice how quickly he leans toward anyone who listens. She asks him about his projects, about half-formed theories and ideas he hasn’t shared yet, and she listens with a sincerity that makes his shoulders loosen before he realizes they were tense.
Sometimes Damian is there, a sharp-edged presence hovering just close enough to remind Y/N that she is being watched. Other times, he isn’t pulled away by Bruce or by his own relentless discipline. Y/N adjusts without effort.
When Damian is present, she keeps her tone measured and thoughtful, positioning herself as a calm contrast rather than a challenge. She never excludes him outright, never dismisses him, but she never gives him control of the exchange either. When he isn’t there, she leans a fraction closer to Tim, asks questions that brush against trust and concern without ever demanding anything in return.
“You should sleep,” she tells Tim once, glancing at the dark circles beneath his eyes as he stares too intently at a screen.
He laughs it off, rubbing at his face. “I’ll sleep when Gotham stops being weird.”
She hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and lets the silence stretch just long enough for him to keep talking on his own. He fills it eagerly, words tumbling out, explanations turning into confessions before he realizes what he’s doing.
Her tactics work whether Damian is present or not. Tim responds to attention like a starved thing, turning instinctively toward warmth without questioning its source. He begins offering information unprompted, reassurance without being asked, glancing at Y/N for approval before making decisions he used to make alone. He doesn’t notice the shift because it feels good. After all, it feels like being seen.
Y/N notices everything.
She catalogs the changes with quiet precision, filing them away alongside the rest of her plans. Tim is becoming predictable, and predictability is a gift.
Damian feels it too.
And where Tim opens, Damian tightens.
The pressure Damian applies is subtler than his usual confrontations, more controlled and far more dangerous. He positions himself closer when Y/N enters a room, interrupts conversations with surgical timing, and corrects her phrasing even when she hasn’t technically said anything wrong. His presence sharpens the air, turns every exchange into a test she didn’t agree to take.
“You are being deliberate,” he tells her one afternoon, voice low and tight, the words vibrating with something barely restrained.Y/N turns to face him slowly, expression mild. “About what?”
“Everything,” Damian snaps, then reins himself in with visible effort. His hands curl at his sides, fingers flexing as if they want to become fists. “You believe yourself subtle. You are not.”
She studies him for a moment, not with fear, not even with irritation, but with something closer to assessment. There is something wrong behind his eyes lately, something strained and stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight.
“You’re exhausted,” she says instead, voice calm. “You should rest.”
The laugh he gives is sharp and humorless. “Do not patronize me.”
“I’m not,” Y/N replies easily. “I’m concerned.”
It is a lie wrapped in silk, and Damian feels the cut anyway. His jaw tightens, his gaze darkens, and she can almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he tries to decide whether she is mocking him or manipulating him or both.
From that point on, his pressure increases. He questions her movements with pointed casualness, challenges her explanations as though they are puzzles to be solved, and positions himself between her and Tim whenever he can, like a guard dog that no longer remembers what it’s protecting. The intensity of it borders on fixation, and she lets it happen.
She lets the tension build. She lets Damian’s frustration sharpen, lets Tim notice the strain and step in more often to smooth things over, to defend without fully understanding what he’s defending against. Every reaction Damian gives her is another thread she can pull, another confirmation that she’s standing exactly where she needs to be.
Dick watches all of this from the edges of the house, unease settling deeper into his bones. He doesn’t have the language yet for what he’s seeing, only the instinctive sense that something is off. Tim doesn’t see the manipulation, only the warmth. Damian sees too much, and it’s tearing him apart.
Y/N sees all of it and adjusts her pace accordingly.
She is careful. Never cruel. Never obvious. Just present enough to matter, just kind enough to be missed when she’s gone. But underneath the calculated moves and cautious interactions, there is a flicker of doubt. A quiet whisper that questions if the control she wields so effortlessly might one day cost her more than she anticipates. She wonders, in moments of solitude, whether the stability she's crafted for herself is worth the threads she pulls, the distance she quietly carves between herself and those who care for her, and if, in her pursuit of security, she has lost sight of something important within herself.
As the Manor subtly shifts around her, alliances tightening and tempers fraying, Y/N keeps her smile soft and her movements precise. Everyone else is reacting to what has already happened.
She is already planning what comes next.
Damian waits until the Manor settles into that peculiar hour where even the walls seem to listen.
It’s not quite night, not quite evening. The kind of in-between that sharpens his thoughts and loosens the restraints he’s been clinging to all day. The east corridor lies in half-shadow, sconces dimmed low enough to leave long stretches of stone untouched by light. It’s an old wing, forgotten by most of the house, and Damian knows every inch of it by heart.
Y/N rounds the corner with a book tucked under her arm, her steps measured, expression neutral. She’s already thinking ahead, already calculating, and that alone is enough to make his jaw tighten.
“Stop,” Damian says.
The word isn’t raised, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands with the quiet authority of something learned too young and practiced too often.
She slows, then turns to face him, annoyance flickering across her features before smoothing into something controlled and almost serene. “We’ve been over this,” she says, voice even. “If you’re here to accuse me again, don’t bother.”
He steps closer, not enough to corner her, not enough to touch, but enough to make the air between them feel dense. He can feel the pressure in his chest, the coiling sensation that hasn’t left him in days.
“You are doing this deliberately,” Damian says. “You are choosing Tim. You are trying to fracture us.”
Y/N exhales softly through her nose, the sound sharp with irritation rather than fear. That, more than anything, unsettles him. She should be cautious. She should be backing away. Instead, she looks at him as if he’s an obstacle she’s already accounted for.
“I’m not choosing anyone,” she replies. “Tim listens. You interrogate. If that bothers you, maybe look inward.”
The words are precise, honed. They strike where she intends them to.
For a moment, Damian can’t speak. The whispers swell, overlapping, urgent and insistent.
Don’t let her get ahead.
She thinks she’s more intelligent than you.
You are losing control.
Tim will protect her if you don’t stop this.
Y/N is your sister. Your blood. Yours.
His fingers curl at his sides. He doesn’t register the sting in his palms until a wet warmth reminds him that his nails have broken skin. The pain grounds him just enough to remain still.
“You are my blood,” he says finally, his voice low, carrying a conviction that borders on something dangerous. “You do not get to dismantle this family.”
Y/N’s gaze sharpens. For a heartbeat, something like triumph glimmers there, quickly masked. She thinks she’s winning. She thinks she’s pushing him far enough to break his composure, to expose the fault line between him and Tim.
“We’re not a family,” she says quietly. “Not in the way you think. And if things are falling apart, maybe they were already broken.”
The whispers go quiet.
Not gone. Quieted. As if satisfied.
Damian steps back abruptly, distance snapping into place like armor. His expression smooths, control reasserting itself in a way that feels colder, more absolute.
“This isn’t over,” he says. “You won’t break us.”
He leaves before she can respond, his footsteps precise, measured, disappearing into the darker stretch of the corridor. Y/N watches him go, heart steady, mind already filing the exchange away as progress. She believes she’s widened the wedge. She doesn’t see the way something has settled in Damian; instead, heavier and more resolute than anger.
Later, Dick finds her in the sitting room, the lights low, the furniture arranged to encourage conversation without forcing it. He doesn’t sit beside her. He takes the chair opposite, posture relaxed, expression carefully neutral.
“You’ve been busy,” he says lightly.
Y/N doesn’t look up from her phone. “That’s a strange opener.”
“Humor me,” Dick replies.
She lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes. For a fraction of a second, he catches something calculating there, something sharp, before it softens back into practiced indifference.
“You don’t like that I get along with Tim,” she says. “Damian doesn’t either. That’s not my issue.”
“You’re doubling down,” Dick observes. “Even after Damian confronted you.”
Her lips curve faintly. “I don’t respond well to threats.”
That’s the reaction he was looking for. Not fear. Not guilt. Defiance, clean and deliberate.
Before he can push further, Tim enters, drawn by tension as he always is. His eyes go straight to Y/N, concern sharpening his features as he subtly shifts his posture toward her.
“Is there a problem?” Tim asks.
“No,” Y/N says quickly. “We’re fine.”
Tim’s brow furrows. “You don’t look fine.”
Dick opens his mouth to respond, but Tim speaks first, his voice steady but edged. “She said she’s fine. You don’t need to question her every time she breathes.”
Damian appears in the doorway moments later, having followed instinct rather than sound. The air tightens instantly.
“You’re blind,” Damian snaps.
“And you’re paranoid,” Tim shoots back, the words leaving him before he can stop them.
Silence crashes down, heavy and suffocating.
Bruce stands just outside the room, unseen, absorbing everything. He notes the way Tim positions himself, the way Damian restrains himself with visible effort, the way Y/N remains centered between them, unreadable. This fracture. It's accelerating. Yet beyond observations, something tightens in his chest, a mixture of frustration and fear that he can't quite suppress. Bruce has always prided himself on maintaining control, but watching his family — his sons — on the brink of splintering, he feels the sting of helplessness that he rarely allows himself to acknowledge. His mind races through possible solutions, but a deeper, more vulnerable part resonates with the fear of irreparable damage.
He doesn’t intervene. He files it away.
That night, alone in the Batcave, Bruce methodically navigates the data. He pulls up every file tied to Y/N, every note, every thread that intersects with Thomas Vane. The boys have insisted it’s handled. The stalker quiet. The threat neutralized.
And yet.
The unease doesn’t leave him. It coils low in his gut, the same instinct that’s kept him alive long enough to see patterns others miss. Thomas doesn’t simply disappear. Men like him don’t go quiet without reason. And if Tim and Damian truly believed the threat was gone, they wouldn’t be circling Y/N like this.
Bruce exhales slowly and begins to assemble a contingency.
Not for his sons.
For Y/N.
He opens a fresh, encrypted, untraceable drive. He transfers everything connected to Thomas onto it: sightings, behavioral analysis, financial movements, half-formed theories he hasn’t shared with anyone. He adds resources with clinical efficiency—private investigators. Discreet security teams. Bodyguards that are trained to blend rather than intimidate.
He removes the data from the Batcomputer once it’s complete, wiping the traces clean. The boys won’t find this. They won’t interfere.
They’ve done enough.
This is Y/N’s problem now.
If she insists on being at the center of this, she will handle it with the tools she needs and without destabilizing his house any further. And if that requires distance, so be it. The thought of her leaving the Manor doesn’t trouble him the way it probably should. It feels like a necessary correction.
He pockets the drive, expression unreadable.
Upstairs, Y/N lies on her bed, phone buzzing softly in her hand.
Blake: Miss me yet, or are you still playing chess with billionaires?
Her heartbeat spikes, sharp and immediate. The calm she feels around him doesn’t reach her through text, but the anticipation alone is enough to send a shiver through her.
The timing is wrong. Too many pieces are already moving.
She types back anyway.
Y/N: Bad timing. I’ll explain later.
Down the hall, Damian sits alone, back against the wall, breathing carefully. His hands are clenched, blood dried beneath his nails. The whispers murmur approval, urging patience, control, possession.
And deep beneath the Manor, Bruce Wayne finishes laying the groundwork to remove Y/N from the equation entirely, convinced that whatever is unraveling his sons cannot be allowed to continue under his roof.