Alfred had borne witness to an extraordinary amount of absurdity over the long, arduous span of his life. Yet, even with his vast reserves of stoicism, he found himself unsettled by the sheer ridiculousness of their present reality.
He stood quietly in the background, his gaze fixed on Bruce. His master was pacing, muttering frantically under his breath in a low, rapid cadence. While watching Bruce lose himself in the dark labyrinth of his own mind was not exactly a strange occurrence and courtesy of the endless trauma Alfred had already helped the man weather, it remained a deeply unsettling sight.
Alfred’s thoughts drifted back to the oppressive atmosphere of the afternoon.
He remembered the little girl who's just way too identical to her mother in terms of appearance.
She couldn't have been any older than seven. A tiny, fragile thing, she had shrunk back to hide her frame within the protective folds of her mother's dark coat. She had looked so oddly cold, so entirely out of place amidst the heavy grief of the burial grounds. But what had stood out the most was Bruce's reaction.
His master’s intense, unblinking eyes had locked onto the child and never once look away. The sheer, predatory weight of that stare had been stifling, enough to freeze the very air around them and turn a somber gathering into a suffocating tableau.
Bringing a weary hand to his face, Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the faint, dull throb of a headache beginning to bloom behind his temples.
"Do you intend to explain yourself, Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice finally cut through the tense silence of the room. "Or perhaps clarify the necessity of attending a funeral where you were expressly unwelcome? To say nothing of deliberately stoking Isolde's ire?"
He allowed a heavy sigh to escape him, a quiet manifestation of the frustration slowly pooling in his chest. Alfred truly could not fathom what on earth Bruce Wayne was thinking. The sudden, jarring secret-but-not-really that the little girl was, in fact, Bruce's biological daughter was earth-shattering enough.
But at the same time he's not exactly surprised. Why is that? Considering that bruce and Isolde had been in an intense relationship before...
Nevermind, let's just not think about the past... Alfred shake off the thought in his head.
While knowing of the child's existence was a discovery, Alfred could not understand this sudden, consuming drive to bring the girl into their world. Isolde was a fierce and capable woman, far more than adequately equipped to raise the child in a stable environment. It was painfully clear to anyone paying attention that Bruce lacked the capacity to be a normal and emotionally healthy father in any traditional sense. His master possessed no concept of normalcy.
One only needed to look toward the corner of the room for proof of that.
Dick, the teenage boy caught in the crossfire of his mentor's brooding, shifted uncomfortably in the background. Ever since they had returned home from the funeral, the boy had been wound tight, clearly feeling the volatile shift in the atmosphere but entirely unsure of how to navigate it.
Still, Alfred tempered his rising frustration with years of hard-won patience. He knew his master. He knew that Bruce, despite his myriad of flaws and emotional shortcomings, rarely acted this erratically without a concrete reason.
The only question that remained was what kind of reason this would turn out to be. Was there a genuine, hidden threat to the child that Bruce's paranoia had already deduced?
Or was this simply his own unique brand of stupidity—the destructive, chaotic fallout of a man who was, for once in his rigidly controlled life, entirely emotionally compromised?
Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Alfred prayed to whatever gods were listening that the reason wouldn't be the latter. That tiny, trembling child deserved far better than to be dragged into the orbit of a father whose greatest enemy was not the endless tide of criminals and rogues, but rather himself.
Bruce had dreamed of having a daughter before—quite literally.
It was one of those impossibly vivid dreams where he felt as though he had lived an entire lifetime alongside a child, only to wake up to a quiet room, a cold bed, and the crushing realization that he would never see his dream child again.
Was this what he had occasionally read about in the more obscure corners of the internet? Those strange, shared experiences where people who had never been parents dreamed so deeply of having a child that they woke up afflicted by a phantom grief. They spoke of missing something that they couldn't quite put into words.
Because where is the child that I raised?
It was a haunting question, one that lingered long after the sleep faded.
Bruce had only been a teenager when that dream first came to him, yet even now, with decades of physical and mental scars layered over him, he still couldn't completely shake that lingering feeling of loss.
Perhaps he was acting this way now because he desperately wanted to grasp that feeling in reality. He knew it was irrational—stupid, even. But for once in his complicated life, he just wanted to be responsible for his own flesh and blood.
He wanted to be there for the small, shivering girl who had just lost her brother.
When he had first discovered that he had a daughter, an overwhelming rush of warmth, happiness, and quiet excitement had washed over him all at once. That secret, guarded joy had only multiplied when he learned he had another child with Isolde—a boy. He had watched from afar, harboring a small, private comfort in seeing just how remarkably close the two siblings were.
How warm and sweet his daughter towards her younger brother.
And then, the boy was gone. Ripped from the world far too young, leaving only his sister behind to shoulder the grief.
Before this deeply frustrating, senseless tragedy had upended his reality, Bruce had been relatively content with the arrangement. He had accepted his place in the background. He had chosen to watch silently from afar, letting Isolde do what she did best. She was a capable, protective mother, and he had trusted her implicitly to take care of his children.
While it was a deeply regrettable, bitter pill to swallow that he missed out on their childhoods, their milestones, and their laughter, he had always anchored himself with one comforting rationalization. He told himself that as long as they were far away from him, his darkness, and his endless war, the children were at least safe. They were taken care of.
A cold, uncomfortable knot began to form in his chest as the silence of the room pressed in on him.
Isolde would never harm their children... right?
Well, it didn't matter right now. One child had tragically died, and in Bruce's mind, it was time for him to step up and save the day—just as he always did.
He wanted the girl to be safe from the horrors that plagued their city. He wanted her safe from everything, securely hidden away within his own embrace.
But for now, he needed to exercise patience. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but his mind knew that no good would come from poking a lioness whose claws were already dug so deeply into her remaining cub. He would wait in the shadows until the time was right.
That is how much time has slipped by since the oppressive disgustingly bright afternoon of the funeral. To spare the tedious, painful details of those early days of mourning, we will move forward and observe the quiet, steady development of your new reality.
For the past two years, you have been firmly caged within the suffocating, opulent walls of this wretched family estate. It is a sprawling, gilded prison, and during your time confined within it, you have quietly and painstakingly pieced together what the hell is actually going on.
How did this happen? Why were you brought here of all places? The answers you found hiding behind the locked doors and whispered conversations of high society were far heavier than any child should have to bear.
You were being positioned for something, your realized.
When you were first brought here, your mother had only given you a vague, strict set of rules on how to act. Yet, you could never quite forget the look in her eyes before she turned away. The usual coldness within them had been masked by something unknown—something distinctly sinister that you couldn't quite decode, other than the unspoken, absolute demand that you behave like the good little girl you were supposed to be.
Make no mistake, though; Isolde did not abandon you entirely. That much is obvious, considering she still visits occasionally to walk the halls, to inspect the premises, and to see what has changed and what has not.
She comes to monitor her perfect daughter. You scoff internally every time the thought crosses your mind.
But even when your mother is absent, her looming presence is the least of your immediate worries. The real problem is the ever-present, calculating gaze of the other woman who resides in this mansion.
The one who acts as your legal warden.
You bite the inside of your cheek, the faint, metallic tang of copper grounding you in the present moment. You look down the impossible, isolating length of the dinner table. The silence in the cavernous room is heavy, broken only by the sharp clink of silverware against fine china.
You stare at the woman sitting at the opposite end. She is elegant and beautiful, her posture rigid and her eyes always searching for a flaw to correct.
She is molding you for a specific purpose, preparing you for a game you do not quite understand.
She pauses her meal, elegantly dabbing the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. When she looks up at you, she offers a perfectly curated smile that doesn't come close to reaching her cold eyes.
"Little Dent, what do you think?" her voice echoes lightly across the grand room, smooth but carrying an undeniable weight of expectation. "Shall we schedule your second appearance to the public eye for your tenth birthday?"
Three years ago, in the stifling quiet following Derrick's death. You remembered looking at your mother.
The interior of the expensive car felt more like a vacuum, methodically siphoning all the air and warmth out of the space between you.
Beside you, your mother was a study in statuesque perfection. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the world sliding past the tinted glass, watching the blur of the gloomy city as if it were nothing more than a mildly entertaining film. There were no tears and trembling hands clutching a sodden handkerchief. Nothing at all that would indicate she had just buried her own son.
You stared, and you stared, and you stared, letting the heavy silence stretch into minutes. You watched the rhythmic passing of streetlights wash over her unbothered features, waiting until the sheer, oppressive weight of your unbroken gaze finally forced her to acknowledge you.
Isolde slowly turned her head, the movement smooth and entirely unhurried. Her eyes, cool, calculating, and entirely unreadable, met yours.
"Is there anything you wanted to say, Bambi?"
Her voice was perfectly even, devoid of the jagged edges of grief you were currently empty and yet at the same time choking on. The pet name, usually a soft term of endearment, felt heavy and loaded in the confined, suffocating space of the backseat.
A childish, yet entirely valid question sat heavy on the tip of your tongue. You swallowed hard, forcing your features to remain absolutely still, refusing to show her even a hint of the vulnerability threatening to crack you wide open. You were learning, after all, from the master of masks.
But the urge to let the words out, to poke at the impenetrable wall of her composure, was a physical ache in your chest.
Your voice was quiet, steady, though it took every ounce of your limited willpower to keep it that way.
Can you at least pretend? The thought spoke in the back of your mind, a hollow echo against the walls of your skull.
You weren't foolish enough, nor desperate enough, to actually hope for a genuine crack in her immaculate armor. You already knew better than that. But a performance—a simple, practiced lie just to make this nightmare feel a little more human—would have been something. Instead, you just waited, bracing yourself for whatever calculated response she was about to offer.
Wretched little girl, aren't you?
The words were never spoken aloud, but they hung heavily in the stifling air between you, loud and clear in the subtle, micro-expressions shifting across Isolde’s face. She looked at you, a soft, almost pitying smile curving her lips. She tilted her head just so, the very picture of a mother momentarily confused by her child's foolish, innocent babble.
But she answered you anyway.
She reached out, her hand encased in a black silk glove, resting lightly against the side of your face. The fabric was exquisitely smooth, yet bone-chillingly cold against your warm skin. You didn't flinch and forced your muscles to turn to stone, even as every screaming instinct in your body begged you to pull away from her touch.
"Sadness is a heavy, cumbersome thing," Isolde began, her voice dropping into a melodic, conversational lull that sounded entirely out of place so soon after a burial. Her thumb brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture dripping with a calculated tenderness. "It clouds the judgment, Bambi. It makes people sloppy. Predictable. And worst of all, it makes them bleeding targets for those waiting in the shadows to strike."
Her smile remained perfectly fixed, but her gaze seemed to slide right through you, locking onto a distant future that you couldn't yet perceive.
"We, however, do not have the luxury of standing still," she continued, the conversational warmth draining away, leaving her tone crisp and neutral. "We both need to look forward. We must act on the present, rather than letting the past dictate our movements. There is a grander board being played out in this city, darling, and we simply cannot afford to lose our footing over spilled blood."
Her eyes suddenly narrowed, sharpening into obsidian points that pinned you to the leather seat. The fragile, terrifying illusion of a loving mother vanished completely.
"Derrick's death is a tragedy. Yes." She clipped the word off her tongue, neat, sterile, and entirely detached. "But do you intend to let his end haunt you for the rest of your life? Will you let yourself drown in useless, quiet self-pity, or will you stand back up, look forward, and learn to play the hand you've been dealt?"
Her thumb stopped its gentle brushing, pressing just slightly into the soft flesh of your cheek—a silent, physical demand for your absolute compliance.
"That is precisely why you are going somewhere where you will at least learn how this world actually works," Isolde murmured, the velvet trap finally snapping shut around your immediate future. "The Vanavers possess a certain... standing in Gotham that we require. You will go to their estate. You will behave. And you will ensure that you are never, ever as remarkably careless as your brother was."
She paused, letting the immense, suffocating weight of her words settle into your bones. When she finally spoke again, the ambient light from the passing streetlamps caught a dangerous, predatory gleam in her eyes.
"You're smart, my sweet girl. I am sure you have already noticed something amiss in all of this, haven't you?"
She smiled fully now, a slow, terrifying curving of her lips that made the bottom drop out of your stomach.
"Although, I must admit, it surprises me. You are so remarkably aware of the board, and yet still naive enough to gaze right past the actual players."
Isolde leaned in closer. The crisp, overwhelming scent of her expensive perfume flooded your senses, suddenly cloying and toxic in the enclosed space.
"You saw the man watching us at the cemetery today, didn't you? The tall one who simply couldn't take his heavy eyes off you." She let the weight of Bruce's stare wash over you again before leaning in for the kill. "Tell me, Bambi... when you look at all these moving pieces, who do you think truly benefited from your brother's sudden departure?"
The silence that followed was deafening. But beneath the hum of the car's engine, you could vividly hear the unspoken poison she was pouring into your mind.
Do you think you'll remain the same in this filth of a city? Untainted and pure? Do you think you'll survive long enough without taking the position of another player? Your brother lost his spot early. Don't let it be you.
You couldn't hold her gaze anymore. You broke eye contact, staring down at your own small, trembling hands folded neatly in your lap. The air in the car felt thin and suffocating, as if her mere implications were sucking the oxygen straight from your lungs. It was a dizzying, horrifying realization that Derrick might not have been a victim of random circumstance, but a casualty of a much larger, darker game.
What is this? What the hell is this..?
Is she saying that someone deliberately manipulated the circumstances of Derrick's death? That somebody played with both of your lives? For what would be the reason on killing a four year old child?
You took in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the frantic beating of your heart against your ribs. Your blood is boiling at the thought of some good-for-nothings who took the pleasure of toying with you.
Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowy perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they’ll send the Talon for your head
"Mother," your voice was barely above a whisper, but you refused to let it shake. "What is it that you plan for me?"
You reach out, your fingers lightly grazing the cold, polished head of a white pawn. You move the piece forward. The faint, muted scrape of felt against the marbled chessboard is the only sound allowed in the otherwise empty room.
And another. And another. And another.
You are playing both sides. It is a quiet, agonizing exercise in predicting your own destruction. White advances cautiously, desperate to survive the onslaught. Black responds with precision. You pivot constantly between the two mentalities, acting as both the prey and the predator in an endless, solitary loop.
It is exhausting, but it is the only way to train your mind to see the board the exact way your mother does.
You look down at the board in front of you. The intricate formation of trapped kings and carelessly sacrificed pawns perfectly mirrors the twisted reality you now inhabit. A heavy sigh escapes your lips, the sound immediately swallowed by the oppressive, ever-watchful silence of the estate's grand library.
It's draining, mapping out your own demise just to learn how to avoid it.
You remain seated behind the white pieces. You move a knight, your gaze blank and detached as the strategy unfolds in your periphery.
How long will this remain?
You lean back into the plush leather of the couch, sinking into the quiet dark of your own thoughts. You lived once, died once, and rebirth was supposed to be the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, you woke up and lived once more.
Should've stayed dead... You grumbled
It has been far too long since you genuinely felt anything for yourself. It feels as though you are stagnating, watching the days bleed together without a hitch, save for the suffocating, mundane routine of your life inside this filthy mansion. Though, you suppose you have your mother and her friends to thank for systematically culling away whatever pathetic naivety you had carried over from your past and current life.
"Well, it seems you're enjoying playing by yourself, little Dent."
The voice cuts through the silence, sharp and sudden, startling you for a brief second.
You control your breathing, turning your head and smoothly forcing your expression into a mask of careful neutrality. "Ms. Samantha," you acknowledge, keeping your tone perfectly even. "I was under the impression your business trip would keep you away for the remainder of the week."
She shrugs effortlessly. She glides over to the table and takes the seat at the opposite end of the board, silently claiming the black pieces you had just been maneuvering.
She moves a pawn forward, challenging your center. And so, you both begin to play.
"I was supposed to go," Samantha muses, her eyes fixed lazily on the board as you counter her move. "But a rather bold intruder came knocking at my door, you see. A certain famous billionaire, at that."
She chuckles, a dark, throaty sound, as if something about the situation amused her to no end. She captures one of your pawns, the wooden piece clicking loudly against the marble.
"Currently, though," she says, finally lifting her calculating gaze to meet yours over the board, "he's waiting for you in the guest room."
You raise a single brow at the words that left her mouth, though your hand does not falter. You smoothly slide a bishop across the board, countering her aggressive opening without missing a beat.
"There is only one billionaire in this city who is quite that insistent and obnoxious, that I know of."
You let out a soft, measured sigh, keeping your eyes pinned to the marble battlefield. "Would you mind telling me exactly why you allowed him to breach the walls of your estate?"
Samantha rests her chin gracefully against the palm of her hand, her dark eyes tracking your piece with detached, calculating interest.
You look up at her, unimpressed by the faux innocence masking her features.
"Well, you see, little Dent..." Samantha begins, her voice dropping into a rich, conspiratorial purr that echoes faintly in the library. "Mr. Wayne is a man entirely consumed by his own tragedy. And currently, he has thoroughly convinced himself that he now need to step up to take the responsibility of being your father."
"Am I supposed to be amused?" you deadpan. Without breaking eye contact, you move your rook, castling your king and securing it safely behind a fortress of white pawns.
Samantha’s smile widens as she picks up her knight, letting it hover for a second before setting it down, placing your queen in direct, unavoidable jeopardy.
"You should be prepared, rather than amused," she corrects smoothly. "Bruce Wayne is not just a bumbling socialite with too much money and a bleeding heart. Ever since your brother's... unfortunate departure, his gaze has been fixed squarely on you. Your mother and I have spent two years meticulously hiding you from the board, keeping you entirely out of his reach."
She leans back into the plush upholstery of her chair, lacing her fingers together over her lap. She watches you silently, waiting for the information to fully process.
"And now, you have simply opened the front door for him," you conclude. The realization settles in your chest, doing nothing but stroking the quiet, simmering irritation you hold for the woman sitting across from you.
"I opened the door because a locked cage only makes the predator outside more desperate to break in," Samantha replies, the playful lilt vanishing from her tone, leaving behind cold, hard steel. "He demands to see you. And of course, my generosity knows no bounds when it comes to letting a father see his daughter. It gives him the perfect opportunity to confirm his own self-righteous delusions."
You stare down at the chessboard. The intricate, suffocating weight of her words clicks into place.
Ah. You understand now. And it is incredibly unfortunate. This entire scenario is a carefully orchestrated test by Samantha to see if you have truly learned anything in this gilded cage—to see if you are actually worth keeping around. Simultaneously, it is a trap laid out for Bruce Wayne, an opportunity for you to personally prove that he has no place in your life.
She is letting the lion into the cage, purely to see if the fawn is finally cunning enough to bite back.
Ew... This is why you hate mind games and politicking the most.
"So," you murmur, finally lifting your gaze from the carved pieces to meet her expectant, predatory stare. "You want me to toy with him... just to cure your boredom."
A faint twitch in your eyelid betrays you. The sheer arrogance of her reasoning manages to make your blood boil. To her, you and the Batman are simply entertainment for a slow afternoon.
"Oh, nothing so terribly dramatic, darling," Samantha laughs softly, waving a dismissive, elegant hand, though her eyes remain dead serious. "I just want you to show him exactly what kind of girl Isolde Dent's daughter has grown. Go on. Don't keep your knight in shining armor waiting."
You look at her in heavy, suffocating silence for a long moment. You let the tension stretch, pulling taut like a wire about to snap, before you finally open your mouth.
"...And what will the other members of the Court say about this, oh dearest Grandmaster?"
You grin at her—a sharp, vicious thing, making absolutely sure to bare your teeth. You let the mask slip just enough so your eyes can broadcast your unfiltered hostility.
Samantha pauses. A dangerous, thrilled glint of amusement sparks in her eyes at the sheer, audacious attitude you are showing her.
"Because I highly doubt," you whisper, leaning forward over the board, your voice practically dripping with venom, "that the rest of your precious owls would approve of you inviting the Bat directly into their nest, just to test a child."
She stares at you. For a second, the air in the room turns dangerously thin. And then, she lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that quickly builds into full, echoing laughter.
You scowl fiercely at the aggravating, unbothered sound. All while cursing inside your mind, now that you're in far too deep to escape this dark, dark games that you involved yourself in.
Since when are you not involved in this?
"Oh, you are just a very precious little thing, aren't you?" Samantha finally breathes, catching her breath and dabbing gracefully at a phantom tear in the corner of her eye. She looks at you the way a dragon might look at its most prized, sharpest treasure.
She gestures lazily toward the heavy oak doors of the library.
"Run along now, little bird. Big Bat is waiting in the parlor. Try not to let him clip your wings."
You walk down the sprawling, dimly lit halls of the mansion, the rhythmic, deliberate click of your shoes against the polished marble floor echoing in the air.
The air in this specific wing of the estate always feels uniquely stifling. It hangs heavy with the suffocating scent of old paper, beeswax, and unspoken threats. Towering oil portraits of long-dead figures and pristine marble busts line the corridor, watching you from the shadows. Their blank, unblinking eyes serve as a constant, skin-crawling reminder that in this house, you are never truly alone.
They are always watching, perched high in the rafters of Gotham’s elite.
Your mind churns over the Grandmaster's words as you navigate the labyrinthine corridors.
Looks like somebody was foolish enough to waltz right into a viper's nest.
You do not have anything against Bruce Wayne. When you first met him all those years ago at the aquarium with your brother, you had felt genuinely nothing for the man. Sure, in your previous life, he was a famous comic book character. But even though he is a breathing, bleeding reality now, it doesn't change the fact that you remain entirely detached. To you, he is just another moving piece on a board you were forced onto.
You do not hate Bruce. But it is deeply concerning that he is actually here, standing in the foyer of his greatest enemy's stronghold. While you don't harbor any familial warmth for him, you also don't particularly want to see him meet an early, gruesome grave.
They rarely tolerate someone like him. Especially when a select few high-ranking members are fully aware of exactly who—and what—he is in the dark.
Very few people in this world actually know that Bruce Wayne is the Batman. But it is a completely different game when the Grandmaster of the court of owl herself is intimately aware of his nocturnal habits.
And she made it her habit to set her gaze on him for the sake of her entertainment and depravity.
How... pitiful, really. The World's Greatest Detective, walking blindly into a cage of owls, entirely convinced he is the one in control.
You pause just outside the heavy, intricately carved doors of the parlor. You take a slow, measured breath, smoothing down the front of your clothes and burying any lingering traces of empathy deep beneath a cold facade.
Samantha is watching. The Court is watching. If you want Bruce to leave this mansion safe and sound, you are going to have to play the part of the dutiful, stranger flawlessly. You have to play with him just enough to make him leave, without triggering his relentless paranoia to dig deeper into this.
You have to be exactly what your mother want you to be.
You reach out, wrapping your hand around the brass doorknob, the cool metal biting into your palm.
You turn the brass knob, feeling the heavy latch give way with a solid, satisfying click.
The atmosphere in this room is vastly different from the suffocating gloom of the hallway. Mid-morning sunlight spills through the towering bay windows, catching the dust motes dancing lazily in the air and illuminating the rich burgundy velvet of the antique furnishings.
Standing right in the center of that light, looking entirely out of place yet completely in his element, is Bruce Wayne.
He looks remarkably composed.
Well, he wouldn't be Batman if he wasn't.
You step fully into the room, letting the heavy oak door shut softly behind you. You clasp your hands politely in front of you, presenting the perfect picture of a well mannered girl.
"Mr. Wayne," you say, your voice smooth, practiced, and entirely devoid of the warmth a child should have for their father. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
You do not miss the subtle, shift in his demeanor when his gaze finally locks onto yours. He stiffens for a second, a minute tightening of his jaw, a sudden tension in his broad shoulders before he forces his posture to relax. He slips back into whatever persona he's going to play.
A heavy silence stretches between you. While you don't mind the quiet, you refuse to let it fester into an awkward atmosphere where he holds the upper hand. In a house where the Grandmaster is likely listening to every word, you need to dictate the flow of the conversation.
Before he can launch into whatever carefully rehearsed speech he has prepared, you gesture casually toward one of the velvet armchairs.
"Please, take a seat," you offer, your tone polite but holding a distinct edge of detachment. "Though I must admit, I find it highly unusual for Gotham's most elusive bachelor to suddenly take an interest in a ward of the Vanaver estate. Unless, of course, you've simply run out of charities to throw your money at?"
Rude. How mean you are being right now, and you're completely aware of the mocking tone you're using.
Bruce did not sit, rather takes a slow, deliberate step forward.
"I am not here for charity." his voice is low, a carefully modulated rumble that carries the weight of a man used to getting his way. Too bad though, you hate men like that.
"I came to check on you. It's been two years since... the funeral. You disappeared behind these walls, and your mother hasn't exactly been forthcoming about your well-being."
And...? what does that have to do with me, when you're a complete stranger?
You tilt your head, flawlessly mirroring your mother's slightly condescending mannerisms.
"My mother is a very busy woman, Mr. Wayne. As am I." You meet his searching gaze without a single flinch. "I assure you, I am perfectly fine. Ms. Samantha herself have been exceedingly generous in shaping my future. There is nothing here that requires your concern."
You offer him a cold, pristine smile.
"So, if there is nothing else, I suggest you leave before you overstay your welcome. The people in this house do not take kindly to uninvited guests poking around in their affairs."
He frowns, the lines around his mouth deepening slightly before he finally speaks.
"You are completely aware of what I am to you, are you not?"
"And what does that have to do with me?" you ask, genuine curiosity lacing your otherwise detached tone.
He pauses, visibly weighing his next words with the careful precision of a man defusing a bomb. He clears his throat, a rare, distinctly human gesture for someone so meticulously put together.
"Your mother and I have decided to share custody."
The words hang in the air, heavy and entirely absurd.
For a long moment, you do not say anything. You just stare at him, letting the sheer ridiculousness of the statement settle over you. Isolde Caroline Dent? Your mother? The most ruthlessly manipulative woman to ever exist in your current life? Willingly agreeing to share custody with Bruce Wayne?
It seems like a blatant lie. Or, at the very least, a highly aggressive legal maneuver he has orchestrated entirely behind your mother's back to force her hand.
Looks like he's going to do this, you think. A flicker of slight, dark amusement pierces through your carefully maintained indifference.
"Is that so?" you murmur, taking a slow, deliberate step toward him. "How fascinating. Because last I checked, my mother explicitly placed me under the guardianship of this estate to ensure my... proper education."
You stop just a few feet away, tilting your head to look up into striking blue eyes that are far too similar to someone who you already left behind in the past.
An ache twinges in your chest at the reminder of Derrick, but you ruthlessly suppress it.
"So, tell me, Mr. Wayne," you challenge softly, your voice dropping into a cadence mocking tone. "Did mother dearest actually agree to this sudden bout of paternal responsibility? Or did you just forge a judge's signature?"
Do you really look like you need saving from all of this? Is he looking down on you, projecting his own grief and guilt onto a daughter he barely knows? To a stranger that unknowingly is part of his enemy?
Bruce doesn't answer immediately. Instead, the warm, patronizing sympathy in his eyes completely vanishes.
You want to gouge that damned eyes out.
There it goes. You watch the shift with a grim sense of satisfaction. Now he looks more like Batman.
Moving slowly, deliberately telegraphing his movements so as not to startle you, he reaches into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket. He pulls out a folded piece of thick, legal parchment—the physical proof he brought to back his audacious claim. He holds it out between you, the Gotham City family court seal stamped clearly at the bottom.
"Pack your things," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "It's time for you to go home."
Jason Todd didn't quite know what to make of the sudden, tense shift in the Manor's atmosphere.
Ever since Bruce and Alfred had vaguely announced that someone important was arriving, a strange, heavy energy had settled over the sprawling house. Jason had only been wearing the Robin mantle for two years, but that was more than enough time to learn how to read the subtle fluctuations in his mentor's moods. Right now, instead of sensing danger, Jason was simply endlessly curious about this mysterious individual.
Well... curious, and mildly amused.
From across the study, he could hear Bruce's tired, drawn-out sigh echoing from the receiver. It was a heavy, long-suffering sound—the exact noise a man makes when he is trying, and entirely failing, to negotiate with a feral kitten in the middle of a hissing fit.
Alfred certainly wasn't trying to keep the conversation a secret. The elderly butler stood with his usual immaculate posture, holding the phone slightly away from his ear. The volume was turned up just enough for the cavernous silence of the room to catch the audio.
"Alfred, go prepare the room I picked. The one next to mine."
Bruce's voice was slightly distorted by the speaker, but the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion lacing his words was unmistakable. Over the line, just before the connection cut, there was the faint but sharp sound of something clicking in the background on Bruce's end—a bitten-off scoff, perhaps, or the sharp tap of a polished shoe. Then, the line went dead.
Fourteen-year-old Jason Todd felt a sudden, bright spark of excitement pierce through his usual teenage grit.
Did that mean he was actually going to have a friend around here? Someone to hang out with in this massive, empty museum of a house? Or maybe even a potential younger sibling figure to take under his wing?
He looked over at the older boy standing just a few feet away. Dick had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since the phone first rang. His shoulders were wound tight, and his gaze was fixed blankly on the rug, looking as if he were silently bracing for a physical impact only he could see coming.
Jason nudged him lightly with an elbow, leaning in close.
"Psst," Jason whispered, keeping his voice low so Alfred wouldn't reprimand him for eavesdropping. "Dick, do you know who this person is supposed to be?"
Dick snapped out of his heavy thoughts, blinking as if momentarily forgetting where he was. He looked down at Jason, his expression complicated—a messy mixture of lingering guilt and deep-seated apprehension.
"Uhh, well. Not really? I mean, I saw her once a few years ago, but..." Dick trailed off, running a hand nervously through his dark hair. He let out a soft, resigned sigh, clearly entirely unsure of what to expect from the girl Bruce was bringing home. "Just... whatever. You'll see for yourself."
He offered Jason a small, strained smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Just treat her with care, alright? She's been through a lot."
Jason blinked, his bright excitement stalling for a second.
notes: and there you go folks.... Jason first appearance. And to those who all waited for this chapter, thank you for being patient with me
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