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Chapter 2: Portraits on the wall where my face isn't...

Author's notes: Eita, another chapter where I might have overdone it a bit. In this one, I wanted to start embroidering [Name]'s experience with her siblings. I didn't really like how it turned out, but I have no idea what exactly bothers me about it to change. So, that's it.

Let me know what you think. Until the next chapter ≽^•⩊•^≼

🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ

“We only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice.” - John Berger

[Name] skated as if traffic laws didn't exist, as if, with just a little more speed, she wouldn't go flying off the sidewalks of Gotham. She had lost track of the damn time. To hell with her dead phone and that useless Cuckoo clock that only worked when it felt like it.

After a pleasant afternoon coffee with Mavi's family, which included a divine mandioca cake, [Name] noticed it was a little less than 17 minutes to 7 PM sharp. From Mavi's house to the Manor was, on a good day, about 30 to 40 minutes.

Let's just say that, with desperation and perseverance, she managed to get home just as the main clock struck exactly 7:13 PM. The 13 minutes are the charm of being fashionably late, she joked to herself, hoping Bruce and the others would see it that way too.

She hurried in through the front door, flying up the stairs like someone fleeing something, balancing her skateboard, her bag, and the box with Mavi's more-than-special gift in her arms. Dumping the skateboard and bag haphazardly on the bed, she carefully hid the simple cardboard box inside the wardrobe.

Alfred knew [Name] preferred to take care of cleaning and maintaining her own room herself. He would hardly ever rummage around in there.

[Name] didn't have time to actually get ready for dinner, so she just took off the hoodie she was wearing earlier and threw on a black graphic tee with an image of Monet's Water Lilies, casually pulling her hair back.

She hurried downstairs, imagining Alfred would give her a gentle scolding about punctuality. To him, an unjustified delay existed on the fine line between blasphemy and a heinous crime.

While laughing at her own thought, [Name] didn't need to get very close to the dining room to hear the conversations and laughter from Dick, along with some clipped replies from Jason and the infuriating rudeness of Damian. [Name] stopped for a few seconds, breathing as deeply as possible, counting to 30 in her head, and wishing that, by some coincidence, the chandelier above her would suddenly lose its will to remain hanging from the ceiling.

When the accident didn't happen — unfortunately, in her opinion — she pushed open the dark wooden double doors that granted the dining room a bit more privacy. At the soft sound of the door closing behind her, the room fell silent at once, as if a blanket had been thrown over the mild noise her family was making.

She lifted her eyes, quickly understanding the tension that had so suddenly filled the room: they had forgotten her. Again. Another fucking time.

The family dining table was smaller than those used for Bruce's banquets or charity galas, but it was made to accommodate not only the magnate's numerous children but also their respective partners and close friends, so there was no chance of there not being enough chairs. However, when it came to dinnerware, that was a different story.

Nine place settings were distributed around the table. Nine plates, nine glasses, nine sets of cutlery, nine napkins, etc. The problem was, counting her, there were 10 people there. The math didn't add up.

[Name] carefully let her eyes sweep over everyone seated at the table. Bruce was at the head, staring at her with the same inexpressive, somber look he always directed her way (it was like he always saw right through her, never her); Damian was on his right, Jason on his left; Dick next to Damian, Cassandra next to Jason, Tim next to Jason, and Stephanie following after. Now, next to Dick, was a person [Name] had never seen before. He was redheaded, with leaf-green eyes that might have made her blush — though, if she were to compare redheads, MJ had a more delicate and handsome charm.

"Miss [Name], I thought the young lady would not be attending…" said Alfred, entering the dining room from the kitchen entrance. The old butler looked mortified to have been an accomplice in this forgetfulness. Before [Name] could respond, the redheaded man was faster.

"I'm sorry, I think I might be in your seat. My apologies for that." He made a move to get up, but his plate had already been served, and [Name] really couldn't blame him for the situation.

"Ah, no, please, stay," she said, sweetening her voice and smiling at him with delicacy, but honesty to a certain extent. "It's no problem at all, trust me, I'm used to it," she joked in a light tone, but there was an accusation between the lines — not directed at the redhead. "At least I'll get to have dinner in my room, that's what I wanted anyway, so thank you, Mister…?"

"You can call me Wally, Wally West. It's a pleasure." He introduced himself. [Name] did the same. Turning to the butler.

[Name] just gave a slight nod to Alfred, her smile turning apologetic, as if to say: It's okay, Alfie. I know it wasn't on purpose. As she turned to leave, her name was called coldly by Bruce's authoritative voice. She didn't turn around, just looked over her shoulder with her hand on the doorknob, boredom in her eyes.

"I thought you weren't coming. You never liked these dinners," he said, as if that didn't sound like a pathetic excuse for a justification. The man furrowed his brow in that characteristic way that almost always pushed the right buttons to make her lose her patience.

[Name] didn't answer immediately, just let out a scoffing laugh, raising her eyebrows as if she'd never heard of such a thing.

"It's fine, Bruce. Alfred said you asked all your children to attend, that Richard was visiting. I guess I misunderstood…" she said, shrugging. Her tone seemed calm, indifferent even, but again, between the lines, was the message: [Name] hadn't misunderstood the part about it being a mandatory request for attendance; rather, she wasn't among the children considered by Bruce. For the children, yes, attendance was mandatory. She wasn't even that in his eyes.

"[Name]-" Dick tried to speak, his tone showing that forced tenderness he only used with her or with guests he pretended to tolerate at the seasonal galas held at Wayne Manor.

"Alfie? Would you mind bringing a portion up for me, please? I'll eat in my room," she interrupted the man, already halfway out of the dining room. The door closed softly behind her, once again.

She missed Wally West's surprised and somewhat enchanted whistle.

"You didn't tell me your sister was so… amiable. She's got personality," he joked. Jason shot him a look that would make an average criminal cry, but all West did was keep staring at the door [Name] had exited through. She certainly knew how to make her opinions clear and leave a mark on those who had the pleasure of meeting her.

Back in the safety of her room, [Name] sighed heavily. Part of her was relieved not to have to spend the next hour trapped at that table, forcing herself to swallow dinner while being ignored by everyone around her, listening to endless conversations she knew she wasn't welcome to join.

And God help Dick if he came with his fake interest in her life again, she thought, shuddering with disgust. He was always like that: a model brother to the others, a disastrous farce in [Name]'s eyes.

[Name] changed into a baggy, worn-out pajama set, grateful to be able to flop onto her bed while waiting for Alfred and her dinner. She stretched out on the soft mattress, sighing as she hugged one of the pillows stained with dry, old paint. Her fingers, almost unconsciously, began picking at the flecks of dried paint on the fabric.

[Name] let her thoughts drift to various subjects, anything to soften the bubbling anger and frustrating sadness accumulating in her chest. She should be used to it by now; it wasn't the first time and it would hardly be the last. She knew that. So why did it still hurt? Why did a part of her still want to crawl back, to humiliate herself for a bit of attention? They don't deserve you and you don't need them, you don't want them in your life, you already have people who love you and they are more than enough, [Name] thought and repeated it like a mental mantra.

For some reason, her thoughts turned to the box hidden in her wardrobe. A tempting thought to slip into the suit and throw herself out the window. [Name] had done it once before, back in the beginning, wearing a hoodie customized by Miles and a red bandana hiding the lower part of her face. She laughed at the memory of Morales teaching her how to swing on webs, Hobie teaching her how to use gravity to her advantage — Hobie's lessons always seemed frighteningly similar to the training baby birds get in the cruel wild. [Name] lost count of how many times the cunning punk had pushed her off buildings or bridges.

She should have insisted on it, let her friends train her, maybe accepted Gwen's invitation to the Spider Society. Traveling between dimensions. Maybe her real home was out there.

"You should come with us. See what it's like. More Spiders there than you'll be able to count in your lifetime," Brown joked, flopping down next to [Name]. He handed her a burrito wrapped in foil.

"Yeah, you speak so highly of O'Hara, I'm just dying to meet him. Sounds like a real sweetheart," [Name] replied sarcastically, pulling her bandana down to take a bite of the food. Hobie did the same with his mask, leaving only his mouth visible. His lip ring reflected the rays of the setting sun.

"Ah yes, our great leader…" he replied in a mocking tone, shaking his head negatively.

A comfortable silence stretched for a few seconds, broken only by the sound of chewing. The two of you were waiting for the rest of the group. Miles and Gwen, who were supposed to have arrived 15 minutes ago.

"Y'know… When Miles found out about the society, the Humble, Peace-and-Love Spider-Man practically begged to get in. You didn't… You were the first Spider to not wanna join…" Hobie said, finishing his burrito. "Don't believe in groups either?"

[Name] laughed, swallowing a particularly large bite. "I'm scared…" she began. Hobie cut a wisecrack short when he saw [Name]'s eyes focused on the horizon. The orbs, with the golden reflection of the sunset, looked alive, pools of liquid gold, yet unfocused, watching far beyond. "I'm scared I won't want to come back. I'm scared that once I see there are other worlds, infinite possibilities, I'll never want to come back here again…"

"But you got people here. Those friends of yours, Babi and MD. You got the old butler too, innit?" Hobie said. "You wouldn't have the heart to leave 'em behind."

[Name] laughed briefly at the name swap. Hobie always did that with people outside his close circle.

"Would I?" [Name] asked. She wasn't so sure herself. "Mavi's gonna be a famous fashion designer. You'd get along. She also wants to break the government with style and rebellion," she started, leaning over to rest against Hobie. Eyes still distant. Always distant. Hobie was afraid that one day, [Name] would go far enough that she couldn't come back from her thoughts. "MJ feels more openly, but he has Mavi and I know she can be strong for both of them. And Alfred, well… He has a whole family to take care of. I'm sure they'd all live just fine without me."

[Name] shrugged. In her mind, she would miss them more than they would miss her. Her presence wasn't that important; they would survive just fine without her. Hobie laughed with impatience, like when someone has a sharp contrary comment but decides at the last minute it's not the right time to say it.

"Sometimes, you're really bleedin' oblivious to the effect you have on people," he said finally, slinging an arm over her shoulders. The closest to a hug Hobie would offer anyone. His grip was good; [Name] sighed, closing her eyes and enjoying those few extra seconds where everything was quiet, including her thoughts.

[Name] was snapped out of her moment of reflection by a soft knock on the door; from the cadence, she already knew who it was. A permissive murmur escaped her, and soon Alfred entered holding a tray with dinner.

"Good evening, Miss [Name]…" said the butler. He entered like a kicked old puppy, clear guilt on his time-worn face. [Name] made a hand gesture, sweeping away the apology Alfred was about to offer.

"Don't even waste your breath, Alfie. I'm not angry, much less hurt. You run this mansion single-handedly, you probably cooked the whole meal by yourself. I can't realistically expect you to keep me in mind 24/7. You are still human… Well, I think," the girl said, smiling, as she dragged herself to the edge of the bed. "And I still got to eat in my room. For me, it was clearly a win-win," she joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Alfred looked at her with tender but sad eyes, like someone who knows better, as if he saw something [Name] was clearly trying to ignore.

"I am always grateful for your kindness, Miss [Name]," the man said, arranging the dinner on the desk carefully. [Name] laughed when she saw, on a smaller plate, her favorite dessert. As far as she remembered, that type of dessert hadn't been on the dining table, so Alfred must have made it just for her.

"You really know how to make someone feel special," [Name] said, getting up and going to him, hugging him from the side. Alfred returned it, rubbing her back tenderly. "You can leave the dishes; I'll take them down later. You go rest, Alfie. Good night," she said, pulling away.

The man smiled, bidding her goodbye one last time, giving a slight bow before leaving the room.

[Name] sat down, digging into the food and sighing with pleasure at the taste of Alfred's spices and skills. It was paradise for her taste buds. She ate slowly, savoring every bite. She was almost finished with the main course, already eyeing the dessert, when a familiar, muffled buzz hummed through the room. If she had been even remotely focused on something else, she wouldn't have heard it.

She jumped up, walking quickly to the bed and rummaging in one of the pockets of her messenger bag. A small, decorated black pager, with a mini keyboard below the screen, blinked with a message:

Ballerina Spider:Busy? - sent now.

Cub Spider:Just finishing eating Why? - sent now

Ballerina Spider: 20 mins. Central building on Third Ave. Waiting :P - sent now

Cub Spider:On my way - sent now

Looking at the dessert with puppy-dog eyes, [Name] just piled everything onto the tray. She needed to hurry; it would take about 20 minutes to skate to that spot on Third Avenue.

I need to hurry, she thought, leaving her room with a certain lightness in her step.

[Name] slid through the shadowy corridors of Wayne Manor like the shadow she had grown accustomed to being. Accustomed to not being seen.

The high, cold halls stretched out before her, a labyrinth of polished marble and dark wood, illuminated only by the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling like stars caught on wires. Her bare feet made almost no noise against the polished floor, but each step echoed in her chest like a frantic drum. She needed to be quick. Gwen was waiting, and every second counted.

The walls were lined with ancient portraits of generations of Waynes with perfect smiles and empty eyes. [Name] passed them without a glance. She knew her face wasn't among them. It never would be. And she was grateful; looking at those cold, somber portraits felt like an offense to her artistic side.

A worn red carpet snaked down the main hallway, its edges faded by time and, if one looked closely, a wine stain Jason had pretended not to spill on purpose. Further along, a small blue paint mark still lingered near the baseboard, an accident from [Name] years ago that no one had ever reported. Or, if they had noticed, they never mentioned it.

She sidestepped a suit of medieval armor that seemed to guard the emptiness with its metal hands. Bruce insisted on keeping them there, as if the house needed more ghosts.

The air smelled of wax and old flowers, but as [Name] neared the kitchen, a new scent seeped through: cinnamon, fresh coffee, and bread straight from the oven. The kitchen was the only place in the manor that still felt alive.

[Name] pushed the door open with her back, entering the kitchen with a little spring in her step. She left the tray on the counter, scraped the leftover dinner into the trash, and calmly washed the dishes she'd used. She took one last look at the dessert. I'll come back for you later, [Name] thought, stashing the dessert in a hidden corner of the refrigerator where she knew it would be safe from anyone else.

As she was putting the little container away, bent over in front of the fridge, a very characteristic shiver ran through her body. The kind that distorted the environment around her, like waves of static, sharpening her senses and always making her react in milliseconds.

[Name] turned her body, intercepting a smaller, copper-skinned hand that was reaching for her shoulder. Green eyes stared back at her, surprised, and a scowl immediately formed on the young boy's face.

Damian Al Ghul Wayne. Or Shorty Demon, as Jason liked to call him. In secret, Mavi had nicknamed him Little Gremlin. It always made [Name] laugh.

Seeing him so close brought back memories of when he first arrived at the manor. A little pup all teeth, snarls, and violence. She was 14. Damian was 10. No one had warned her about the new addition beforehand; she met him hours before his welcome dinner, after overhearing a whispered scolding from Alfred to Bruce, and then seeing a sulking figure sitting on the sofa in her father's study.

[Name] had been looking for Alfred. She didn't even know why she had started searching for him, but when she saw the old man wasn't in any of his usual spots, she started treating it like a game. Alfred always disappeared like that; in fact, everyone in that house seemed to have an unsettling ability to vanish.

But they always came back. Except Jason. Jason had vanished one night and never returned.

[Name] shook the thought away, not wanting to be sad while playing her game of find-the-butler. It was her game, and she couldn't play it sad.

She was heading to the south wing of the manor, where the study, the library, and all of Bruce's gloomy domain were located. Usually, [Name] avoided these parts like the plague, but since the search for the butler had yielded no fruitful results in other corners of the mansion, the little girl was taking drastic measures.

[Name] heard Alfred's voice, a low whisper that conveyed polite displeasure. She couldn't make out what they were talking about at first, and as she approached, everything fell silent. It was coming from Bruce's study.

"Come in…" Bruce's gruff, hoarse voice sounded. [Name] had to swallow the urge to run. She pushed the door, which was only ajar, and entered with her eyes downcast. Only when Alfred said her name tenderly did she dare to look up — not at Bruce, of course. [Name] looked at Alfred with sweet, apologetic eyes.

"I'm sorry, Alfie. I was looking for you, but I didn't want to interrupt the meeting," [Name] said, not even acknowledging her father. She only paused when she saw a smaller, strangely familiar figure sitting on the burgundy sofa in the study. He stared at her with cold, superior eyes. He was younger, but he looked at [Name] as if she were a mere, miserable, dirty child.

A boy so small shouldn't have that kind of look, she thought cautiously.

"Miss [Name], I apologize for not being able to speak with you sooner, but allow me to introduce you to your younger brother, Damian…" Alfred said, an apologetic smile on his lips.

[Name] turned to the boy, looking at him with hesitant curiosity. She took a small step closer, her hands nervously clutching the fabric of her sleeves.

"H-Hello… My name is [Name], it's a pleas—" "You are not my sister." The childish voice that cut [Name] off was harsh, snarling, and dripping with obvious disgust. [Name] froze for a few seconds, confused. "I refuse to share blood with someone so pathetic and weak," he concluded, as if it were a universal truth.

[Name] just sighed, her eyes welling up. She looked at Alfred, as if seeking salvation, a denial that she wasn't pathetic or weak, but when her gaze briefly shifted to Bruce, her father, her own flesh and blood, a sob escaped her lips. There, in those icy blue eyes, was agreement. Not denial, not surprise at his youngest son's rudeness, but a cold agreement that she was, indeed, pathetic and weak.

The girl just turned around and left the room in silence, tears falling against her will, her cheeks burning with shame from the insults. Soon, quick footsteps were heard, and [Name] felt a tender touch on her shoulders.

"Miss [Name], I apologize on Master Damian's behalf. He… well, given his upbringing, I beg you not to take it to heart. He was raised in a hostile environment. It's not his fault," Alfred said, squeezing one of [Name]'s shoulders affectionately. She looked at him, tears gathering on her lashes like dew.

[Name] nodded, still silent, not trusting her own voice. But in her childish mind, she replayed the words, thinking and reflecting that she wasn't really sad about Damian; she barely knew him, and vice versa. Blood meant little to her. Her real sadness was for Bruce, who hadn't intervened, who hadn't scolded Damian, who hadn't moved to comfort her.

Alfred, seeking to cheer her up, took [Name] by her small hand. "Tonight there will be a dinner to introduce and welcome Damian to the family. Master Richard will come from Bludhaven, and Tim will join us as well. Why doesn't the Young Miss help me with the dessert?" the butler offered, smiling, but his smile died when [Name] looked at him with even more hurt in her eyes.

"Th-Thank you, Alfie… But I don't feel very well right now. I think I'll go to my room," she whispered, letting go of his hand and walking away with her head down. A welcome dinner? It was funny to think that when it was her turn, she had eaten in the kitchen, with only the butler for company. No one had prepared a welcome dinner for her.

Alfred didn't force her, just nodded too. Defeated. The feeling of failure growing in his chest like a thorny rose, but without the fragrant petals.

Upon reaching her room, [Name] took a medium-sized canvas and separated a set of colors she had made herself with Alfred, mixing and creating various base tones. An old, worn-out brush was chosen — her mother's favorite brush.

For hours, until dinnertime, [Name] dedicated herself to the painting, letting her poor, hurt heart dictate every brushstroke. Her mother always said that if you diluted your bad feelings into the paint, it was a way to expel them from your chest and trap them in something beautiful. She desperately wanted to remove the feeling of inadequacy from her chest, the feeling of someone suffering an injustice but powerless against the perpetrator. Cold anger bubbled, along with the uncomfortable sensation of salty tears drying on her skin.

When Alfred knocked on her door again to inform her that dinner would be served soon, she just refused, saying she wouldn't come down today. The butler entered the room, asking permission, and gasped when he saw the scene before him.

[Name] was perched on the stool in front of the easel, covered in splatters of various colored paints and slightly out of breath, tired. Her eyes, hard as steel, strongly reminded him of a certain masked look that went out at night to deliver justice with its own hands.

But what truly made the butler lose his breath was the medium-sized canvas on the easel. The brushstrokes were raw, betraying the youth of the hands that painted them, yet the inspiration of styles was clear: on the canvas was a brutal fusion of Caravaggio, through the dramatic use of light and shadow, and Edvard Munch, through the emotional and symbolic distortion of "The Scream." [Name] had knowledge of a master's classical technique, but also the elements of a tormented teenage soul.

The scene in the painting seemed to be shown through a frame within a frame, an ajar door emphasizing that the point of view comes from an observer excluded from the focal scene. Through the door, one could see a sumptuous environment with a long mahogany table, a crystal chandelier on the ceiling, and expensive tapestries. Everything was painted in warm colors—golds, amber, burgundy—but blurred and distorted to give an air of a happy memory that wasn't hers.

At the center of the composition, the only thing painted with sharp clarity, was an empty chair at the dinner table. It was the chair that should have been hers. It was pulled out, as if someone had gotten up, but it was perfectly clean and intact, with no utensils or cutlery in front of it, contrasting with the rest of the table, laden with food and used cutlery.

For a second, Alfred wanted to cry, wanted to go to her and hug her tightly, but he just cleared his throat, nodded, and said he would bring her something to eat soon. The butler left the room with a heavy heart, already planning another scolding for Bruce about these actions.

That night, [Name] took a long bath, scrubbing to remove the paint stains that had marred her skin. She felt light in the bathtub, the anger soothed and the frustration just an echo easily ignored.

When she got out, Alfred had already left her dinner on the desk. She ate calmly, looking at the painting resting to dry completely, smiling at the work she had put into it. It was morbid, but it wasn't just sadness. There was her contained anger, envy, unrequited love, and an ancient pain. The perfect technique served to highlight the inner chaos.

Her mother really was very wise. Locking her bad feelings in paint meant [Name] didn't have to carry them in her heart.

After finishing eating and leaving the dishes by the door for Alfred to collect later—she always took her own dishes down to clean them, but particularly that night, she didn't want any chance of running into Bruce or her brothers, especially Damian — she retired to sleep.

[Name] didn't take long to fall asleep, her arms still aching from the hours spent perched on the stool, painting every detail with care. However, when it was still too dark to mark the dawn, [Name] woke up startled by the sound of fabric being torn.

The first thing she could make out, given the darkness of the room, was a small figure shredding her painting, still on the easel. Strips of canvas fabric scattered around the room with a rustling sound, while the figure used something resembling a long sword to destroy even the wood of the easel.

With the sudden movement of the girl sitting up in her bed and turning on the bedside lamp, the figure, now not so mysterious, turned around. Damian looked beyond angry, panting from the lack of control in his actions. He dropped a piece of the canvas frame wood and approached like a great predator cornering its prey.

"You are a disgrace of a firstborn," he said in a snarl. "I refuse, I deny believing that you are the one who will inherit the Wayne empire. You are weak, pathetic, a miserable excuse for an heir. I am disgusted to know I share half my DNA with someone so… useless," he continued, getting closer and closer.

[Name] didn't latch onto his words; she was far more focused on the katana, a blade she now recognized, gleaming with a mute threat in the boy's hands. If it was capable of chopping up the wooden easel, what wouldn't it do to her flesh?

She screamed when Damian agilely jumped onto her bed, pinning her under his weight. Even though [Name] was 4 years older, she could do little against his grip. The blade was positioned on her shoulder, pushed just enough to break the skin, scaring her, making it burn. She tried to push him away, but he just pushed the blade in a little deeper.

"I will kill you. I will free our father from a failed child. I will give him a real heir," he said, raising his wrist as if to deliver the final blow. [Name] screamed again, landing a direct punch to Damian's nose. Whether dazed by anger or surprise that she fought back, Damian lost his balance slightly, causing the wound on [Name]'s shoulder to tear open more. She screamed loudly.

She didn't know exactly how long it took, but soon Damian was pulled away from her, the blade also leaving her body, tearing the wound even more. She cried, scrambling to the corner of the bed, hugging herself, as her pajamas, once light blue, began to be painted crimson.

The sweet, sickening smell of copper made the memories of her mother's death return. [Name] felt everything spin, her consciousness threatening to abandon her alarmingly.

Before everything went black, [Name] saw Dick holding Damian, looking at his red nose with concern, saying something to him that she couldn't hear. Tim was in the doorway, watching everything with palpable surprise. He was looking at Dick and Damian, but not at her. Not at the one who was bleeding, the one who had been attacked in her own bed while she slept. No, they seemed worried about Damian, not about her.

[Name] closed her eyes just as Alfred burst through the door, running to her, Bruce behind him, but, like the others, he went straight to Damian.

The next morning, [Name] woke up in a different room. Her shoulder throbbed and ached, but she forced herself to get up anyway. She was wearing different pajamas and could feel, even through the soft fabric, the bandage wrapping her shoulder and torso. She hissed and whimpered as she got up.

Alfred entered again quickly, as if he sensed she was awake. "Young Miss, please, be careful…" He approached, helping her back to bed. She was weak, trembling, and it seemed a simple breeze could knock her over.

Over the next few hours, Alfred apologized in every way expressible in words, swearing it would never happen again and that Damian was very sorry for what he had done. The butler tried to talk again about how Damian's upbringing was to blame for his behavior and that [Name] wouldn't need to worry anymore.

"But will he still be living here?" [Name] asked quietly, not looking at Alfred.

"Yes, Miss. He is, after all, still Master Bruce's son," he said, as if the question itself were unthinkable.

"And so am I, but he hasn't even come by." The words slipped out after a few minutes of silence.

"He left, Miss," Alfred said, the words seeming to contain glass, hurting his throat on the way out. Guilt. [Name] understood instantly.

"And Dick, and Tim, and, of course, Damian too. I imagine," she whispered.

"Miss, they are—"

"It's fine, Alfred. I'm still sleepy, I'm going to get some more rest." Before Alfred could even say anything, [Name] just lay down, turning to the other side, hiding under the covers. The man tried to call her, to turn her gently, but gave up when she didn't respond.

Bruce, Dick, and Tim had left, most likely taking Damian on a tour of Gotham. No punishments, no consequences… He had tried to kill her, and that was that.

After that day, [Name] made sure to always keep her distance from any Wayne, adopted or not. Even Alfred felt the shift in the dynamic within the Manor. It wasn't as if [Name] lived in fear or with a grudge; it was distrust, the kind you have when you're on enemy territory. High walls, never distracted. [Name] no longer trusted her family to protect her, to keep her safe — for God's sake, she didn't even trust Alfred for that anymore. It was just one step closer to the final straw.

[Name] was pulled from another flashback by a tug. Damian was trying to free himself from the gentle grip of her hand. His eyes were wide, surprised, even a little fearful of why his weak, pathetic biological sister didn't seem to react to the tugs he was giving to free his wrist. She didn't even seem to be exerting any effort to hold him, regardless of the strength he used to break free.

"Whoa…" she said, understanding the situation, opening her fingers and letting him take an almost comical number of steps back. "What do you want, Damian?" she asked, biting back a laugh at how small he seemed now, looking at her suspiciously.

"H-How did you…?" he began, as if to question how on earth she could be that strong, but he recomposed himself fairly quickly. Now staring at her accusingly. "You embarrassed our father today. Again." His tone returned to the same disgusted snarl Damian always seemed to use when talking to her. Before, [Name] would just ignore it, leave the room the moment the boy set his emerald eyes on her. Partly out of fear — she could still feel a phantom numbness in the scar on her shoulder — but partly out of pure exhaustion.

He wasn't worth it, none of them were, she thought.

"Oh yes, I embarrassed Bruce, because apparently he told Alfred it was mandatory for all his children to attend, but yet, there was no place for me at the table." [Name] feigned a thoughtful grimace, as if she were deeply pondering the entire situation. "Yeah, no, no, I don't see how that's my fault. He kinda embarrassed himself, so… Better luck next time?" she said with a shrug, turning to leave.

Before she could actually walk away, that cold sensation came again, the shiver on her nape screamed a microsecond before Damian's hand closed around her arm.

Surprisingly for Damian, it was just a touch. A gentle but firm grip to stop her from leaving, not a strike. But for [Name], it wasn't just a touch.

She thought she had gotten over it; it was a trauma, yes, but she no longer felt the same raw, real fear. The touch was cold, the kind of cold that comes from a blade against skin, just like years ago. It was the shock in the eyes of a ten-year-old boy who had no mercy, only a mission. It was the phantom pain of the scar on her shoulder, throbbing again, a sudden, sharp burn as if the wound were fresh once more.

This time she didn't think, didn't simply dodge. She reacted.

In one fluid motion, too fast to be perceived, her free hand covered his, her fingers — with a force that made his bones creak under the pressure — closed like a steel trap for the second time, but without the gentleness of before. It wasn't a fighting move. It was a survival move. Pure, raw instinct, triggered by the touch of the only family member who had ever truly tried to erase her existence.

She pulled him forward, turning to face him. There was no fear in her eyes now. There was something far more dangerous: a cold, silent hatred, a poorly healed wound bleeding pure rage. The mask of indifference shattered completely.

"I'm only going to say this once, Damian. Take your hand off me." Her voice came out in a low hiss, laden with a threat so palpable the air seemed to chill several degrees. "Don't touch me. Ever again."

Damian froze. Not from the pain in his wrist, though it was considerable, but from what he saw on her face. It was the same look he saw in the criminals and enemies who had been cornered, who had nothing left to lose. It was a look he was accustomed to causing, only, for the first time, he wasn't seeing it through the mask of Robin or the mantle of the League. He was seeing it face to face, coming from the eyes of his sister.

He let go of her arm as if burned.

[Name] pushed his hand away with contempt, releasing him. She was breathing deeply, trying to recalibrate, trying to push the sensations back into the dark place they came from.

Damian took a step back, not out of fear of her strength, but from the impact of that visceral reaction. He stared at her, and the arrogance in his eyes gave way to deep confusion and, perhaps, the first glimpse of a horrifying understanding. He had hurt her, hadn't he?

"I… I wasn't going to attack you," he said, his voice a bit lower, the "snarl" gone.

"Everything that comes from you is an attack, Damian. It's the only thing you know how to do," she spat, rubbing her arm where he had touched her, as if trying to erase the sensation.

Before he could formulate another word, another excuse or accusation, the muffled sound of a bzzz-bzzz came from inside the pocket of [Name]'s jacket.

The pager.

[Name]'s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Gwen, shit. Urgency took over again, smothering some of the anger. She couldn't afford to get stuck in this dysfunctional family drama; she had a better place to be.

She completely ignored Damian, turning and walking quickly toward the exit, heading for the stairs at a brisk pace.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice came from behind her, still confused but regaining some of its accusatory tone.

[Name] was already halfway down the stairs, but she didn't deign to stop, or even look over her shoulder. She just continued on her way to her room, slamming and locking the door behind her, just in case Damian was feeling suicidal enough to follow her there.

Ballerina Spider:You coming? - sent now.

The message read. [Name] typed a quick little lie, tossing the pager onto the bed.

Cub Spider: Almost there… Traffic T-T - sent now

She looked at the skateboard, a nervous excitement bubbling in her stomach with a tempting idea. Her eyes drifted to the wardrobe, a slightly anxious expression taking over her features. What if…

Not letting the thought complete, [Name] began pulling off her clothes with clumsy haste. Not a graceful sight for someone who had just outmaneuvered a born and bred assassin. She pulled on the suit, right down to the boots.

The result was even better than she could have imagined. She looked badass. There was no other way to describe it.

[Name] pulled on another layer of clothes to hide the hero uniform. Baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. She thought she looked like a little dumpling with the extra layers, but honestly, it was all she had for now.

With the mask hidden in the hoodie pocket, along with the pager, she approached the window. She wasn't going to test her luck with the back doors this time; she'd choose an even better exit.

The window opened with a low creak; she was grateful her room was in the wing opposite the others'. She wasn't next to anyone, and that made her more confident as she stepped out onto the balcony, swinging one leg over the parapet.

A laugh wanted to bubble up in her chest, the flames of rebellion growing and spreading. She'd missed this feeling these past few days. With one last look around, [Name] jumped from her perch. The third floor was high enough to do damage, but she seemed exempt from the rules of gravity, especially when she landed gracefully on the well-manicured lawn of the garden. Running through the shadows like a thief escaping a crime scene, [Name] practically dissolved into the darkness, leaving Wayne lands behind.

She would have melted into the Gotham night completely unseen, just another shadow among shadows, if not for the faint, glowing ember of a cigarette tracing an arc in the darkness of the gardens. Perched on a low stone wall far from the mansion's golden-lit windows, a somber figure was just taking a long drag, seeking a moment of solitude away from the oppressive weight of the manor's walls. His eyes, accustomed to scanning for movement in the dark, caught the furtive shape darting from the third-floor balcony with practiced, unnerving grace.

Jason stared at the figure disappearing from his view with an incredulous laugh and raised eyebrows. The suspicious clothing, the agile and silent escape through the garden… he knew that M.O. It was everybody's in that crazy house, at some point.

A slow, malicious smile spread across his face. "Well, well, well…" he murmured to himself, his voice a low, amused growl. "Seems like someone here finally found a spine… or is in some deep fucking trouble."

He scratched his chin, pondering. Part of him – the part that still carried a shred of fraternal guilt and responsibility – told him to follow her, or at least tell the old bat that his only "normal" offspring was sneaking around. It wasn't safe for her.

The other part, the bigger and louder one, saw that and felt a huge, criminal, almost paternal pride.

"Atta girl," he grumbled, shaking his head with a muffled laugh. "Get into trouble properly. And if you're gonna join a gang, at least pick one that pays well."

He shrugged and continued on his way toward the manor, already filing the information away for possible future blackmail or just to throw in Bruce's face at a family dinner. This was promising, and now he was curious to see how it would play out.

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