“Put the jewels in the bag!” (Your name) didn’t even flinch when the intruder crudely held up his gun to her while she was in the kitchen. It seems her end was finally near at last. “Did you hear me?! Put your jewels in the bag!”

(Your name) calmly turned off the stove top while the intruder kept his voice raised. She had been working on breakfast for her ungrateful husband and her adopted children since they’d be back from patrol in a few hours. Alfred was in the Batcave which left her up here and vulnerable… not that they’d care.

“Let me turn off the stove so you don’t blow the place up if you shoot.” (Your name) calmly told him. She knew this would be a tragic end… and she looked forward to her suffering to end at last.

(Your name) unclasped the pearls from her neck and placed them in the burlap sack the burglar thrusted toward her with one hand. She then made her way to take off each piece of jewelry that was an empty gift from her husband. Even his mother’s ring he gave her for their opulent wedding.

“Code. Safe. Now.” The burglar demanded as he thrusted the gun in her chest.

“0219.” (Your name) calmly stated despite how terrifying the situation was. “It’s in the third room to the right.”

She could not get another word in before a searing pain filled her chest as a loud gunshot rung throughout the house. She glanced down at her chest at the bullet hole that was now through her chest cavity.

The burglar walked off while she sank to the floor in a heap. Her hands went to her phone to make a final call but… she knew no one from this house would answer. (Your name) was always an afterthought, and she believed she would be even in death.

So she dialed 911 and waited for the operator to answer. Her right hand was stained crimson as the viscous blood pooled around her like a grotesque blanket.

Once she heard the operated answer, (your name) cut them off, “There’s been a robber and murder at the Wayne manor.”

(Your name) then hung up and turned her gaze to the ceiling. If there was another life, she would be selfish and live for herself. She wouldn’t rot away like lettuce in the back of a fridge in this manor. No… she would have more respect for herself.

Breathe in… breathe out. She smiled in peace for the first time in years. She was finally free from this lonely nightmare she had been trapped in for nearly two decades. Maybe, she would finally deserve her chance to be loved as much as she loved back.

How was she to know the nightmare only just began?

.

.

.

(Your name) jolted awake, her wine glass nearly slipped from her hand from the sudden movement. A myriad of voices chattered in the opulent restaurant has her eyes glanced around the almost surreal scene.

This was the restaurant she had begged Bruce and the boys to come to for her birthday with her six years ago…

“ Mrs. Wayne, would you like another glass of water?” The familiar waiter came over with a pitiful expression that she had seared into her memory from all those years ago. The look almost every waiter gave her at any venue she went to.

“Actually, I’d like to order.” (Your name) smiled. “It’s my birthday… and I want to celebrate it for once.”

The waiter seemed surprised but happily took her order. This was the first time she had ordered rather than wait for hours for a family that wouldn’t come.

(Your name) smiled to herself, her gaze focused on the complementary wine glass that was brought to her by the wait staff. How sad was it that the stranger showed her more love than her own family?

She had a second chance… and she’d be damned if she wasted it.

.

.

.

After she had long left and enjoyed her meal, a dashing family of five hurriedly arrived to the restaurant.

Bruce Wayne looked slightly disheveled, but that didn’t take away from his charming good looks. The billionaire and his adopted sons hurriedly glanced around the restaurant for any sign of his wife and their mother. He knew she would be here… just like she always was that she waited for them.

They had all been given a second chance when they came home and found her small, lifeless body on the kitchen floor after patrol.

Never had they all cried so much as they cradled her cold, bloody form as they desperately tried to revive her. Each of them begged for another chance to love her properly.

Each of them had spent so much time finding the perfect gift to make up all the lost time up to her and to finally celebrate her birthday like a family… just like she always dreamed.

They had always kept their distance to keep her safe from their enemies. Yet they had instead created a giant misunderstanding. One that they all desperately needed to make up for.

“Do you think mother is still here? I hope she didn’t wait too long…” Damian muttered, his green eyes nervously searched for (your name)’s delicate form.

“She always waits for us. She loves us.” Dick reassured the others, yet they all knew it was more of a self reassurance. “She will be so happy…”

The wait staff seemed surprised but they did give the boys some glares.

“Jeez, what’s their problem?” Jason huffed as he put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t see her anywhere… he had gotten her a wonderful gift for once.

“I can look up her location.” Tim chimed in as he pulled out his phone. “She’s around, I’m sure.

It was Bruce who seemed to search the hardest for her. A bouquet of roses were clenched so hard in his fists that his knuckles turned white. He would make this all right again.

(Your name) was alive once more… and he would make sure she would never die or be hurt by anyone again. She’d be protected and cherished like she deserved.

“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Wayne left hours ago.”

The men all instantly deflated. She left? But she would always be here for hours for them… was there a possibility she returned in time too?

They all went back to the manor in haste. They wanted to celebrate her birthday with her… they wanted to celebrate so much with her. They wouldn’t let her be alone ever again.

.

.

.

(Your name) dipped her feet in the hot tub at the manor with a content sigh. Her lungs deeply inhaled the crisp night air with a dreamy sigh. This felt so peaceful. Why had she never celebrated her birthday like this before?

(Your name) didn’t even flinch when she heard the boys come home. Perhaps patrol ended early? It’s been so many years of being ignored that she hardly knew what went on in their lives.

She slipped the robe off and slid her swimsuit clad body into the comfortably hot water. Another sigh spilled through her lips, her muscles relaxed. This felt like heaven.

(Your name) jumped when Bruce suddenly slid the sliding door open with a loud whack. She was quick to cover her cleavage with her hands despite how this man was her legal husband.

“ Mr. Wayne? What are you doing here-“ Bruce was quick to close the distance and pull her into a hug. The muscular man shook like a leaf as he held her to him. His heart beats so fast, she swore it was about to burst.

“You’re alive… you’re okay…” (Your name) did a double take at his words. When did he ever care about her well-being?

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” There was no way he came back to the past too, right? Her original, neglectful husband would never hold her and bury his nose in her hair like this…

Yet here Bruce Wayne, her infamous billionaire, Playboy husband, was with his face borrowed into her skin. His nose deeply inhaled her scent like she was his favorite flower. He held her as if she was something precious, something he has never done in their two decades of marriage.

“What are you doing?” She asked, but he only held her tighter.

Bruce pulled back to study her face, is blue eyes were dark like a sea storm. His brows were furrowed in worry.

“Hugging my wife.”

A humorless chuckle bubbled from her chest. So now she was his wife? Since when has he treated her as such.

“Is this a joke?” She asked him despite how serious he looked. “I’m just a decorated house pet-“

Her eyes almost popped out of her head when he planted a searing kiss on her lips. A gasp escaped her as his tongue thrust its way into the cavern of her mouth and tasted every inch of it. His hands greedily grasped at her body.

“Wife… my wife.” Bruce whispered against her lips. “My beautiful wife.”

“Mister Wayne-“

“It’s Bruce.” His voice was authoritative as he cut her formalities off.

“…Bruce.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I want you. I want my wife.” (Your name) squealed when h got into the hot tub with her to hair with her. “It’s your birthday today…”

He… he knew her birthday?

“I didn’t think you ever noticed...” She muttered, but he pressed his forehead to hers.

“All these years, we thought we were keeping you safe by keeping a distance. How foolish I was.” Bruce sighed. “You’re safer in our arms, in my arms.”

(Your name) was speechless when he pulled a gift box from his breast pocket and opened it to reveal an exquisite pearl necklace.

“You deserve to be adorned in pearls and jewels. To be pampered by me.” Bruce didn’t give her the chance to move away as he clasped the necklace around her.

Despite its elegance, (your name) couldn’t help the dread that pulled in her stomach. She could not stop the feeling that this pearl necklace was nothing more than a magnificent collar.

“You look so beautiful in those pearls… they were my mother’s, you know.” Bruce hummed as he picked her up and placed her on the edge of the hot tub.

Bruce placed her robe back over her form.

“Let’s get changed and go celebrate your birthday properly with the boys. They really want to see their mother.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. “and after that, I think you and I can finally make up for all the lost time.”

(Your name) felt a tear roll down her face that Bruce took as a tear of joy. Yet only she knew the truth.

✿⁠ ⸺ Chapters Guide! ; Prologue ; Chapter I, Prt 1 ; Chapter I, Prt 2 ; Chapter I, Prt 3 ;

✿⁠ ⸺ Previous ; Next!

⸺ WARNINGS ⦂ Fem Reader ; Use of Y/N; Suicidal themes ; Suicide attempt ; Damian being a little jerk ; Yes girls/boys, Doodle dies ; Yandere themes ; Platonic yandere ; Bullying ; Abuse ; Sexual harassment ; Neglect ; English is not my first language.

✿⁠ ⸺ MDNI !! I'm serious.

✿⁠ ⸺ Words Count ⦂ 10.268

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ This chapter was mainly translated by Google Translate, so if something doesn’t make sense, you know who to blame.

You adjusted the camera a few centimeters, trying to get it to focus. Once it did, you sat back down in the chair, the camera perched on your makeshift desk.

You squirmed a little, unsure how to start.

Clearing your throat, you began. “I… uh… this is my first time recording a video.” You fidgeted with Doodle’s hands under the desk before continuing. “I guess I should start by saying that before this, I used to keep a journal. I mean, I still have it, but I refuse to write in one ever again… Not after finding out what paper is actually made of.” Your face scrunched at the memory of that grim realization.

“Anyway… It took me a while to figure out another way to express myself—something that wouldn’t hurt the environment, you know? And then, while I was messing around in the mansion’s storage room, I found this old camera of Tim’s. It was kind of busted and dirty, but I fixed it after looking up some info on Alfred’s phone!” The memory of your little accomplishment made you smile proudly.

“Okay, a lot has happened lately, so I thought I’d talk about the important stuff. I guess I’ll do it in chromatic order… wait, no. Chrono…? Chrono…? Chronological! That’s the word!” You let out a laugh at your own mix-up and went on. “So… even though I’m still not doing great at school, I’ve made a lot of friends! There’s one in particular—her name’s Molly, and she loves nature too. She’s super smart!” You gushed about your new friend, who was always eager to share her knowledge. “She knows a ton about dinosaurs and told me all about them. They’re so cool!”

“I’m not great in most subjects... except for biology and P.E.!” you added quickly. “I’m really good at those two. In biology, I understand a lot of the stuff we talk about, and I get to chat with Molly and the teacher about it. And in P.E., people say I’m really ‘athletic,’ but honestly, I just like playing! Anyway, the coach made me join the kids’ volleyball team, even though I’m a bit younger than the other girls...” You shifted in your seat, your small smile fading. “I thought it was something cool… but no one in my family cared. Then again, I don’t think they care much about me at all.”

Silence filled the room for a few moments as you tried to organize your thoughts. You wanted to talk about it—everything you’ve been holding in—but it was so much that you didn’t know where to start without tearing up.

You felt your nose start to sting, so you wiped it as a distraction.

“Well… I didn’t see it at first, or maybe I just didn’t want to see it…” Your gaze dropped away from the camera. “But… I don’t think I belong here.”

Memories flooded your mind—every time your family was “too busy for you,” or when they asked you to leave a room so they could do “family activities,” even if you’d been there first. Not once did it cross their minds to include you, to see you as family...

You clenched your jaw, your eyes darting back up in desperation.

“But I just don’t get it...”

“I… I’ve thought about it a lot, and I don’t think it’s something I said or did. Cass and Steph also have villain parents, Jason used to get bad grades like me… and Terry is Dad’s kid too!” you protested, your voice rising.

“I don’t understand what’s so wrong with me...” Tears began streaming down your face. “Nobody wants to spend time with me… I try so hard to be useful, to not be a burden…” You glanced down at your clothes, now damp with tears and snot. “I-I even started sewing and making my own clothes because no one wanted to go shopping with me, and Alfred didn’t have time. I didn’t complain. I just accepted it. My fingers hurt so much, but I did it anyway.”

You were honestly proud of the skill you’d worked so hard to develop. Whenever you told your friends about it, they were always impressed, which motivated you to keep getting better. Even Alfred had been surprised by your talent. At the time, you thought you saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes before pride took over, but it was so brief that you dismissed it as your imagination.

Now, whenever he had the chance, Alfred helped you with your projects—offering suggestions and guiding you when you got stuck on a tricky stitch or needed advice on finishing your work.

The happy memories of working with Alfred eased the ache in your heart, pushing your tears away for a moment.

You grabbed a handkerchief (one you made yourself) and blew your nose, making sure to wipe away all traces of tears and snot—in that order, just in case.

“I think I got a little carried away…” you said, your voice a bit steadier. “I didn’t even explain who Cass or Terry are.”

You took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to explain the arrival of your dad’s new children (who didn’t even seem to like the idea of you calling him “Dad” anymore, at least not in the house). Children who, in turn, made it very clear from the start that they weren’t interested in spending time with you—saving you the effort of trying. Just like Dick. Or your dad…

You replayed those memories in your mind, preparing to share every detail with the camera.

After Jason joined the family, the next to arrive was Cass. As with all your other “siblings,” Alfred told you a little about her before she was officially introduced to the media as another adopted child of your father’s, and thus began living in the mansion.

Like every time before, a flicker of hope reignited in your heart. Maybe this time, you’d have a friend in the house. Sure, things hadn’t worked out with Barbara or Steph, but maybe that was just due to circumstances. Or maybe they didn’t bother with you because they weren’t officially part of the family. After all, Barbara had her own family far away, and Steph still had her mom with her (something you sometimes envied).

But things with Cass were supposed to be different. You had so much in common! For starters, you were both girls, both had villain parents, and you’d heard she didn’t talk much because she’d spent a lot of time alone—just like you! Oh, you weren’t worried about her not talking. You had so many topics stored up that you hadn’t been able to share with your other siblings, and now you finally had a chance to let them out!

The moment had finally come. You were going to have a friend.

When Cass arrived, she took it upon herself to explore the mansion. It took you a while to find her, wandering through hallways and peeking around corners, but you finally caught up to her in one of the endless corridors.

She turned as she noticed your presence. You approached her hesitantly, taking small, unsure steps until you stood face-to-face, holding Doodle tightly in your arms for emotional support.

“Hi, I’m Y/N.”

Cass nodded in acknowledgment, as if it were her way of greeting you.

“And you’re Cassandra,” you added. She nodded again. “I… Would you like to play with me?”

Images of your other siblings’ rejections flashed through your mind. Maybe she was too mature for that, like they were. You scrambled to correct yourself before it was too late.

“O-Or maybe we could talk! You don’t even have to say anything—I’ve been told I’m pretty chatty, so I could do all the talking for both of us! I’m fine with that! Back in my old house, my brothers didn’t really talk to me either, and besides—” You were ready to list every possible reason why hanging out with you was a great idea.

But a wave of Cass’s hand stopped your rambling. She waited until you were completely silent before responding.

Using her hands, she began signing. You racked your brain, pulling together the bits of sign language you’d recently learned, trying to decipher what she was saying.

Oh.

Your heart sank as you finally recognized the signs for No and Bother.

Cass seemed to interpret your silence as confusion. She brought her extended index finger to her bottom lip, motioning for you to pay attention.

“No. Bother,” she said aloud with some difficulty. You guessed speaking and the language itself were still new to her.

You didn’t know what to say. As Cass turned to leave, you instinctively grabbed the hem of her shirt, careful not to be forceful, trying to stop her.

“No…? You don’t want help with your English? I… I’m not great at most of my classes, but I think I could help you a little…” As you spoke, you began signing your words, hoping it would make your meaning clearer.

Cass only shook her head coldly before walking away. You watched her head toward the hallway leading to your father’s office. Of course. He was expecting her.

Defeated, you made your way down the stairs toward your room, doing your best to avoid Alfred, who would no doubt want to know how things had gone.

Key word: tried.

“Miss Y/N, how did it go with Miss Cassandra?” Alfred intercepted you just a few steps from your destination: your room.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, hoping he wouldn’t notice the traces of tears on your face.

“I don’t think she’s interested in making friends right now,” you replied briefly, and without waiting for his response, you headed straight to your room.

To be fair to Cass, you realized you had come across as pretty desperate back then. But, to be fair to yourself, having no one to interact with in the mansion except Alfred—and no other outlet to express yourself—was starting to make you feel trapped.

Terry wasn’t much different.

Once again, your heart couldn’t help but flutter with hope because this time, there was something different: Terry was definitely your brother. By blood!

You didn’t know all the details, but Terry was without a doubt your father’s son. Him and his little brother Matt, who was only a few years younger than you. But that didn’t matter! Maybe Matt liked to play “for real,” or maybe Terry, being used to having a younger brother, would take pity on you and spend time with you. Even just sitting in the same room without showing signs of annoyance would’ve been enough to make you jump for joy (mentally, at least).

When there was a knock at the door, you already knew it was Terry, and you ran to open it. Before doing so, you quickly fixed your hair and outfit, hoping to make a good impression.

Sure enough, it was him. You remember the first thing you thought when you saw him was that there was no denying he was related to your father. The same eyes, the same hair, the same features...

You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. But that didn’t stop you from greeting him with your best smile and inviting him inside.

Terry looked at you, slightly confused, like he was trying to place who you were.

“You’re Bruce’s kid?” he asked.

“Only within these walls,” you replied, half-joking, half-serious.

Terry raised an eyebrow but chose not to ask what that meant.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

You hesitated for a moment before answering, “I think he’s in his office.”

Terry was already turning to head upstairs when you stopped him with a loud, “Wait.”

“Aren´t...? Aren’t you the least bit curious about me? We’re siblings…”

That’s as far as you got before Terry cut you off.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Terry began, his voice soft but firm, “whatever just happened doesn’t change anything for me. I only have one family—one dad, one mom, and one little brother. Bruce isn’t part of that, and, well, neither are you. Sorry to put it like that.” He placed a hand on your head, as if to comfort you. “But hey, you’ve already got plenty of big brothers around here, right? Probably a relief not to have one more, huh?” Terry joked.

No, it’s not, you wanted to say. But you were too much of a coward to voice it, so you just let him leave.

Were you disappointed? Absolutely. Surprised? Not at all. Part of you had already been bracing for something worse.

You couldn’t help but let out a long sigh you’d been holding as you turned and headed for the garden.

You felt like you were getting better at dealing with it, bit by bit. The subtle rejections from your… housemates didn’t sting as much anymore.

At this point, calling them siblings felt wrong.

“No one’s ever going to say it to my face…” you muttered aloud. “But I know I’m not part of the family. I think they’re ashamed of me…” Your gaze dropped, tinged with sadness.

Memories of Dick shooing you into another room before his friends arrived flashed through your mind. Or that one time you overheard Tim talking with his friends, saying you were “just the butler’s kid.”

Well, you know what? Screw Tim. Since when is being Alfred’s kid some kind of insult? He could go take a hike.

And don’t even get me started on Mr. Wayne.

When you mentioned these things to Alfred, he dismissed them, insisting you were misinterpreting their actions.

You had no doubt Alfred loved you. But he loved the rest of the family too. You didn’t want to push him any further. You were terrified that if the time ever came when he had to choose sides, he’d pick them over you.

“…But I think I’ve figured out the real reason behind all of this.”

“It’s gotta be my powers. Otherwise, I seriously don’t get what I’m doing wrong. Though I wonder who told them about it... Since... Since that day, I haven’t used them.” You swallowed hard before continuing. “But that brings me to my last point.”

“I think Batman is my dad. And the Batfamily is my family.” You revealed to the camera.

“It’s not really a theory; it’s more of a fact to me. I’m not stupid. I’ve noticed how they all sneak out at night and how similar we look. Honestly, it’s kind of shocking no one from outside has put two and two together yet.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s why they exclude me all the time. But another part of me thinks I’m just making up excuses to avoid facing reality… I’d like to change things, but I don’t know how…”

You finished recording your video diary entry and switched off the camera, folding it up and setting it aside in a corner of your makeshift desk.

A few hours later, it was dinner time. For your family, dinner wasn’t exactly a moment of bonding—unless there was something worth celebrating in your siblings’ lives or your father’s.

For example, not long ago, you discovered something called a “birthday.”

It happened a few weeks ago, when there was a celebration in the grand hall for Steph. You hadn’t understood what they were celebrating until you asked Alfred.

They were celebrating Steph’s birth!

People did that? That’s incredible! Celebrating someone’s existence? Yours?

For a moment, your heart swelled with awe and hope. You never imagined there could be such a sweet custom in the outside world. But the feeling didn’t last.

Soon, other questions began creeping into your mind.

If it was tied to one’s birthdate, how come you hadn’t known about it before? Your family had so many members, which meant there should’ve been plenty of birthdays, right? Why were you only learning about this now?

You weren’t as clueless as everyone at school liked to think. If they hadn’t done it here, it must’ve meant your family had been celebrating birthdays without you—probably somewhere outside the mansion.

And now that you thought about it, you’d never celebrated Alfred’s birthday either…

You forced yourself to stop that train of thought for your own sanity.

But more importantly—had you ever celebrated your own birthday?

You had one, right? You were alive, weren’t you? That had to mean you’d been born. You should have your own special day… shouldn’t you?

This dinner wasn’t any different from your usual routine. Your family had different schedules for dinner, and only when Bruce explicitly demanded it did everyone gather in the dining room to eat. Even then, they chose times they knew you’d be busy.

You realized this one day when you finished your garden chores earlier than usual, just in time to join them for dinner. But instead of welcoming you, they exchanged glances with each other, and the meal went silent.

They were doing it on purpose—scheduling dinner at times they knew you couldn’t make it.

That night, you cried yourself to sleep.

You still wanted to belong somewhere, to be part of a family. But you weren’t human enough to be sure your friends would accept you if they knew where you came from. If they didn’t outright reject you, it would probably be out of sheer luck. Even your closest friends might start avoiding you, just like your family did.

You knew these fears weren’t grounded in reality, but the mere possibility was enough to keep you up at night.

You weren’t human enough to fit in with them, but you weren’t plant enough to communicate with them either, or for them to want to spend time with you like you used to with your brothers.

In your desperate search for scraps of affection from your family, you ended up neglecting the plants around the house. You didn’t know who the gardener was, but they definitely needed to be fired.

You started noticing how the natural glow of the plants seemed to fade when you got close, the flower buds would close up, and you swore the cactus thorns became sharper when you passed by.

Maybe this was part of your punishment for burning your brothers alive. You accepted it and moved on, but you still tried to show these plants care and love.

You couldn’t help but notice how much your relationship with the plants mirrored your relationship with your family. Maybe both situations were karma for what you’d done years ago…

Or maybe you were just starting to lose faith in forming any real family bonds with anyone in this mansion, except for Alfred.

On one hand, you did want to connect with your real father, but you couldn’t shake the guilt you felt towards Alfred, who’d taken on the fatherly role in your life since… well, since you met him.

Most of the time, you felt like you didn’t deserve him, or his care, or his affection. But you still loved him.

That night wasn’t any different.

Your father wasn’t home. Dick was in Bludhaven. Jason didn’t live with you, and neither did Terry or Steph. You had no idea where Cass was, and you knew Tim was holed up in his room because he’d come to the kitchen to grab his dinner and then leave.

Alfred was busy with his work while you ate your dinner on the kitchen counter.

"Alfred." He hummed, letting you know he was listening. "Do I have a birthday?"

He stopped for a second and looked at you. "That's an unusual question, Miss. But yes, I suppose you do have a birthday." Before he said anything more, he added, "However, we don't know the exact date of your birth. No one has been able to figure out your birthday for certain."

What did that mean? Were you never going to have a birthday? A special day just for you?

A day where you could feel loved…?

Before you knew it, you found yourself wrapped in Alfred's arms, suddenly aware that you’d started crying like the little girl you were.

"Oh, little miss..." Alfred murmured, "Please don't cry. It breaks my heart to see you like this."

You let yourself be comforted by his gentle care, curling up in his arms. But the comfort didn’t last long. Just moments later, Alfred’s phone started buzzing urgently.

He had to pull away from the hug to check what was happening. You could make out the contact picture of your father on his screen and the family chat that didn’t include you. It was something you understood, really; you didn’t have access to personal tech products. The closest you came to them were the TVs in the mansion’s common rooms and the video camera you fixed just yesterday.

You told yourself maybe they didn’t give them to you because you were still too young, and besides, Alfred did his best to keep you away from screens as much as he could.

Alfred apologized and left the room quickly. You wiped your tears and went back to your food, but now it tasted cold and bitter.

That night wasn’t any different.

But from the next morning on, everything changed.

You’d woken up with a better mood the next morning.

You got dressed and, before heading to breakfast and then to school, decided to record in your daily video what you’d been thinking overnight.

“So… Maybe I can’t help in a defensive way, but it occurred to me that I could help in another way.” You smiled at the camera, the difference between how you’d ended the previous video and how you were starting this one evident. “I thought, since Barbara and Tim support the family with communications, I could help by creating gadgets…”

“So far, nobody knows who makes the gadgets for Batman, but I have my suspicions that it might be Mr. Fox. He frequently comes over to our house, and him and Dad lock themselves in his office for long stretches…”

You cleared your throat and played absentmindedly with Doodle.

“I’m talking about biotechnological gear. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to incorporate real plants into battle like weapons, but I think I’m willing to use them in an indirect way, collecting cells and reinforcing certain areas artificially…” In your mind, you already had a ton of almost-solid ideas, only lacking the ability to bring them to life, though you’d need to put extra effort into the design of the gadgets.

Bioelectric gloves, a bioluminescent camouflage cloak, a pheromone detector, a fungal disarming sphere, a viral fiber bomb, and a smart hemostatic patch were just some of the ideas that were more developed in your head. You briefly explained each one’s function and how you’d make that idea possible.

You thought big, yes, and it would probably take years to bring those ideas to life given your current situation, but you really had nowhere else to turn and prayed that your father would be merciful enough to at least let you try once you turned eighteen.

“I won’t lie, most of these inventions were just silly ideas I had at that moment to help my mom. Most of these were originally intended to assist her in combat and defense. I spent a lot of time watching her act in battle and also seeing her develop biological weapons, so I have some basic knowledge about it, but I’ll need to study more…”

The last words reminded you of your busy day ahead. Checking a clock (that, by the way, you’d taken from the mansion’s storage and fixed up) hanging on the wall, you were alarmed at how little time you had to grab some breakfast before heading to school.

You quickly shut off the camera, grabbed Doodle, and shot down the hall toward the kitchen.

Alfred gave you a quiet scolding with his eyes as you showed up looking a little disheveled, but he let it slide and served you a plate full of pancakes. Needless to say, you devoured them like there was no tomorrow, and Alfred occasionally ruffled your hair after you finished one.

“I have some important news for you, Miss Y/N.” You looked up from your plate, giving him your full attention. “Tomorrow morning, another family member will be arriving. Master Bruce’s biological son, Master Damian.” Your mind short-circuited at the words “biological son.”

“What’s he like?” you asked timidly, maybe a little nervous.

“He’s about your age, and his upbringing is... quite particular.”

In the few minutes left, Alfred told you quite a bit about him and his background. At school, you couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if the story would be different with him compared to the rest.

But for your own sake, you promised yourself not to force anything if it didn’t happen. You weren’t sure you could handle any more cruel rejections.

The morning arrived painfully fast for your liking. Or maybe it was because you didn’t have enough time to process the situation? You weren’t sure, but as you put the finishing touches on your outfit, you felt, in a way you couldn’t explain, that he was already here.

As you left your room, you saw a new figure standing in front of Alfred. You timidly clung to his leg, peeking at the guest.

You hadn’t set any expectations about what he would look like, but you certainly didn’t expect him to look like this. He was on a completely different level, his appearance well-maintained, exuding both confidence and lethality, and he was a few inches taller than you. The only thing you could say you shared were the eyes—just as green as yours.

You realized that, so far, neither of them had spoken. Similarly, he seemed to be silently assessing you.

Swallowing, you decided to take the first step.

“Welcome home, I’m Y/N…” your right arm, which had been behind your back the whole time, revealed a small plush cat that you had hurriedly made the night before for him, even missing dinner to finish it on time.

A little uncertain, you held it out to him and waited for his reaction.

If you were right, as Alfred had told you, Damian and you were more alike than you expected.

He had been raised to be a weapon; like you, he was an… accident; like you, he had killed people; like you…

If your assumptions were correct, then the family would probably hate him just like they hated you. At that moment, you leaned against your friend Doodle, who, without you realizing, had become a pillar for you in facing your situation. You couldn’t count the number of times you had cried with Doodle in your arms. It was almost a daily routine.

“I heard you like animals…” you explained vaguely.

You noticed Damian hesitated before taking the plush with his free hand, the other carrying his belongings.

“What is this supposed to be?” he snapped, eyeing you sharply.

“A stuffed cat…” you answered as if it was obvious, but then you remembered your first day away from home—maybe he didn’t know what cats were, just like you hadn’t before arriving at the mansion? You wanted to retract the tone of your voice...

But then you witnessed him grab the plush with both hands before decapitating it with just his strength. The seams unraveled, and the stuffing flew everywhere.

Your surprise turned into anger. You yanked the toy out of his hands in a second.

“If you didn’t want it, you could’ve just said so, animal!”

Damian scowled and reached for his sword, which you hadn’t noticed until he unsheathed it. On your part, you could feel your powers surging back rapidly beneath your skin, a swarm of thorns ready to strike.

“Enough!”

You tensed when you heard your father’s voice, clear and angry. You realized that it had been months since you had heard his voice, and years since he had addressed you directly.

A little frightened, you half-hid behind Alfred’s legs. Your father had never spoken to you, and now, after all this time, he was doing so—but only because you had angered him. That couldn’t be a good sign for you.

Bruce assessed the situation with a cold look before speaking to you, clearly annoyed. “Y/N, if you were going to cause problems, it would have been better if you stayed in your room.”

You were shocked by his words, and you tried to argue. "But… I…" you didn’t know how to begin defending yourself, the shock of him addressing you after so many years was so overwhelming that you forgot how the conflict started in the first place.

“I don’t want to hear another word from you for the rest of the day. Go to your room,” Bruce cut you off.

You huffed in anger, but you didn’t want to make your dad angrier. You didn’t want him to stop talking to you forever. Resigned, you ran to your room, not without giving the new family member an angry look. Between the two of you, you both knew it was his fault.

You were so upset that you lost all interest in lunch and locked yourself in your room. Your room, which, by the way, was only a few steps away from the kitchen, and therefore the dining room. From there, you could hear the rest of the family gathering to give Damian a warm welcome, just like they had done for the others who had arrived after you.

You knew no one would say it, but there was no place for you in that welcome meeting, especially now that you had fought with the guest of honor.

You knew you’d have to distract yourself with something else. Your video diary, think about your next outfit to create, maybe make more toys for yourself. But even though you knew it was hurting you, you sat down by the door, listening intently to all the conversation taking place in the dining room.

For a moment, you closed your eyes and imagined what it would have felt like to be welcomed like that when you first arrived. Your head knew that many of them hadn’t been at the mansion before you, but in your world of fantasy, they had.

In that world, maybe you wouldn’t have been the product of abuse, and your dad would have received you with open arms, would have lifted you up and told you he loved you, even if your eye was defective. He would have told you it didn’t matter, and you were beautiful just as you were. He might have even let you use his last name and called him “dad.”

In that world, Dick would have made plans to show you what an Arcade was and would have been with you the whole time.

In that world, Tim wouldn’t hate you for no reason and maybe would play with you. Or that could apply to any of your other siblings.

In that world, someone would have noticed how hurt you were when you arrived and would have helped you do simple things like sit down, walk around the house, or climb into your bed. Basically, anything that involved using your legs. Someone would have pitied you and played dolls with you, or anything else. Anything would have been fine with you. Someone would have taken pity and started a conversation with you that lasted more than three words.

In that world, someone would have helped you decorate your room, someone might have bought you toys like they did for other kids, someone would have walked you hand in hand to your first day of school, someone would have noticed your struggles with schoolwork and helped you, someone would have comforted you when you saw your mom on the news, happy without you, someone would have realized your basic needs like hygiene and clothing, and would have bought you everything you needed and taught you, instead of Molly timidly instructing you on how to groom yourself due to teasing, and you turning the curtains from one of the rooms into dresses because you lacked clothes.

In that world, even if they didn’t know your birthdate, they would have made one up to celebrate it once a year, just for the sake of celebrating that you were alive for another year, celebrating that you were born.

In that world, if you had received just one of those things and died the next day, you were sure you would have died happy.

You opened your eyes, and instead of the fantasy world you had created, you found yourself in your now almost dark room, only lit by the natural light coming through your window, which reminded you that the only lightbulb in your room had gone out a few days ago and needed to be replaced. Your gaze moved from the ceiling to the faded and cracked walls; since your room was on the first floor of the mansion, it couldn’t be remodeled without the risk of the building collapsing. From the wall, you shifted to your bed and to what was under it— a trash bag filled with all your self-made toys.

They hadn’t been there before, but since you brought one to school so proudly and they laughed at you, you were too embarrassed to leave them visible.

Yes, they weren’t like the toys other kids had, yours were made with funny little eyes, wires, plastic or rusted metal utensils, everything taken from the mansion’s storage room. Still, you didn’t understand what was so wrong with them; they were cute and even funny, right?

Now that you thought about it, maybe that’s why you stopped inviting your siblings to play with you. You feared they would mock your efforts too. However, you didn’t have the heart to throw them away. Even though they were a bit defective and made from trash, they were yours, and you loved them. You went from leaving them scattered around the room to putting them in a trash bag under your bed, knowing that someday you would stop playing with them and would have to either give them away or throw them out…

Maybe that’s how your family felt about you? Were you just a funny little toy made out of trash? … Would they throw you away someday?

… Maybe you were thinking too much about it.

You lay down on your bed, ignoring your growing hunger and the lump in your throat. Maybe sleeping would calm you a bit.

You would have liked to say that you woke up on your own, in a normal way, but in reality, it was the strange sounds coming from outside that pulled you from your slumber. Confused, you approached the window to see what was causing the unusual noise.

Surprise! It was Damian, seemingly training with his sword, but the problem was that he was training with the very plants in your garden—the plants you had nurtured so carefully…

You watched, dumbfounded, as most of the taller bushes were cleaved down in a single swipe. You jumped out of bed and ran toward the garden.

The confrontation with Damian was intense. Insults flew back and forth, but eventually, he left the garden and went inside the mansion, leaving you outside with the mess he had made of your plants.

With gentleness, you began gathering the damaged branches of the shrubs, and making sure no one was watching, you used your powers to try to restore the plants to their original state. It was difficult, as you weren’t used to using your powers for anything, but after a lot of effort, you had managed to repair what was broken, carefully placing the branches back and gathering the fallen leaves. Slowly, the garden returned to its pristine condition.

By the time you finished, night had fallen, and you still needed to put the tools away. As you were finishing up, you felt a gaze on you. Looking up, you found your father’s indifferent eyes watching you.

How long had he been watching you? Was he concerned? About you?

You raised your hand hesitantly and greeted him with a small, friendly smile. Bruce didn’t return the gesture, and instead, he walked away from the window, leaving you with your hand raised and a face that had lost its smile.

Disappointed, you returned to your room, but stopped in your tracks when you noticed the door was open.

You didn’t leave the door open…

Quickening your steps, you entered your room, half-expecting to find Alfred, but once again, another disappointment when you found Damian inside.

It was already beginning to sour just encountering him, but what was worse…

Was that Doodle what he had in his hands?

Panic surged through you, and you ran toward him, trying to snatch your friend from his grip. But he was faster than you, pulling Doodle out of your reach.

"Give it back! It’s mine!" you cried, struggling with all your might to take it from his hands. Damn him for being taller than you.

"How can you not be embarrassed to have something like this? You’re a disgrace to the family line," Damian sneered.

"Give it back! It’s all I have left of my mom!" you shouted, your voice shaking with desperation.

Finally, you managed to get it back, giving Damian a quick jab to the shoulder. It wasn’t much, but it clearly irritated him.

"Bastard…" Damian muttered under his breath, starting to take a fighting stance again. But this time, now that it was just the two of you, you didn’t hesitate to show him the large thorns that emerged from your body.

"Touch a single hair, and I’ll leave you as a strainer," you warned him, your voice firm and filled with the weight of a promise.

Damian, realizing he was at a disadvantage, fell silent and stormed out of your room with heavy footsteps. It wasn't until a few long minutes of being on high alert that you were able to lower your guard and shut your door, making sure he couldn't come back in.

You quickly changed your mind. You and Damian? Complete opposites.

You were dumb enough to think that, because you were the same age and had similar backgrounds, you’d get along. But, honestly, you’d thought the same about each of your siblings, and look how that turned out.

By the way, you avoided eating anything plant-based, sticking mostly to animal products, but Damian was a vegetarian... The only thing that kept you both from tearing each other apart at dinner was the fact that Cass was there with you.

Things just kept getting worse with Damian. He couldn’t stand you, and you couldn’t stand him. Alfred had lost count of the times he had to step in when things got out of hand between the two of you.

You just couldn’t understand why Damian hated you so much. Maybe it had something to do with blood, because he didn’t seem to get along with Terry either. You often heard them argue, but Terry always shut it down, deciding to stay out of Damian’s games.

You admired him a little for that; you didn’t have that kind of control. You couldn’t explain it, but whenever Damian provoked you, your impulsive side just came rushing to the surface. At some point, fighting with Damian became a regular occurrence in the house.

Along with the constant scolding you’d get when it happened. They’d tell you that Damian had been through so much and that you needed to be the bigger person, not letting him get to you. Especially Dick, who would defend Damian and tell you how disappointed he was in you for letting him get to you. Yet he never once scolded Damian for starting most of the fights.

That definitely made the gap between you and your family even wider.

The only good thing about Damian was his friend Jon. Jon was the total opposite of Damian. Kind, fun, polite, considerate...

When they first met, your jealousy of Damian only grew. You could never understand how he could become friends with someone as sweet as Jon.

But your interaction with Jon was brief before Damian barged into the living room, shouting at you to get out and leave his friend alone. He didn’t exactly use those words, though. It was a much wider range of insults aimed at you, and he didn’t even call Jon his friend, but whatever.

The next day at school, you felt like something was off.

Most of the people you used to talk to were avoiding you. You didn’t even get to finish your greeting before they moved off to another room. What was going on?

When you got to class, it was the same thing. People were keeping their distance from you, except for Molly.

"What's going on? Did something happen?" you asked your little friend.

Oh no, what if they found out about your eye?

"Y/N... Everyone at school is saying... well... that you're Poison Ivy's daughter..." Molly confessed. "Is it true?"

Your world seemed to stop. You’d always known there’d be consequences if anyone found out who your mom was, but now that it was actually happening, your mind just went blank with panic...

... If you tell anyone that I'm your mother...

What was the right answer to that? Was there even one?

"Y/N...?"

You had no doubt that somehow, your mother would find out that the rumor about her child had spread, but it wasn’t you! But she’d rip both your eyes out before you could explain...

Both eyes? It was bad enough dealing with one and a half eyes, but none at all?

What if that wasn’t enough for her? What if she tore you apart again and threw you in the pit with worms?

"Y/N...!"

You didn’t want to, you couldn’t. She couldn’t. You had Batman as your dad, he’d protect you, he wouldn’t let that happen if you begged him a little.

... refer to me as Mr. Wayne...

... No?

How stupid. He wouldn’t help you, no one would. They’d probably prefer Ivy just took care of you so they could have peace with Damian.

But you didn’t want to die. Why? Why?

Everything started to blur. The voices became echoes, and the floor felt like it was moving beneath you. And... why was everything going dark?

Months passed, and things only got worse.

You didn’t know what was worse anymore—being feared or not being feared at all.

You were left alone in class, an outcast. Even Molly had to distance herself from you because the rumors had reached the parents’ ears.

They had organized a whole movement demanding that you be kicked out of the school. But as long as Alfred, your legal guardian, was still paying the tuition, they couldn’t expel you. Needless to say, your friends’ parents had forbidden them from interacting with you under any circumstances.

Little by little, the fear they had of you disappeared, and it turned into hatred. Suddenly, the bench where you sat was scratched and covered with hurtful messages. Your chair was sticky, and the place where your books should go was filled with soda...

Your things started showing up in the trash, destroyed. As you walked down the hallways, kids would stick their feet out to trip you. And there was a group of boys who took advantage of the teachers looking the other way when it came to bullying, and began sexually harassing you...

Sometimes they’d corner you and try to lift your skirt, claiming that you must be just as much of a slut as your mom.

You didn’t even know what that word meant.

Alfred went to the school dozens of times a week to complain about what was happening, demanding that they do something, but they just kept brushing him off.

Alfred decided that by the end of the school year, he’d pull you out of there and you’d be homeschooled. But for now, you had to endure the mistreatment, hoping that, with time, people would forget about you, just like your family had.

Because of the situation, your grades started plummeting. Before, you could barely stay afloat, but now you were failing most of your subjects.

Of course, Damian never missed a chance to remind you how disastrous and stupid you were at everything. You’d respond by sticking your tongue out and walking away to another room, but secretly, you started believing him.

Eventually, you were back to square one, with your only friendly interactions being with Alfred and Doodle again. You tried to comfort yourself by saying that now you had more time for inventions and clothes, but deep down, you knew you were just lying to yourself.

The bullying at school died down, at least directly. Now, they just avoided you. You knew you shouldn’t be, but you were grateful.

When things finally settled down, the idea of birthdays came back to your mind, maybe as a defense mechanism, without even realizing it. In your video diary, you mentioned that you had decided the day you arrived at the mansion was going to be your birthday. You were genuinely happy.

To make sure everyone knew, you created birthday invitations—nothing fancy, just the date and where the celebration would be held (the dining room), along with a cute drawing of you and the family member the invitation was for. You got a lot of resistance when it came to making an invitation for Damian, but Alfred insisted, saying that if you didn’t, you’d be doing to Damian what everyone else was doing to you. Sighing, you admitted he was right.

With Damian in mind, came Jon, so just in case, you made an invitation for him too. You made sure to deliver all the invitations in advance to everyone’s rooms or offices. For the family members who didn’t often pass through the mansion, like Jason or Terry, you asked Alfred to deliver them for you, and he had no problem doing so.

Fortunately, Jon came to visit a week before your birthday, so you caught him briefly to hand him his invitation.

His eyes seemed to light up, and his cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. "I’ll be there," he promised with a smile.

You smiled back and headed to the kitchen to continue helping Alfred bake cookies, unaware of the pair of emerald eyes that had noticed every detail of your interaction.

You looked at yourself in the mirror once more before heading to school. You used to happily put on your uniform and rush out the door. Now, you just wished the day would end as quickly as possible.

When you arrived at the school, you spotted your locker from a distance, battered and out of place. It had paint all over it, the latch was completely forced open and destroyed, and you could clearly see the marks of heavy blows. The inside wasn’t much better, your textbooks and belongings were broken, wet, and covered in dirt—completely irreparable.

You turned to look at a teacher lazily resting against one of the nearby walls, silently hoping for some explanation or at least a hint of indignation from them. Instead, the teacher averted their gaze and walked away.

You didn’t know how to proceed. What were you supposed to do in these situations?

Your nose began to itch, signaling that tears were about to come. This was the last thing you needed—being seen crying.

You ran as quickly as you could toward the girls' bathroom, taking note in the back of your mind of the older girls already at the sink. You locked yourself in a stall and silently let the tears out.

Well, maybe not so silently.

A few knocks on your door made you stop.

"Hey… Are you okay? Do you need anything? Maybe a tissue?"

You heard the dull thud of a hit followed by a muffled "Ouch!"—someone had reprimanded the girl who had tried to talk to you.

You didn’t know what to do. Words got stuck in your throat, unable to form coherently, but you made an attempt.

"No… I’m not okay," you answered in between sobs.

"Oh… What happened? Maybe we can do something about it," said a new voice, a little softer and sweeter.

You hesitated for a moment before telling them what had been going on.

"They bully me at school. They destroyed my locker and my stuff, the teachers don’t do anything, and my friends hate me." Your voice cracked, and you could feel the tears echoing down the hallway. "And I can’t leave until the school year ends."

You resumed crying, not caring anymore whether anyone heard.

The bathroom fell silent for a long while, except for your sobs. You wondered for a second why the girls had gone so quiet, but assumed it was because maybe they weren’t expecting this much drama from you…

"… Really?" asked a third voice.

You sniffled and responded with a quiet "Yes."

"That sounds really tough, sweetheart. I can’t even imagine what I’d do in that situation," the voice said, comforting you. "But I guess it’s what you deserve for being such a little bitch."

"What?"

You screamed in surprise as the door to your stall was violently slammed open. The three girls, older than you, wasted no time in grabbing your arm and throwing you against the tiles, leaving you crumpled on the floor.

One of them started kicking you in the stomach with force, while another quickly shut and locked the bathroom door to prevent interruptions.

The last girl pulled scissors from her backpack.

"Do you have any idea how much money my dad lost because of your mom’s bitch ass?! Because of her, we’re bankrupt!" she shouted, pointing the scissors at you.

One of her friends stopped her hand and spoke in whispers.

"Abby, what are you doing? If you hurt her, we’re screwed."

"I don’t care! I won’t be in this school by the end of the week because of this bitch and her mom."

The pain left your head spinning, and you were doing your best to keep your body from releasing spikes. You were sensible enough to know that would only bring more problems, and create chaos. Your dad had worked too hard to keep the media from finding out who your mother was. So, powers weren’t an option.

The sharp pull of your hair was enough to drag you back into reality.

"What if we give you a look that matches your insides, hm?"

The next thing you could remember was the sound of scissors cutting your long hair to pieces. You had spent so much time and effort on it because you wanted it to be as long and beautiful as your mother’s. Maybe to feel closer to her after she left you.

Now none of that mattered. Your hair had been destroyed, despite your pleas and tears. They didn’t stop, and no one came to your rescue. When they were done, it didn’t make sense to keep fighting, but before they left, they filled a trash bag with water and threw it on you.

"Remember, sweetheart, this is where you belong. This way, you’re more in tune with your outside," Abby laughed.

You don’t remember how long you stayed there, lying in the bathroom. All that filled your mind were the events of the past few weeks—how everything had escalated so quickly…

Your head barely registered the hours of class you were missing, but to you, it wasn’t a loss. It was a moment of peace after another—moments where you weren’t being tormented by the torturous silence from your friends, another second without hearing Damian’s constant insults about your academic failures and horrible origins, another second where your thoughts about your family’s neglect didn’t invade your mind. Your mother, Alfred, the flowers, the inventions—nothing. There was nothing in your head.

You wondered if this was what it felt like to be dead, if this was how peaceful it was all the time, like sleeping.

It must have felt like this, right? You never imagined it could feel so soothing.

The next thing your foggy brain could register was Damian’s silent figure, observing your pathetic state. You couldn’t make out his face, it was too much effort for your dazed brain, but surely he was laughing, right?

You didn’t know if he really hadn’t said a word this entire time or if it was just your fried brain not processing the sounds into words.

You don’t remember much more of that day in your hazy mind.

There wasn't much that could be done about it, according to the school. Since they didn’t know who the perpetrators were or what grade they were in, nobody got punished.

Alfred told you that you’d be skipping the rest of the week at school. He used the excuse that you needed to plan your birthday properly, to make it special. You knew he was saying that to distract you, and you wanted to thank him for it, but also tell him that it wasn’t necessary.

You wanted to tell him you weren’t thinking about what happened. Honestly, you weren’t thinking about anything. Reality had turned into a slow movie for you, you weren’t the main character, you were just a background extra in your own mind.

But none of those words came out. You just nodded in response.

In the first few days, you lost your appetite for everything. Your routine consisted of drinking water, then sitting in the sun, and then just sleeping. You felt guilty for not working on your responsibilities, but it wasn’t like anyone noticed when you did them, so you figured no one would notice if you stopped doing them.

By the third day, guilt caught up with you, and you asked Alfred if you could help him clean the mansion. He placed a hand on your head, your hair a bit more even now thanks to him, and told you that if that’s what you wanted, he had no problem with it.

Most of the family members were already busy with their daily tasks, which meant it was just Alfred and you. And, honestly, that felt perfect right now.

Your job wasn’t as demanding as Alfred’s. He didn’t want you overexerting yourself, just in case, so your task was to take the trash bags out of the rooms. The garbage truck would come at night, so it was better to have everything ready by then.

Confrontation therapy, you joked to yourself in your head.

But when you entered Tim’s room, now spotless thanks to Alfred, you noticed a red glittering flash in the trash can.

Your gloved hands reached in to grab the colorful piece of paper.

Your heart sank as you instantly recognized it: his invitation to your birthday. The drawing of the two of you holding hands, your messy handwriting, and the glitter you had added as a personal touch—it was all crumpled and dirty, torn in half, right at the spot where your fingers had been drawn joining.

Holding back tears, you left the room and passed by Alfred so quickly that he sensed something was wrong.

You went down to the base of the stairs, where all the trash bags were still piled up to be taken out all at once. You opened each of them, confirming your suspicions. There they were—every single one of your invitations.

Damian, Dick, Steph, Terry… everyone. You broke down in painful sobs after holding in your hands the crumpled invitation of you and your dad.

You left everything—gloves, bags, trash—just lying around. And you ran to your room, grabbing Doodle and jumping onto your bed.

You let out the tears you’d been holding in for days.

You felt Alfred’s figure standing in the doorway, jaw clenched and eyes full of deep sadness. You wished he could apologize for all the damage your family had done to you, but you knew that no one but them could do that, and even then, they wouldn’t be deserving of forgiveness.

“Why, Alfred? Why don’t they love me?”

You lifted your head off your pillow.

“It’s because of my eye, isn’t it?” Alfred could hear his own heart breaking. “I told them I can’t control it!” Your voice trembled at the end of the sentence, choked with a sob.

Alfred did his best to calm your panic attack that day. Poor you, without a family who loved you. But why couldn’t you see that you didn’t need a family if you had him?

To say he was selfish was an understatement. He knew that this improper thinking would bring more and more problems, and that the outcome would be even worse, but something in him made him keep you all to himself. As his only father figure.

Oh, his sweet little flower.

Since you found the reminder of your love and your longing for a family, thrown out in the trash, everything else that followed just stopped mattering.

Whenever you saw your family spending time together, you quietly slipped away to another room. If they accidentally bumped into you or asked about another family member, you'd ignore them like they weren't even there. You even started tuning out Damian's provocations.

Something inside you had broken in a way you couldn't explain. But it brought you a fleeting sense of peace that was always destroyed by something outside your control.

At some point, the peace you managed to find just wasn’t enough anymore, and you realized you needed to eliminate the problem once and for all.

09:34

You checked your watch. Alfred wasn’t home at this hour—he was out getting groceries. It was now or never.

You got out of bed and, walking quietly, made your way to the cleaning closet. You rummaged through the drawers until you found what you were looking for. A bottle.

Pesticide, the label said, along with all kinds of warnings about its use.

So, so soon, everything would be quiet.

“What do you think you're doing?”

The sudden voice in the room startled you, almost making you drop the bottle.

Damian, of course.

You decided to stick to your plan. If you didn’t respond, there wouldn’t be any conflict.

You walked past him, heading toward your room.

“I asked you a question.” Damian grabbed your shoulder.

You shook it off violently, removing his hand from you.

You weren’t falling for it. Not again.

“Oh, at least your brain’s finally doing something sensible.” He kept provoking you, eyeing the pesticide bottle in your hand and the damn Drake doll in the other…

…

“Hey, in that case, you won’t be needing this, right?” He snatched the doll from your hand. “Titus needs a new toy. You don’t mind giving him this one, do you? It won’t be of any use to you where you’re going.”

He dodged your wild swing. Predictable.

He avoided you a couple more times, then ran toward the living room, one of Titus’s favorite spots, completely forgetting about his friend in the house.

The chase lasted just a little while longer until you lunged at him, determined to get Doodle back. You grabbed one side of the doll, and he took the other, and you both struggled for control over the toy.

“What’s going on here?” Jon’s voice suddenly cut through the silence of the struggle, making you freeze.

You loosened your grip while Damian tightened his too much, and as a result, Doodle flew out of his hands, landing right in the flames of the fireplace.

“Doodle!” You shoved Damian away from you and ran to save your best friend, but it was already too late. He was being consumed by the fire.

Jon and Damian stood there, watching as you broke down in silent tears in front of the fire, helplessly watching your only memory of your mom turn into ashes.

Just like your brothers.

Jon started to move as if to comfort you, but Damian grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out of the room, knowing that right now, both your emotions and your powers were a ticking time bomb.

Nothing. You didn’t have anything left of your mom. The only thing that wouldn’t go away were the scars she left on you, but somehow, that didn’t bring you any comfort.

You didn’t think anything ever could.

The rest of the week dragged on for you, but you eventually made it back to school.

You tried to ignore the whispers about your new appearance and walked straight to your classroom.

Unfortunately, it was Literature, a class you shared with Damian. And as luck would have it, Professor Lars always seemed to arrange the seating based on what she thought was best, and she always paired you up with Damian.

“The best student must sit with the worst one to maintain balance,” she’d say as her justification.

Damian was already sitting at his assigned desk, waiting in silence. Neither of you spoke throughout the class, but when you hesitated on how to answer a question about the book, Damian decided to break the silence.

“You’re an idiot,” he began. “Crying over a crappy doll…”

“Call it a ‘crappy doll’ one more time, Damian, and I swear, there’ll be a thorny root crossing your jugular,” you threatened.

“Hmph, your lack of arguments and your increasing violence just prove me right,” he smirked. “But then again, what else would you expect from the daughter of an unbalanced criminal?”

You slammed your pencil on the desk with a loud thud. “That’s it.”

Without wasting another second, you lunged at Damian.

“Take it back!”

“Never!”

The other kids crowded around, shouting “fight, fight, fight!”

Neither of you had the upper hand. Both were restricted by the crowd— you couldn’t use your powers, and Damian couldn’t use his moves without exposing his questionable abilities for someone his age.

From a distance, you could hear Professor Lars’s shocked gasp.

“Damian! Y/N! To detention!”

It was a total miracle they were able to separate you.

Professor William, your gym teacher, grabbed both of you by the arms and threw you into the detention room.

“You two will stay here until I fill out both of your reports and call your respective tutors, got it?!” he barked.

You both nodded. Then, the door slammed shut.

It only took three minutes. Two to make sure Professor William was far enough, and one to double-check.

And then you went back at it, this time, nothing could hold you back.

You extended your arm, letting it morph into a long, thick limb, more like a swarm of vines and thorns, and pointed it at Damian. He dodged it with the skill of an Al Ghul, jumping over desks and scaling walls with surprising speed, but you weren’t impressed.

Damian leapt to attack, but more roots sprouted from your legs, ensnaring one of his feet. With a flick of your hand, they yanked him down to the ground, slamming him hard.

You wasted no time and climbed on top of him, pinning him down.

“You don’t try!” you screamed. “You don’t try at all! But I do! I do it every damn day!”

You started to struggle with him, fighting for dominance.

“You’re horrible! You treat everyone like crap for no real reason! You don’t care about anyone but yourself, you and your stupid bloodline!”

You regained some strength and shoved the upper part of his body back into the ground.

“Then… then why…?” you trailed off.

“Why does everyone stick by your side? Why do they love you...?” Thick tears began to fall. “I see it! I see how you treat them!”

“But then why does Dick keep favoring you? Why does everyone give you all their love and attention? Every whim you’ve had, they’ve given it to you, but you don’t appreciate any of it.” You started hitting him in the chest. “I have to fight to get Dick to remember my name! I tried everything to talk more than three words with anyone in the family, but they just act nasty to me for no reason! I have to make my own clothes, fix my own stuff, and make my own toys from their trash because no one gives me anything!” You didn’t notice when Damian stopped fighting back, lying still on the floor. “I have to invite them to my own birthday, and still, they don’t show up! In the winter, no one notices when I disappear because I’m hibernating!”

“I could be dead, and if it weren’t for Alfred, no one would even know!”

You remembered your first winter at the mansion. There was a hole in your window, letting the freezing air in. You hadn’t realized that this time you would need more energy because of your injuries, so you slept with the usual amount of energy you always consumed. If it hadn’t been for Alfred, you would have woken up dead.

By now, you didn’t try to hide your sobs.

“You’re the product of something horrible, like me. Your mom’s family is horrible, just like mine. You’re a killer, like me. You’re broken, like me!” Your hits started losing strength. “But Dad loves you anyway. He won’t even let me call him ‘Dad’…! I… I… What am I doing wrong?”

“You get good grades, you have a whole kingdom to yourself, you have luxuries, pets, the best friend in the world, you have a huge family that loves you, even your own mother loves you! Mine tried to kill me more times than I can remember! How the hell can you feel so miserable, Damian?! Why do you insist on making my life miserable?!”

You didn’t notice the tears beginning to form in Damian’s own eyes.

“Is it the inheritance? If you haven’t noticed, detective, I don’t carry Mr. Wayne’s last name! The idea of being associated with me disgusts him!”

You took a breath before continuing. You could already predict you’d be hoarse the next morning.

“You don’t want me to be happy at the mansion, you don’t want me to be happy at school, and you don’t want me to be happy on my own terms! What the hell do you want from me, Damian?!” You gripped his shirt tightly, now stained with your tears. “If I die, would you be satisfied?! Because if that’s the case, just do it! I don’t care anymore!”

“Not anymore…”

You had no more words to lash out with, and if Damian had any to say, he kept them to himself and remained silent.

The only sound in the room was your sobbing.

Without you realizing it, Damian’s hand regained some strength and moved toward your face. You didn’t stop him and braced yourself for the worst, but against all odds, he gently wiped your tears away with the tips of his fingers and moved behind your head, pushing it against his chest, holding you in an embrace.

“Sorry.”

You opened your eyes, and your crying intensified.

Since you’d left your prison, autumn had never felt so warm.

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ God, it took me a long time to write this chapter, the exams really hit me hard these past few weeks, but I hope the wait was worth it…

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ I read a lot of positive comments on the previous part, I just want to thank everyone for the interactions! I really appreciate them a lot! <333

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ About the tagging list, I’m not really sure what’s going on, but there are some people I can’t tag. However, if you want to be tagged, just let me know! Anyone who’s already tagged in this part, consider yourself tagged in the upcoming ones too!

✿⁠ ⸺ N/A ⦂ I think that’s everything. I’ve got an event right now, but when I get back, I’ll answer some asks you guys sent. Sorry for the delay, by the way! The exams are taking up most of my time. Anyway, don’t forget that every interaction is welcomed! Love you all <3

Edit: I just realized I didn’t make the taglist—seriously, I’m so sorry! I completely forgot when I posted it. ⊙﹏⊙∥

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!