Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a clean sweep.

The warehouse squatted like a cancer at Gotham’s forgotten edge, swallowed by rust, graffiti, and decades of silence. Most of the buildings in this district had been condemned or collapsed into themselves years ago, left to rot under the weight of industrial decline and criminal neglect. But this one still breathed—barely. The steel bones of its structure creaked under the night wind, and a dull orange light flickered behind its cracked windows like the last gasp of a dying fire. This was one of David Cain’s rumored training grounds. Nothing definitive, just a whisper. But in Batman’s world, whispers about Cain weren’t ignored. 

Even so, Batman didn’t expect Cain to be here tonight. In fact, he didn’t expect to find anything at all. Cain never left footprints. He was the myth behind the monsters, the man that could walk through a crowd and leave no trace behind but bodies. He was a ghost, one of the few people capable of disappearing even from the League of Assassins’ watchful gaze. If there was any chance this was one of his sites, Bruce had to see it for himself.

Although he wasn't alone tonight. 

Robin crouched beside him on the roof, the rusted metal groaning softly under his weight. The boy’s yellow cape flared gently in the sharp wind, a flicker of brightness against the dark rooftop. Jason was twelve—young, fast, and still a little reckless. He still carried the spark of inexperience in his eyes, the flicker of excitement that surged through his limbs when adrenaline hit. But lately, Bruce had noticed a shift. It showed in his posture, his movements—there was a hunger there, not just for justice but for something darker, more intense. He was quieter now. Less talk. More observation. He was learning. Faster than Bruce expected.

"You think he’s inside?" Jason whispered, voice tight, eyes locked on the warped skylight below them. His fingers flexed, twitching slightly—itching for action.

Batman said nothing at first, his lenses scanning the interior through residual heat signatures. His voice was low when it came. "Three people. Two armed. The third… smaller. Possibly a hostage.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. "Cain doesn’t take hostages.”

"Exactly," Batman murmured.

Without another word, they dropped through the skylight—silent as shadows, lethal as whispers. Robin was first, his movements precise, practiced. A blur of yellow, green and red against the dark interior as he landed in a crouch, immediately scanning the space. Batman followed, his cape folding behind him like a dark shroud as he dropped to the floor, landing soundlessly on his feet. The two armed men barely had time to react. One went down before he even saw Batman’s strike, the other crumpled instantly under Robin’s fast, expert move. It was over in seconds.

And then they saw her.

A child.

She stood in the far corner of the room, partially hidden in a spill of deeper shadow, barefoot and crouched like a cornered predator. Her face was obscured by tangled black hair, her fists stained red—knuckles torn, dried blood crusted beneath fingernails. She was small—Jason’s age, maybe younger—but her posture was wrong for a child. Wrong for anyone that innocent. Her eyes… They were pale and sharp—calm in the way only killers were calm. He could see her reading them, dissecting angles, measuring stances. Her gaze didn’t flick to exits; it moved across weak points. Distance. Timing. Response.

When Batman took a single step toward her, her weight shifted automatically. Not away. Forward. Toward the perceived threat. A measuring reach. He’d seen that gaze before—mirrored in the bloodstained elegance of Lady Shiva, in the cold, efficient brutality of League assassins. This wasn’t a civilian. 

She attacked first. Fast. Violent. Her hands shot out like blades aimed at his throat, her speed catching even him off guard. The force behind her strike could’ve been deadly, if not for the sheer recklessness in her movement. Batman didn’t block; he redirected her, stepping aside and using her momentum to unbalance her.

Jason, reacting on instinct, caught her from behind in a chokehold. “I’ve got her—!” Her head snapped back. She bit down on his forearm—hard. “OW! Son of a—!” Jason let go with a wince, stumbling back, teeth gritted. She dropped to the floor and spun into a crouch again, back to the wall. Every line of her posture screamed combat readiness. Her eyes flicked between them, wide but unblinking, scanning for weakness, for threat, for the next move she might have to make to survive.

But Batman didn’t advance. He didn’t counter or bark orders. He simply raised one hand, palm out, fingers steady. The gesture wasn’t a command, not quite. It was... an offering. A pause. A test.

The girl stilled—only slightly, but it was enough. Enough to see the tremor in her arms, the labored rise and fall of her chest. She was breathing hard, but it wasn’t fear that gripped her. No, fear was something she likely hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years. This was different. She was confused. Batman stepped forward slowly, deliberately. His cape whispered along the floor behind him, and the movement made her flinch. "You don’t need to fight," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Not anymore."

Her eyes locked on his face, but there was no recognition in them. No comprehension. Just a raw, primal calculation of distance and threat and escape. Jason, still nursing his arm, glanced sideways and muttered, “she doesn’t get it.”

Batman lowered himself to one knee, bringing his gaze level with hers. There was a tension in his shoulders now, but not the kind that came from preparing for an attack. It was the tension of realization—of understanding just how deep the damage went. The way she moved, how she winced at each word—it wasn’t fear of consequence. It was as though the sound of human language itself was an irritant, a foreign concept grating against her senses.

"You’ve never heard language before, have you?" Batman asked gently, his voice softer now, more understanding.

She tilted her head slightly. It wasn’t a nod. Not a denial. Just... a shift. Like a dog trying to interpret a new command. The silence that clung to her wasn’t just in the space around them—it was inside her. It radiated from her pores, a stillness that went beyond discipline. It was cultivated, enforced. She hadn’t been raised in silence. She’d been shaped by it.

Batman’s gaze swept the training room again. There was no softness here. No signs of a child’s life. Just a single mat worn thin at the corners, the dark stains of dried blood in the concrete, a scent of sweat, pain, and antiseptic in the air. No books. No toys. No bed. No windows. The only clothing she wore was a full-body training suit—functional, armored, anonymous. A uniform for someone meant to disappear in shadows.

His fists clenched.

Jason, silent for once, reached into one of his belt compartments and pulled out a crumpled protein bar. Chocolate chip. He peeled the wrapper back with slow hands, then extended it toward her like someone offering food to a wild animal. She stared at the bar for a long second—then snatched it so fast Jason instinctively jerked back. She tore into it with feral urgency, chewing too fast, hands shaking, crumbs tumbling from her lips to the floor. Watching her devour it, Batman felt something settle cold in his stomach. That was the moment he knew—she was never going back to this place. He wouldn’t let her.

"We’ll get you help," he said gently, voice low and even. "Come with us."

Her eyes flicked up again, scanning both of them now. Then to the skylight overhead, where the light filtered in like a reminder that there was still a world outside this cage. She didn’t bolt. She didn’t attack. Instead, she hesitated. 

And in that fragile hesitation, Batman extended his hand.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her body remained tensed, breath shallow, eyes darting from his glove to his face and back again, like she was weighing a lifetime of conditioning against something she couldn’t name. Then—tentatively, and with a trembling exhale—she reached out. Her fingers curled around his.

Jason let out a breath and smirked, his voice light but edged with something like awe. “So... where do we take her? Orphanage is a big, old no , right?”

Batman didn’t respond right away. He was still looking at the girl’s face—her wariness, her hunger, the slow flicker of something almost human reawakening behind those tired eyes. She had been shaped to be a weapon. Trained to follow commands without question. And yet, when offered a choice, she’d taken his hand.

He didn’t have to think about the answer. He’d already known it in his gut.

“Home,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “We’re taking her home.”

—

The Batcave had never felt so cold.

As the heavy doors slid shut behind them, the cavernous expanse of the cave stretched out before them, its usual intimidating presence now amplified by the thick silence that hung in the air. The distant hum of the Batcomputer echoed faintly against the stone walls, but that was the only sound that broke the quiet. Everything else—every corner of the cave—felt like it was holding its breath, waiting.

The girl hadn’t spoken a word since the warehouse. Her eyes had remained fixed ahead, her face a mask of unreadable calm, though there was something fragile in the way she moved. She didn’t react to the grandeur of the Batcave—not the towering pillars of equipment, not the sleek, powerful vehicles lined up like silent sentinels, and certainly not the scattered relics of past victories. The trophies, the mementos of a thousand battles fought and won, stood as reminders of a world she had never been a part of, and yet her gaze lingered on them with an almost instinctive curiosity.

Her feet, bare against the cold stone, moved with eerie quiet. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her presence like a whisper in the dark. Jason couldn’t remember when he’d last seen someone move with that kind of stillness, but it unsettled him. It was like she was both here and not here, as if she didn’t quite belong in the space, didn’t know if she had the right to exist in it at all. His own memories stirred at the thought—how, when he first arrived in the Batcave, he had been brimming with raw, painful hope, afraid to show the vulnerability that gnawed at his edges. He had stood here once, just like her, brittle, uncertain, and desperate to be accepted. To be seen.

She’s probably scared. Just like I was.

Bruce moved ahead of them, leading with his usual quiet, almost predatory grace. His cape flowed behind him like an extension of the shadows that clung to every inch of the cave. He reached the edge of the Batcomputer platform and half-turned to face them, his posture perfectly balanced between command and calm. His gaze fell on the girl briefly, but he didn’t say anything at first. The silence stretched out, heavy, until he finally spoke. His voice was low, but there was a force in it that seemed to reverberate through the stone.

“This is the Batcave,” Bruce said, and for a moment, it sounded like a statement, but Jason could hear the unspoken question underneath it. Are you ready for this?

The girl stopped a few feet behind Bruce, her gaze sweeping up and around, taking in the cave, the technology, the weapons, the vehicles—so much that she hadn’t seen before. Her eyes flickered to the training area briefly, and for just a second, something flashed across her face. It wasn’t fear, but a flicker of recognition, maybe even longing. 

Finally, Bruce spoke again. “Are you hungry?”

Jason glanced at her, then back at the fridge. He could feel the awkwardness of the moment settle in his chest. The girl didn’t seem ready to answer, her gaze flicking toward the fridge, but not moving toward it. Jason broke the tension with a sigh, pushing himself off the wall and heading toward the fridge, the faint rustle of his footsteps the only sound in the room.

“Yeah, you should eat something,” Jason said, his voice attempting to sound casual, but it came out almost too loud in the quiet. “That protein bar’s been in my pocket for like, three weeks… I can grab you something better.”

When he handed her the apple, her fingers brushed his in a light, almost imperceptible touch. It wasn’t what he expected. She accepted it quietly, and for the first time, Jason saw her relax—just a fraction. There was no tension in her movements as she nodded in silent thanks.

She moved to one of the tables, sitting down with a quiet grace. Her feet dangled above the floor, and she chewed the apple thoughtfully, her gaze still distant, lost in her thoughts. Jason leaned against the wall, watching her from across the room. Then footsteps echoed down from the stairwell, sharp and measured, each step ringing out in the cavernous space of the Batcave. Alfred Pennyworth emerged from the shadows, every inch the picture of composure, his movements precise, his demeanor unflappable. But even Alfred’s sharp eyes softened as they landed on the girl. 

"Master Bruce," Alfred said with his usual dry calm, but this time, there was an undercurrent of something more—concern, perhaps, or simply the acknowledgment of a difficult reality. "I must admit, the frequency of your acquisitions is becoming... concerning."

Bruce didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the girl, still sitting at the table, her bare feet swaying slightly as she inspected the apple with a strange, almost childlike focus. She turned it in her hands, as if trying to understand what it was. Bruce’s eyes softened, and he exhaled quietly before speaking.

“She’ll need time,” Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he were speaking more to himself than anyone else. “She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t understand language the way we do.”

Alfred’s eyebrow arched slightly, a silent question hanging in the air. "Not a... typical situation, I presume."

Bruce shook his head, a slight tension in his jaw, a hint of something unsettled behind his eyes. "No. Not at all."

A long silence stretched between them. Alfred’s eyes never left the girl, as though he were trying to read her. Bruce stood stiffly by the Batcomputer, hands clasped behind his back, his mind working through the implications. The weight of the decision—of this choice—settled heavily between them.

Finally, Bruce spoke again, his voice quieter, more deliberate.

“I have to, Alfred,” he said, the words carrying a deeper conviction now, as though he were revealing something buried beneath layers of doubt. “She’s a child. A weapon, yes, but still a child. And she chose us. She... she chose me.”

Alfred looked at him then, his gaze softening with a rare kind of empathy. Then he turned his gaze to the girl, who, upon sensing the change in his attention, briefly met his eyes, but then she quickly looked away, returning to the apple as if it were her only anchor.

“Then it’s a decision we all must live with,” Alfred said, his voice gentle but firm, like a quiet anchor amidst the storm. "But if I heard correctly... she is Cain’s, and no amount of conditioning can erase that. You must tread carefully."

Bruce didn’t respond immediately. His fists clenched slightly at his sides, but his gaze never wavered from the girl. She was still so small in this vast place. “Do you think I don’t know that?” Bruce finally asked, his voice hard, almost brittle, though he didn’t raise it. It was more of a statement than a question.

Alfred didn’t flinch. He simply met Bruce’s gaze with the quiet, unspoken understanding that had always existed between them. “I think you know it better than anyone, sir.” 

“We will deal with whatever comes.”

Alfred gave a single, silent nod, his expression unreadable. Then, turning on his heel, he began to walk toward the stairs. “I’ll prepare the guest room.” 

—

The girl finished the apple in silence, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was savoring something she hadn’t had in a long time. When she was done, she wiped her hands on her sleeve. Jason watched her, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, as she stood up without a word. She glanced toward him briefly—almost as if to see if he was still there—and then, without hesitation, she turned and walked toward the darker edges of the cave.

Jason’s brow furrowed. “Where’s she going?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “I don’t think she knows where anything is…” Jason started, but before he could finish, he was already moving. “I’ll go after her.”

She moved deeper into the shadows, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cold stone. She passed the trophy room, the dusty relics of victories long gone, and the towering stone columns that stood like the skeletal remains of some ancient creature. Jason’s footsteps followed behind, but he kept his distance, giving her space—if only because he wasn’t sure how to bridge the gap between them.

The girl stopped in front of a darkened wall, one that blended so seamlessly with the rest of the cave that it was easy to overlook. Her hand reached out, brushing the surface with an almost reverent touch. Jason stopped several paces behind, watching as she lingered there, her fingers tracing the cold, rough stone, then the smooth metal. The contrast of textures seemed to anchor her, like a signal that something in this place, in this cold, vast Batcave, was familiar.

For a moment, Jason thought she was just feeling the wall. But something in the way she stood told him otherwise. She wasn’t just touching it—she was remembering . Or feeling . He almost stepped forward, the urge to say something overwhelming. To ask if she was okay, if she needed help. To break the silence that seemed to wrap itself around her like a shroud.

But he stopped himself.

She doesn’t understand.

And yet, the words broke through anyway, rising in his chest. “I’ll help. You’re not alone anymore.”

For a long time, there was no response. No movement. She just stood there, head slightly bowed, her face obscured by shadow. Jason didn’t know if she heard him, if she even understood. He didn’t know if any of it mattered, but he meant it. 

And then, in the silence, she turned.

Her movements were slow—measured, almost as though she was testing the waters, she walked toward him, her presence still almost spectral, like she was drifting through the cave rather than walking in it. Jason tensed instinctively, his heart racing, unsure of what to expect, unsure of how to act.

She stopped mere inches from him, her eyes locking onto his, steady, piercing. Jason’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. For a moment, he thought he might break. What if she doesn’t trust me? What if I’ve made a mistake?

But then, something happened.

Her lips parted, just slightly, and for the first time since they had met, she smiled. It wasn’t a wide, easy grin—it wasn’t even a full smile. But it was something. A small, cautious thing. A smile that spoke of recognition, of a momentary warmth that neither of them had expected.

Jason’s own face softened in response. The smile that pulled at his lips was hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure it was okay to show it. But then it grew, despite everything, despite the heaviness of the night and the shadows that still loomed between them. He smiled back, a little crooked, a little unsure, but genuine.

And for the first time that night, the Batcave didn’t feel quite so cold.

Chapter Text

Sweat trickled down Jason’s neck, stinging as it slid over the edge of his jaw. His fists pounded the punching bag, each blow heavier and more forceful than the last, the sound of his strikes reverberating in the dimly lit gym like a drumbeat. His breathing was shallow, ragged, his jaw clenched tight, fighting to keep the sharp sting of frustration in check. It didn’t matter how much his muscles burned, how the tendons in his arms screamed for relief—he needed this. Needed the anger to keep pushing him forward. Needed the pain to drown out everything else.

Bruce’s words echoed in his head. “Too impulsive.” “Reckless.” “You endangered the mission.”

He slammed his fist into the bag again, his knuckles bruising with each strike, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness twisting inside him. Nothing compared to the weight of those words, the disapproval that followed him like a shadow, always lurking, always judging. He didn’t care about the burn in his shoulders. He didn’t care about the ache in his chest that started with Bruce’s criticisms and now spread out, seeping into his bones.

Jason wasn’t Dick. He never would be. He wasn’t the golden boy who could talk his way out of any situation with that damn smile of his. He wasn’t the graceful, calculated fighter who moved like he was born for the circus. Jason was rough around the edges—brutal, blunt, driven by sheer will and fire. It was all he had left, all he could rely on when everything else felt like it was slipping out of his grasp. But lately, even that wasn’t enough.

And then there was her. The quiet figure who seemed to slip into the corners of his life, unnoticed by most, but never truly out of sight. She hadn’t done anything yet—nothing that warranted attention, at least. But the way Bruce looked at her... it was different. There was something in his eyes when he spoke of her, something that set her apart from everyone else. She wasn’t just another face, another ally, or another person who’d pass through their chaotic world. No, to Bruce, she was something more—someone who held untapped potential, a force just waiting to be unleashed.

It twisted something deep inside Jason, a knot that had been tightening every time Bruce mentioned her, every time he talked about what she could become, what she might be capable of. It wasn’t just the potential that bothered him—it was the way Bruce seemed so certain about it. Like he had already decided that she was the next thing. Like she was the answer , the one who could fill whatever void he was still searching for. And Jason hated it. 

So he jabbed, pivoted, and kicked, the impact of his foot against the punching bag echoing through the quiet room. Each strike felt like a release, a desperate attempt to burn off the anger gnawing at his insides. The bag shuddered on its chain, swinging back and forth as he poured every ounce of frustration into it. Each kick was a silent scream, every punch a cry for something he couldn’t voice.

His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving, the muscles in his arms burning from the exertion. And just as the sting of his own pain began to numb, the door creaked open behind him. He froze, mid-punch, heart skipping a beat. Slowly, he let his body relax, the fire in his veins cooling. His forehead fell against the cool leather of the bag, the slight pressure against his skull grounding him as he closed his eyes for just a second, trying to center himself.

It was her. He could feel it before he even turned around, the subtle shift in the air, the quiet weight of her presence. She didn’t even need to say anything. Her silence spoke volumes. She stood there in the doorway, as quiet and still as she always was. The kind of stillness that unsettled him, made the air feel thick. She wasn’t wearing shoes, her hoodie sleeves hung too long, covering most of her hands, and her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping like she hadn’t bothered to make an effort. 

Jason let out a tired breath and offered a half-smile, trying to mask the irritation bubbling under the surface. Raising an eyebrow in exaggerated disbelief, he spoke, his voice a mix of sarcasm and dry amusement. “You stalking me now?”

But as usual, she didn’t answer. She just stood there, staring at him with those wide, unreadable eyes. The kind of gaze that felt like it could see right through him, even if she never blinked. And that was what made it worse. Her silence wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t soft. It was impossible to decipher, leaving Jason with nothing but his own thoughts—and they weren’t good.

He reached down and grabbed a pair of spare gloves from the floor, the leather warm from the heat of his previous training. Then, without looking back, he walked over to her, the weight of his footsteps heavy in the silence. Holding the gloves out to her, he forced the tired grin back into place, his tone light but with that underlying tension only she seemed to know how to stir. 

“Alright,” he said, voice low, mock serious. “This is sacred ground. That means no biting. Got it?”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just her stare, like she was considering the offer or maybe just weighing him—like she was calculating whether or not she even wanted to humor him. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she reached out and took the gloves from him. No words. Just that same, impossible gaze.

Jason’s sigh was heavy, his grin widening in spite of himself. “Good,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he backed away slightly. “Let’s go, then.”

They squared off in the center of the gym, the air crackling with tension, as if the space itself knew something was about to happen. Jason’s muscles were already sore from the earlier workout, the bruises of the day still a dull ache in his ribs and shoulders, but he pushed it aside. Focused. His eyes locked onto hers, and despite everything, a familiar adrenaline buzz crept up his spine. 

He moved first, light on his feet, testing the distance between them. It was the first time he’d sparred with her, and he knew she had potential. He’d seen the way she moved in training, the focus, the quick learning curve. He expected her to stumble, maybe even freeze. Something. He didn’t want her to fail, but he expected it. But when he lunged forward, she didn’t hesitate. She flowed, smooth as water, shifting effortlessly with the rhythm of his body. Her movements were instinctive, not mechanical. She didn’t think about what to do. She just did it .

His footwork was sharp as he feinted left, turned, and tried something fancy—just a little flourish, a show-off move to throw her off. He wanted to see how she’d respond, push her a little, maybe even catch her slipping. But instead, she tripped, just for a second. The slightest misstep, a barely perceptible stutter in her balance. Jason’s grin was almost smug as he prepared to capitalize on it—but then, with no more than a whisper of movement, she caught herself.

And then she mirrored him.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. She twisted the same way he did, and her body flowed into the exact same movement he’d just executed. He wasn’t sure if she’d even meant to do it, but it was like she was learning him—adapting, picking up on his rhythm in real time.

Jason hesitated for just a fraction of a second, enough to throw off his own timing. Shit.

No hits landed. Not yet. But it wasn’t just about dodging or defending anymore. She wasn’t just reacting to him; she was moving with him. Every step he took, every feint, every little adjustment in his body—she was tracking it, learning it, and responding in kind. Jason’s brow furrowed as his mind raced to process. He wasn’t just sparring with her. She was sparring with him . And he had no idea how long she’d been holding back.

When they finally stopped, both panting and flushed from the intensity, Jason dropped to the mat in a smooth, fluid motion, sitting cross-legged with his chest heaving, his breath coming in uneven bursts. He felt the sharp, welcome burn in his muscles, a familiar ache that grounded him. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a quick flick of his hand, not bothering to mask the way his body felt heavy, like it had been through a round of punishment. His mind was still buzzing from the spar—sharpening, analyzing, picking apart every movement and counter that had happened between them. She’d pushed him in ways he hadn’t expected, and though he’d held his ground, something about the way she moved still made his pulse race.

She stood there for a moment longer, still catching her breath, he tilted his head, studying her for a moment, and couldn’t help but feel the weight of the silence between them. “You know,” he started between breaths, still trying to catch his wind, his eyes flicking to her as he leaned back on his hands, “most people talk when they train together. I mean, it's like... the unspoken rule, right? Some kind of banter, maybe a little trash talk. You ever gonna say anything? Or is this just your vibe? Mysterious, quiet, ‘I’ll let my moves do the talking’ kinda deal?”

She didn’t respond immediately, just stood there, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her gaze steady on him. The silence stretched on, like it was a part of the spar itself—he'd been expecting her to break it, expecting some sort of reaction. A smirk, a comment, something that gave a little glimpse into the person she was when she wasn’t fighting.

But nothing came. Not a word. Not even a shift in her expression. Jason leaned forward slightly, unable to help the grin that tugged at his lips despite himself. “Cool, cool. Mysterious ninja it is.” 

Jason fell back onto the ground, his legs stretched out in front of him, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers to the questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. The training room, which had been so alive moments ago, now felt too quiet, too still—like it was watching him in the same way she was. 

For a long moment, he said nothing. His breath still ragged from the spar, but his mind was in a completely different place. He wasn’t just thinking about their fight anymore. He wasn’t even thinking about her, not in the way he usually would. No, right now, his thoughts were scattered, pulled in so many directions it made his head spin. He just needed to get it out.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said, his voice quiet, almost distant, as though he were saying it to himself as much as to her. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, unable to meet her eyes, like it was easier to confess to the cracks in the rafters than it was to face her. “But sometimes I think I’m just... filling a space, you know?” His voice softened as he spoke, each word unraveling a little more of what he usually kept tightly held. There was something freeing about saying it aloud, but also terrifying.

She didn’t answer. She just stood there, her gaze steady on him, waiting. He wasn’t sure if she understood what he meant, or if it even mattered. He wasn’t asking for understanding. He just needed to say it. To admit it, if only to himself.

He let out a slow breath, feeling the words pulling themselves from his chest. “I love being Robin, though. I do. It's... it’s magic, in a way. It’s the only time I feel like I’m really someone. I get to be someone, you know? And when I’m him, when I’m Robin, I can forget all of this. All the doubts. All the... nothingness. I don't want to lose it. I can't lose it.” Jason said softly, his voice carrying an edge of something he hadn’t expected to reveal.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I promised I’d help you, promised I wouldn’t let you feel alone in this. But... I got caught up in my own head, in my own fears. I was scared.” His hands rested on the mat, fingers digging into the floor as he tried to steady himself. "I didn’t want to lose the one thing that made me feel like I mattered. And for some stupid reason, I thought... I thought you might somehow steal that from me." He shook his head, almost laughing at how ridiculous the thought sounded now.

“I just don't wanna return to that place again.” There was a long pause, his breath catching in his chest. He almost expected her to say something, offer some kind of response. But instead, she reached over, tapping her knuckles lightly against his shoulder—no words, no judgment, just a simple, quiet acknowledgment.

Jason blinked, surprised by the gesture. He exhaled slowly, allowing the weight of everything he’d just said to settle in. He managed a small, uncertain smile, his gaze lifting to hers. “That your way of saying ‘same’?” he asked, a little teasing, trying to lighten the air.

She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak.

But she didn’t look away either. And somehow, that was enough.

—

Barbara Gordon stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her posture a mix of disbelief and concern. The red braid that hung over her shoulder was a stark contrast to the usually stoic figure she cut as Batgirl, but tonight, her expression was anything but calm. She had stepped into the Batcave moments ago, expecting another late-night analysis of the city’s criminal underworld, but instead, she found herself staring at Bruce as he hunched over the Batcomputer, absorbed in whatever data he was pulling up. The dim glow of the screen cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look more like a shadow of his former self.

“She’s like... twelve,” Barbara said flatly, her voice carrying that unmistakable edge of skepticism. Her words hung in the air, but Bruce didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard as he sifted through files and surveillance footage. He was deep in his world, as usual, where there was nothing that could sway him from his mission. But tonight, Barbara wasn’t just going to let this slide. Not when it involved a kid .

Still, Bruce remained silent for a moment, the steady hum of the Batcomputer the only sound filling the cave. Finally, his voice cut through the tension, low and unyielding. “So is Jason.”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of disbelief flashing across her face, but she didn’t break her stance. She’d expected this. She always expected this. “Jason can talk. Jason has the ability to make his own choices.” Her voice carried that layer of frustration she couldn’t quite hide. “And you're seriously considering doing this again?”

Bruce, still with his back turned, didn’t flinch. The glow of the screen lit up his features, making them seem even more unreadable than usual. His fingers paused on the keyboard as he slowly turned his head towards her, meeting her gaze for the first time. “I’m not making her Robin,” he stated, almost matter-of-factly, as though that should be enough to quell her concerns.

“No,” she said, her voice low and steady, but carrying an undeniable weight. “But you’re going to make her something else.” Her words hung in the air, a challenge, a truth she knew Bruce was trying to dodge. He didn’t have to make her Robin to shape her into something that would wear the scars of his decisions for the rest of her life. She was already going down that path. She just didn’t know it yet.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. The silence between them stretched out, heavy and oppressive, until the quiet was only punctuated by the distant hum of machinery in the Batcave. For a brief moment, it seemed like Barbara’s accusation had landed, that he was finally going to speak the truth of what he was doing, even if only to himself.

But then, finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but certain, a tone that could only be described as defensive. “She followed me out.” His words were simple, almost clinical, like he was explaining something that was just facts to him, not the emotional weight Barbara saw in it. “She could have stayed with Cain. She didn’t.”

Barbara exhaled sharply, her breath coming out in a frustrated sigh as she began to pace in the dim light of the Batcave. Her boots echoed against the cold stone floor, each step adding weight to the growing storm inside her. She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, eyes hard, like she was trying to read something he wasn’t letting her see. He wasn’t going to break —that much was clear. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking anyway.

“What are you going to do with her, Bruce?” Her voice was edged with a mix of concern and disbelief, but it was also tinged with something else—something that felt like a quiet desperation, a plea wrapped in frustration. “Train her like you did with the rest of us? Throw her into the fire, make her wear the mask, and tell her she’s one of us ? Is that your plan for her?”

Bruce didn’t move, didn’t even seem to acknowledge the weight of her question. He was standing just a few feet away, the Batcomputer casting the usual eerie glow over his form, but it was as if the light couldn’t reach him, couldn’t soften the rigidity of his stance. His jaw was set, his face a mask of determination that had become too familiar in these moments.

“No,” he said, his tone firm, but there was something in it—something almost... dismissive. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his eyes locked on the screen in front of him, scanning data like it was the only thing that mattered. “She doesn't need it.”

Barbara didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she looked at him like she was trying to measure the sincerity behind those words. Her eyes studied his face, as if looking for any sign that he didn’t fully believe what he was saying. 

 “I’m going to teach her she’s not just a weapon,” he said, his voice low, every word deliberate.

—

Jason was lying on the floor of the library, upside down off the edge of the couch, his legs tangled awkwardly in the cushions. A paperback novel was flopped open across his face, the edges curling as it absorbed the weight of his exhaustion. He barely noticed the faint smell of old pages or the quiet hum of the room around him anymore. The world had a way of fading when you were stuck between pages of a book, trying to drown out whatever lingered in the air.

She was sitting silently on the carpet beside him, her back straight, her fingers absently brushing against the spines of the books on the bottom shelf. She didn’t reach for any of them, just let her fingers hover over the titles as if the words themselves were an unknown language she hadn’t yet deciphered.

It had been a month.

A month since she'd shown up, since she'd slipped into this strange rhythm of silent presence. A month since the first time Jason had tried to get a laugh out of her by dramatically imitating the ridiculous heroics of the characters in his book. He'd pushed a bit too hard at first, as if expecting a reaction—anything. A smile. A laugh. Something. But she had just watched him, those eyes tracing his movements with an unsettling calm. No words. No chuckle. No sign of amusement.

Jason had stopped trying after a while, not out of frustration, but out of acceptance. Instead of trying to force her to fit some mold—some role—he just let her be there. Let the silence fill the space between them, knowing it was enough. She didn’t need to speak. She didn’t need to perform or entertain him. Her presence was enough. For reasons he still couldn’t put into words, he wasn’t lonely when she was near. 

That promise he'd made, the one that had seemed so empty at first, now felt like it was starting to settle into something real. It had taken time—more time than he expected—but he was beginning to understand. Who would have thought he'd end up feeling this way with someone he'd been so afraid of?  He had spent so much time fearing the unknown, worrying about the consequences of what might happen, of what she might become. She didn’t even go out on patrol. 

She…

Jason sat up suddenly, as if an idea had struck him like a lightning bolt. It felt like a moment of clarity, something he could finally grasp without doubt. His voice cut through the quiet, sharper than usual, but there was a playful spark to it. “Okay,” he said, as if the revelation had just hit him in an instant. “We have to call you something. You can’t just be ‘hey you’ forever.”

She blinked, the faintest movement, like the shift of air through a window. It was subtle, but Jason noticed it. The quiet acknowledgement that he had, in fact, said something. That was enough to make him smile to himself. He reached into the coffee table drawer with a nonchalance that masked the fact that he was still figuring out what exactly to do with her. Pulling out a notebook and a pencil, he set them on his lap, the soft scratch of the pencil against paper filling the room as he began scribbling.

“I could just name you something cool, right?” Jason muttered to himself, more to fill the silence than anything else. His thoughts rolled quickly, and before he even realized it, the pencil was tapping against his lip as he tried to come up with something that fit. “Like… Artemis. Or Diana. Greek myths and all that. Powerful women.”

She just tilted her head, the slight shift in her posture the closest thing to curiosity he’d seen in days. It was enough to make him pause, as if she’d actually considered his suggestion for a second. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jason flipped through the pages of the notebook, his mind racing for a name, his thoughts jumping from one possibility to the next, desperate to find something that felt right. “Wait, wait…” he muttered to himself, flipping through the pages of the book he'd been scribbling in. “Or something from Shakespeare, right? He’s got some heavy hitters. We could totally pull from that.”

He tapped the pencil against the notebook and glanced at her again, half-expecting her to just stare right past him, but instead, she was still watching him. Silent. Still. Like she was waiting for him to land on the right answer. It felt like she was more invested than she let on, even if she didn’t show it.

“Okay,” he continued, his voice gaining a little more enthusiasm, “you want to be an Ophelia? No, no, that’s too tragic. Way too tragic. You'd drown in a river or something and that’s just… too much .” He paused, shaking his head, already dismissing that idea. “What about Lady Macbeth? Nah, too murdery. ” He made a face, a mock shudder that clearly meant he’d rejected that one too.

He looked up from the notebook, only to catch her staring at him, her gaze fixed and unblinking. For a split second, he felt like he’d grown a second head or maybe sprouted some ridiculous antenna. The way she was watching him made his words hang in the air like an odd soundwave, suspended and awkward.

Jason’s face flushed, just the faintest tinge of color creeping up his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish grin. “Don’t look at me like that," he mumbled, eyes darting around the room as if the walls might offer him some kind of escape. "I read stuff. You know, books? Those things people use to pass the time?”

He let out a quick breath, trying to cover up his sudden self-consciousness. "Books are better than people most of the time," he added defensively, as if that made perfect sense. “Anyway, let's continue.”

He scribbled something else in the notebook, his handwriting messy but sure, as if he were settling into the rhythm of this strange back-and-forth. “How about Juliet?” he asked, letting the words hang in the air.

Her response was immediate—a slight squint of her eyes, a subtle shift in her gaze.

Jason couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Okay, tough crowd…” He smirked, tapping the pencil against the page, already moving on. “Um… Mulan? You could totally pull that off, right? Strong, fierce, and all that?”

She didn’t react.

Jason blinked, his grin growing a little sheepish as he realized she hadn’t even flickered at the suggestion. “Wait—no, no, hold on. Lara Croft?” He paused mid-sentence, his voice trailing off, realizing where this was going. “Wait, no. That’s a video game character. Not the same thing at all.”

She reached out, her fingers curling around the notebook with the same quiet intensity she always had. Jason barely registered her movements until the soft rustle of the pages snapped him back into focus. She flipped the page with an almost casual air, as if she’d decided the list wasn’t worth her time.

And then, she drew.

A bat.

Well, more of a bat than anything else, but it was hard to say it looked like anything other than a rough, jagged mess of lines—wings too large, body too small, and a head that almost seemed to float like an afterthought. The pencil wasn’t held like an artist’s tool; it was gripped with the kind of ferocity that reminded him of someone wielding a knife, a dangerous precision to it.

Jason’s eyes widened, staring at the drawing, trying to piece it together, but... well, it was hard to take seriously.

She’d just drawn a bat.

A bad bat.

For a moment, he was silent, unsure whether to be horrified, impressed, or just confused. And then it hit him. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He laughed. It wasn’t a full, booming laugh—more like a surprised snicker that he tried (and failed) to suppress.

“That’s—” He snorted, trying to compose himself. “That’s... a bat , huh?”

She didn’t respond, just stared down at her masterpiece like it was the most normal thing in the world. And that made him laugh even harder.

“Okay, okay, so... I get it now,” he said between breaths, still grinning. “You’re definitely not a Shakespeare kind of girl. Maybe I should’ve figured that out earlier. But I have to say sorry, Batman is already taken. But I can try something else.”

Jason stood up abruptly, his laughter fading into an amused grin as he glanced around the room, as if seeking some new source of inspiration. His eyes landed on the shelf, where a thick, dusty book was tucked neatly between old volumes. The corners were worn from years of handling, and the cover was a little faded, but Jason didn’t hesitate. He walked over to the shelf, reached up, and pulled down the book with a certain care—like he was handling something rare.

A baby name book.

He stared at it for a second, then snorted, as if the very idea of this was ridiculous. “Bruce probably doesn’t even know Alfred has this hidden here,” Jason muttered under his breath, flipping the book open and casually scanning the first few pages.

He turned back to her, holding the book out like it was some sacred text. “Alright. Let’s go A to Z,” he said, a mischievous grin pulling at his lips. “I’ll just read through ‘em all, and when you hear something you like—boom. We’ll call it a day.”

She gave him a flat look, one eyebrow slightly raised as if to say, Are you serious right now? Then, to his surprise, she nodded. Just a little, like she was humoring him.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown off by her subtle amusement, but he quickly snapped back to the task at hand. He took a deep breath and opened the book again, his voice settling into a monotonous rhythm as he started to read, like he was reciting lines from some ancient scroll. “Abigail. Ada. Adeline. Agnes. Alexandra. Alice. Amara—hey, that one means eternal,” he added, the words spilling out with a little too much enthusiasm.

He glanced up at her, expecting some kind of reaction—anything. Maybe a smile, a raised eyebrow, or even just a hint that he wasn’t completely losing his mind.

Instead, she looked... bored.

Not even mildly interested. Just bored.

Not a fan of the letter a , copied. 

“Cassandra,” he muttered, flipping the pages with a little more force this time, as if the names themselves were mocking him for taking this so seriously. “Greek. Means the one who stands out among men. Cool.”

He glanced up at her as he spoke, expecting that same disinterest, that flat look that had become all too familiar. But this time, she blinked—just once, a slow, deliberate blink that somehow carried more weight than anything else.

Jason stared at her for a moment, trying to process it. She’d blinked . That was… something. Not a whole lot, but still.

His fingers hovered over the page as his mind caught up. "Wait. That one? No way," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice trailing off as the realization hit him.

She blinked again. This time, very deliberately, as if to punctuate the moment, as if to say, Yeah, I’m paying attention now.

He let out a breath and chuckled, more to himself than anything else. “Okay, okay,” he said, almost amused by the simplicity of it all. “Cassandra it is. But I get to call you Cass, the other one’s way too long. I’m not gonna be shouting Cassandra every time I need your attention.”

Jason scribbled the diminutive of her new name in the notebook— Cass —and pushed it toward her, as if the simple act of writing it down made it more real.

She picked up the pencil with careful precision, her fingers delicate as they traced the letters in the notebook. Her hand moved slowly, like she was testing the feel of the shapes, unsure of how they fit together. Each letter came out shaky, a hesitant C-A-S-S that didn’t quite feel solid, but it was a start.

His grin widened, a little bit of pride creeping in at the small victory. “Nice to meet you, Cass,” he said, voice softer now.

She didn’t say anything, of course. That would’ve been too easy. Instead, she just sat there, the silence wrapping around them like a quiet promise, but her lips—just barely—curved upward.

He smiled back, just as small, just as quiet. It didn’t need to be anything grand. Her smile had already said everything.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Batcave was unusually still, the only sound the soft hum of the Batcomputer in the corner, its glow casting a cold blue light against the dark stone walls. Bruce stood at the edge of the training mat, barefoot, his posture tense as he observed the girl in front of him. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, a habit of his when he was deep in thought or assessing something that made him uncomfortable.

Cass— that was her name, as Jason had reported, though it felt almost foreign on Bruce’s tongue. He had been watching her for weeks now, trying to gauge what kind of presence she was.

She moved with a grace that didn’t belong to someone her age—hell, it didn’t belong to anyone. Like mist, like something that had no need for noise or flash. Her movements were so fluid, so precise, that Bruce almost wondered if he was watching an illusion. There was no wasted motion, no excess—every shift, every step felt deliberate, controlled. The girl’s instincts were uncanny. It was almost unsettling how precisely she mirrored him, she wasn’t thinking; she wasn’t planning. Cass wasn’t fighting with technique. She was feeling the fight, absorbing the rhythm, becoming a part of it as naturally as breathing.

Bruce's eyes narrowed as he made the first move—a jab aimed directly at her chest, quick and deliberate. But before his fist could even close the distance, her hand was already there, intercepting the strike with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t even flinch. Her fingers closed around his wrist, her grip light but firm, as though she'd anticipated the attack before it had even begun.

Without a word, he shifted his weight, sweeping his leg low across the floor in a fast, fluid arc, aiming to knock her off her feet. It was a move designed to be both unexpected and difficult to evade. But once again, she moved before he had even completed the motion, her body twisting just enough to avoid the strike. Her eyes never left his, her gaze calm and focused, but there was a predatory awareness to her every movement.

"Again," he murmured, his voice low, more to himself than to her, but the command was clear.

She nodded once, the movement barely perceptible, but there was no mistaking it. Barefoot like him, her body braced, her stance solid but fluid—like a coiled spring, ready to explode into action at any moment. Her knuckles were tight, a faint bruise already marking the surface of her skin, but she wasn’t distracted by the pain. No warm-up. No words exchanged. Just the raw, unspoken understanding that they were here for one thing: combat. Pure, unfiltered, and reactive.

He pushed harder this time, his every movement sharp, calculated. His muscles tensed with determination as he faked a left hook and immediately struck with a powerful right. The air seemed to crackle with the intensity of his motion, each strike coming faster, more precisely aimed than before. She barely flinched, her eyes tracking him with a cold, focused intensity. As he advanced, she shifted her weight, anticipating his move before it even fully formed. Her hand shot out, fingers grazing the edge of his sleeve, and in that instant, she yanked with surprising force. The pull was so precise, so expertly executed, that it sent him crashing to the ground in a forceful tumble.

The impact was solid—a thud that reverberated through the silence of the training room—but he didn't stay down. He rolled quickly, almost instinctively, his body in motion before the pain even had a chance to register. He was on his feet again in an instant, crouched low, his stance wide and ready. 

He came at her again, but this time there was something different in his approach. His movements were even faster, more unpredictable, as if the fight had become a puzzle he desperately needed to solve. He shifted his weight, changing angles with a fluidity that would have left most opponents scrambling to catch up. Every strike, every feint seemed designed to put her on the defensive, each one more deceptive than the last. Yet, there she stood, unwavering, her movements so smooth they seemed almost effortless. 

His breath grew ragged, each inhale sharp and shallow, as the pressure of the fight began to take its toll. Sweat dripped freely from his brow, sliding down his chin, and his focus sharpened into something desperate. With a sudden surge of energy, he pressed harder, his instincts screaming. His shoulder drove into hers with brutal force, and the moment the impact made contact, she spun with a fluidity that blurred the line between anticipation and instinct. His body instinctively recoiled, but it was too late. He gasped for air, feeling his breath falter, his chest seizing under the impact. The sting was relentless, each breath more labored than the last.

And then, everything seemed to happen at once.

He was thrown backward, the momentum from the collision slamming him against the hard concrete wall with a force that left him breathless, disoriented. His vision blurred for a moment, the room spinning as he braced himself against the cold, unforgiving surface. 

Pain bloomed in his side, sharp and relentless, spreading outward in a wave of fire that stole the breath from his lungs. He could feel it—the unmistakable crack of bone, a broken rib. Maybe two. But even in the haze of his pain, something else caught his attention. Cass.

She wasn’t looking at him with the cold focus she always carried in battle. No, this time, there was something else there. Her gaze was intense, but it was off—shaken. Not from the fall, not from the fight itself, but from the moment of contact. The moment their bodies collided.

Her fists were clenched at her sides, and he could see the subtle tremble in her hands, the way her fingers twitched with restraint, as if she was holding back something more than just the urge to strike. It was rare for her to show anything other than absolute composure, and in that flicker of vulnerability, something unspoken passed between them.

Bruce shifted, groaning quietly as he adjusted his position. Slowly, he sat up, the pain in his ribs making it slow going. His muscles were stiff, sore from the impact, but he forced himself to move through it. His breath was labored, but his voice—when he spoke—was quiet, measured, with an underlying softness that cut through the tension of the moment.

"Cass," he said, his tone low but steady, a balm to the unease he sensed radiating from her. "It’s alright."

She didn’t move.

The stillness between them stretched on, heavy and unbroken. Cass remained frozen in place, her body taut, eyes locked on the floor in front of her, hands still trembling at her sides as though she were trying to regain control of herself. Bruce’s words, though calm, hung in the air like a quiet pressure, pushing back against the tension that had taken root.

"You were trained to end fights," he continued, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm of unspoken thoughts. "It’s totally normal… it’s incredible, in fact." His gaze softened, just a little, as he met her eyes. "You could’ve killed me. You didn’t."

There was an edge to his words, not of praise, but of acknowledgment—a recognition that she could’ve ended this in a single, fatal strike if she’d wanted to. But she hadn’t. And that, in Bruce’s eyes, was something more than just restraint. It was something far more difficult: humanity . But Cass didn’t respond. She didn’t even look up. There was no triumph in her movements, no sense of pride, only an inner conflict Bruce knew all too well.

Before the silence could stretch on further, the soft echo of footsteps cut through the quiet like a sudden storm breaking through a long-held calm. The sound of boots against cold stone, deliberate and unmistakable. Bruce’s attention flickered, his gaze snapping toward the top of the stairway just as Barbara emerged into view, her form framed by the dim light that spilled in from the open doorway.

Her red hair, still damp from the rain, clung to her neck and shoulders in wet strands, a stark contrast to the otherwise rigid posture she carried. Her eyes—sharp, calculating—immediately locked onto Bruce, then shifted swiftly to Cass, taking in the tension, the silent struggle, and the faint bruises beginning to form around his ribs. Barbara’s expression twisted into something that was neither worry nor concern, but something far more direct. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze flicked from one of them to the other, and her voice came out sharp, laced with disbelief.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, her tone a mix of irritation and confusion.

Bruce pushed himself to his feet slowly, his ribs protesting with every movement. The pain was sharp, relentless, but he didn’t let it show. His movements were deliberate, calculated—just like everything he did. He straightened, though the strain on his body was obvious, a slight wince crossing his face as he did. His gaze never wavered, locked on Barbara with a quiet determination, the weight of the moment settling over him like a cloak.

"We were training," he said, his voice steady, but tinged with an undertone of something deeper—something more layered than just an explanation.

“She’s twelve, Bruce," Barbara’s voice was sharp, cutting through the space between them like a blade. There was no room for misunderstanding in the way she spoke—no room for argument. The weight of her words was a clear condemnation, an echo of the protective instincts.

"I wasn’t going easy on her," he said, each word measured, deliberate. "She wasn’t going easy on me."

"It looks like you've just been run over," she said, "and she’s shaking. And you thought this was productive?"

Bruce didn’t flinch, though the weight of her words stung. He had expected this—the concern, the disapproval—but it didn’t change what he believed. But as Barbara's gaze shifted, she took in the whole picture: Cass, still unmoving, her fists clenched, her breath shallow with an almost imperceptible tremor running through her. Cass took a step back, her gaze flicking between Bruce and Barbara like she was caught between two opposing forces, her shoulders tight as though she were bracing for something—anything. Her movements were small, cautious, as if afraid to make a sound, to show too much.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Barbara’s voice softened, just slightly—enough to change the atmosphere, enough to show that, despite her anger, she wasn’t blind to the vulnerability in front of her.

"Hey. It’s okay." Barbara’s tone was gentler now, the sharp edges of her words dulled by something more familiar. She knelt down near Cass, but not too close—giving her space, respecting her boundaries. It was a silent acknowledgment of what Cass had been through, of what she might still be processing.

Her eyes softened as she met Cass’s gaze, but the worry didn’t leave her voice. "You hurt?"

Cass hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking downward, as if considering the weight of the question, weighing her answer against the space that separated them. Her chest rose and fell with every shallow breath, her body still tense, the aftermath of the fight clinging to her like a second skin.

For a long, quiet second, there was only the sound of her breathing—slow, uncertain. And then, as if making a decision, she shook her head. It was a simple movement, one that spoke volumes. I'm fine, the gesture seemed to say, even if it didn’t feel true.

Barbara’s expression softened, understanding in her eyes. "I’m Barbara," she said gently, her voice warm in its simplicity, like a bridge between them. "Friends call me Babs."

Cass stared at Barbara, her dark eyes unwavering, unblinking, as if trying to read her—trying to gauge if this moment, this quiet exchange, was something worth engaging with. There was no shift in her expression, no acknowledgment of the words Barbara had just offered. Instead, she tilted her head slowly, almost like a question in itself, as if the very action was a delicate push for more. More understanding. More connection.

“She doesn’t talk,” Bruce offered, his tone neutral, like it was just another fact of the world they occupied.

Barbara’s eyes flicked to Bruce then, narrowing with an unmistakable edge. There was no softness left in her gaze, no understanding in her look—just a cold flash of frustration. “I gathered,” she replied, her voice clipped. "And yet you threw her into a full-contact sparring match with you?"

Bruce’s gaze lingered on Cass for a moment longer, his eyes softening just slightly as he considered her—really considered her—for the first time since the sparring match. She was still standing there, unmoving, but something in the way she held herself caught his attention. The way she observed everything, the way she tracked the smallest shifts in a person’s stance or posture, the tension in the air before the first strike was ever thrown. It was all instinct, and yet there was a precision to it that left him in awe.

"I needed to know how she sees," he said, his voice quieter now, as though explaining something only he fully understood. "She doesn’t just react—she reads intent. Movement. Emotion." His words were slow, deliberate, the weight of his thoughts hanging in the space between them. "It’s like…" He paused, searching for the right words, as though trying to translate something far beyond his own comprehension. "It’s like she sees language in muscle."

The concept wasn’t a new one to Bruce, but putting it into words—putting it out there—felt like giving voice to something that had always been more intuitive than explainable. He didn’t just see Cass as a fighter; he saw her as something deeper, something more. She wasn’t just reacting in the moment. She was anticipating it, reading the battle as a language, a conversation between the bodies in motion.

Barbara’s eyes narrowed slightly, her concern still sharp, but there was a flicker of something else in her expression. She understood what Bruce was trying to convey. She understood the gift Cass had, the skill she possessed that was beyond any ordinary fighter. But the softness in Barbara’s gaze didn’t last long. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.

"Amazing, yeah," Barbara said, her voice still threaded with frustration, but tinged now with something that resembled reluctant understanding. "But just a kid. Remember that."

—

Later that evening, Jason found Cass sitting at the counter, her posture as rigid as ever, the stillness of her form almost unnerving. She was hunched slightly, but not in the way most people slumped. There was something deliberate about the way she sat—back straight, shoulders squared, her hands cradling a mug of cocoa that seemed too small for her. Her hoodie sleeves swallowed up her arms, the fabric of Bruce’s oversized sweatshirt draping over her like it was just another part of the house, like it was a second skin she barely noticed.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, his usual grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her. He couldn’t help it. Even in the quiet moments like this, Cass had a way of commanding attention. She didn’t need to say anything.

"B told me you knocked him on his ass," Jason said with a grin, popping open the fridge and grabbing an apple, not bothering to look up. The kitchen light caught the angle of his face, highlighting the mischief in his eyes.

Cass didn’t react at first. She looked up slowly, the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes. Her gaze, as always, was measured, careful. She blinked once, slowly, almost like she was trying to make sense of his words. But Jason wasn’t expecting a full conversation. He never did with her. He bit into the apple with a crisp crunch, eyes glinting mischievously as he slid another one across the counter toward her.

"You ever seen a bat fly into a window?" Jason continued, his grin widening. "That’s what I’m picturing."

There was a pause. A long one, as if Cass were considering the absurdity of the comparison. But then, just as he was about to speak again, the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—a movement so subtle, so small, that it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But Jason caught it.

He beamed, the satisfaction of her reaction lighting up his face like the sun breaking through clouds.

"You're terrifying, y’know that?" he said, his voice a mix of admiration and humor. He leaned back against the counter, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just witnessed. 

Cass didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The silence between them was more than comfortable—it was familiar, like a language they didn’t need to speak aloud. Jason, however, wasn’t quite ready to let it go. He took another bite of his apple, pretending not to notice the stillness in the air, the way Cass’ eyes followed him with the quiet intensity she always carried.

He turned to toss the apple core into the trash, his movements fluid, effortless. As he did, he caught something in the darkened reflection of the microwave—his own grin, still lingering on his face, and then, in the glass, the faintest echo of it. Cass, still and unmoving, but the edges of her mouth were curved up, just enough to mirror his grin perfectly.

He didn’t say anything at first. There was no need to. The moment spoke for itself.

—

Cass heard the rumble long before she saw them. It started low, a steady vibration that crawled through the floor, building in intensity until it was impossible to ignore. The Batmobile. Its engine hummed with a guttural purr, the unmistakable growl of power under pressure, followed by a sharp hiss of steam as it slid smoothly into its spot. The unmistakable sound of high-tech machinery adjusting, cooling down, punctuated the otherwise silent night.

The canopy of the sleek black vehicle lifted with a hydraulic hiss, the smooth motion almost too perfect to be real. And then Jason popped up first, like he always did. A little slower than usual, favoring one leg, but the grin on his face was as wide as ever, lighting up the night. He didn’t even try to hide the limp, just moved with the cocky swagger that came so naturally to him—like a joke he was in on, and the world was just playing catch-up.

Cass crouched low, instinctively hiding behind the staircase rail, her eyes narrowing as she watched them, her posture still and cat-like, as if she were part of the shadows themselves. She had learned long ago to be silent, to observe, to wait. Jason turned, his eyes scanning the dim shadows for a moment before they landed on her—Cass, crouched low, watching him with that intense, unreadable focus of hers. As soon as he saw her, a mischievous grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and without missing a beat, he launched into his usual antics.

He started by miming an exaggerated punch to an invisible thug, swinging his arm wildly with a dramatic flourish. Then, without warning, he ducked under a flying object, shoulders hunching and hips shifting like he was dodging something coming at him with lethal speed. But the grand finale was his crowning achievement. He clutched his ribs like he’d been struck hard in the side—acting out the most ridiculous kind of injury—as he dramatically flopped down onto the hood of the Batmobile. With an exaggerated grimace of agony, he stuck out his tongue like he was the victim of some epic, tragic battle.

Cass’s eyes followed every motion with an intense stillness, not a single movement from her, but then—then something shifted. It was so subtle it could’ve been missed by anyone else, but Jason saw it. The faintest crease at the corners of her eyes, the smallest hint of amusement flickering in the depths of her gaze. Her lips parted ever so slightly, and one short breath escaped her nose—a sound so soft, so quiet, that if you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it. But it was there. The closest thing to a laugh that Jason had ever seen from her.

He stopped mid-act, eyes widening in exaggerated surprise, as though he’d won some great victory. “Did you—did you just almost laugh?” His voice was full of mock disbelief, and for just a second, he let the grin grow wider.

Cass blinked, her expression smoothing back into its usual quiet mask, but the brief moment of warmth had already been enough to shift the atmosphere.

Jason perked up, giving her a dramatic thumbs-up, eyes sparkling like he’d just earned some rare, hard-won approval. Without waiting for any more reaction, he turned on his heel and headed toward the locker room, still grinning like a fool, fully satisfied with the small victory.

Bruce stepped out of the Batmobile with a slow, measured precision, like he always did—like he was a machine, every movement deliberate, controlled. The sound of the canopy closing behind him was almost too quiet in the vastness of the cave. His eyes immediately swept the area, scanning, calculating, until they landed on her. But Bruce didn’t speak. He simply nodded once—slow, acknowledging.

Cass blinked, her heart suddenly beating a little faster than it should’ve. She felt the rush of blood in her ears, the sudden tension in the air. Without thinking, she turned, her movements almost mechanical as she made her way toward the stairs, her footsteps quiet against the stone. Her mind was too focused on the pulse of her heart, the way it seemed to quicken with every step. She couldn’t shake the feeling.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Cass sat by the window in the room Alfred had given her, her silhouette a dark blur against the moonlight streaming through the glass. The room was still, the silence wrapping around her like a heavy cloak, but her mind was restless. She stared out into the night, watching the way the moonlight painted the cave in shades of silver, the quiet hum of the house—the life they all lived—echoing softly around her.

But the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone weren’t about the shadows or the cold stone beneath her feet. They were about Jason. About the way he had mimicked the patrol, the exaggerated movements, the way he had made it all seem like a game. The laughter she hadn’t expected, the way he turned a serious moment into something playful, something light. The way he had looked at her afterward, like he had won some small victory. The way it made her feel—almost... included .

The movement. The meaning behind it. It was more than just a joke—it was an invitation. A bridge between worlds that she didn’t fully understand but felt the edges of, like a language she hadn’t quite learned to speak. And then, in the silence that stretched between those memories, a thought—small, quiet—took root in her mind. 

She wanted to try.

She wanted to go outside.

She wanted to help.

For the first time, the desire wasn’t just a passing thought or a wish buried deep. It was something she could almost touch—something she could feel in her chest, in the way her heart beat just a little quicker, a little louder. She wanted to be a part of it.

—

The Batcave pulsed with quiet preparation, the air thick with the weight of impending action. The hum of the computers was a constant undercurrent, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse of the place itself. Screens flickered with data, casting cold, green light across the cavernous space. The low click of armor being fastened echoed through the cavern, the sound sharp and familiar, like an old song that never lost its edge. Each snap and strap was a signal, a step closer to the night’s mission.

Bruce’s voice, low and calm, cut through the steady hum as he discussed coordinates with Jason. The conversation was brief, practical, a string of numbers and directives that left little room for hesitation. Jason’s replies were sharp, clipped with his usual edge, a perfect balance to the precision Bruce demanded. They moved with the ease of repetition, like soldiers preparing for a battle they knew too well.

Cass sat in the shadows, cross-legged near the edge of the platform. The darkness folded around her like a second skin, the dim light from the Batcave casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to blend with her own. No one had told her to be there. No one had told her to leave. She watched them, the way they moved. Bruce, always calculated, his every action precise, controlled—like a machine built for efficiency. There was no wasted motion, no uncertainty in his stance. His eyes were already scanning, already plotting the next step, the next move in the endless game they all played.

Jason, on the other hand, was a little more restless. He fidgeted with his gloves, rolling his shoulders with a casual shrug, his movements loose and unhurried, but his eyes were sharp. He was always the one to throw in a joke, a little sarcasm, but there was an underlying seriousness to him that she’d come to recognize in his posture, in the way he held himself when things got real. Even now, there was a readiness to him, despite the moments of impatience.

Their body language was a language all its own, one Cass knew well. It was a rhythm—a pattern of movements she could almost feel, a silent code she could follow without needing to be told what came next. She didn’t need words. The way they carried themselves, the small, subtle shifts, told her everything she needed to know.

Jason glanced her way. His eyes flicked toward her with the same casual ease as everything else he did, but there was something else there—something soft, maybe a little teasing. He gave her a small tilt of his head, a silent acknowledgment. And then, the smallest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips, mischievous but warm. Cass blinked, just once. She didn’t move, but something in her posture shifted—a slight lean toward him, an almost imperceptible tilt of her head in return, the briefest acknowledgment of the unspoken moment between them.

Jason’s smile widened, a flicker of recognition passing between them. Then, with a quick flick of his fingers, he raised his hand in a brief wave—sharp, quick, like a signature only she could read. It was a small gesture, but it was enough.

And just like that, they were gone.

The engine of the Batmobile roared to life, cutting through the quiet like a beast awakening from its slumber. The sound echoed through the cave, reverberating off the stone walls before it faded, leaving the stillness to settle back in, thick and heavy.

Cass stood there for a moment, listening to the hum of the Batmobile fade into the distance. She didn’t move right away. Her body was still, her senses honed like the edge of a blade, feeling the pulse of the night around her. No words had been exchanged, but she knew what came next. She could already feel the rhythm of it in her bones.

Without a second thought, she followed. No gear. No mask. Just her and the night.

She moved through the shadows with ease, the slick rain-slicked streets and narrow alleyways becoming an extension of herself. Her feet barely made a sound on the wet concrete, the rhythm of her movements as natural as breathing. The rain dripped from rooftops above, slicking the surfaces beneath her, but it didn’t slow her down. It didn’t matter. 

It wasn’t long before she spotted them. The trio of armed men, gathered outside a small clinic, breaking into the front door with force. Their voices were muffled, too busy with their task to hear the quiet footsteps approaching. But Cass didn’t need them to hear her. She was already a step ahead.

Jason was the first to drop in. His entrance was loud and fast—no subtlety, just brute force. The thud of his boots hitting the ground was like thunder, and his movements were swift, aggressive, catching the men off guard. Bruce followed, but where Jason was loud, Bruce was silent. He descended like a shadow, the very embodiment of precision and efficiency. His movements were fluid, a blur of muscle and intent, his strikes surgical—quick, clean, and deadly. Cass stayed in the shadows, perfectly still, she didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched. Every twitch of their bodies, every frantic movement was logged in her mind. 

Then, one of the men broke from the pack. His eyes were wide, his breath ragged as he bolted for the back alley, trying to escape while Jason and Bruce focused on the others. Jason didn’t see, too busy with the two men still on the ground.

Cass’ gaze snapped to the fleeing man. The moment he started running, her body tensed, every muscle coiling like a spring ready to snap. Her movements were silent, fluid. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. She pushed off the rooftop with a fluid grace, her feet barely making a sound as she dropped to the ground. She landed hard, blocking the escapee’s path with the precision of a shadow. He had no time to react. His eyes widened as he slammed into her, almost colliding before his legs were swept out from under him. The force of the motion sent him crashing to the ground with a sharp cry of pain, his body hitting the wet pavement with a sickening thud.

And then—silence. The heavy, oppressive kind of silence that settled over everything like a weight. The rain still fell softly around them, but it felt miles away. No one moved. No one spoke.

Bruce’s jaw clenched, a sharp, almost imperceptible tightening. His eyes narrowed, scanning her with that unrelenting, calculating focus of his. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but there was something there—something that burned just below the surface.

Jason was the first to break the stillness. His eyes went wide, his gaze flicking between her and the downed man at her feet. He couldn’t mask the surprise, the disbelief, in his expression. And then, almost instinctively, he said her name, but it came out too loud, too sharp, like a sudden snap in the quiet.

“ Cass ?”

Her name echoed in the night. It was louder than she was used to. Louder than the world that had always been just outside her reach.

Cass flinched. It was an involuntary movement, a quick jerk of her body like she’d been struck, her shoulders tightening, her gaze dropping for just a moment. The sound of her name—spoken aloud—felt different. Heavy. It wasn’t just Jason’s voice; it was the weight of his realization, the understanding that she had done something, crossed a line in a way that no one had expected. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look up. She just stood there, still as stone, her fingers flexing slightly, the wet chill of the night creeping into her bones.

The ride back was silent, the only sound the steady hum of the Batmobile cutting through the night air. Jason kept glancing between the two of them, his eyes flicking from Bruce’s rigid, unyielding profile to Cass, who sat quietly, her face unreadable in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. Bruce’s jaw was clenched, his grip on the wheel far too tight, his knuckles white against the dark leather.

When they returned, the Batcave was eerily still. The only sounds were the soft drip of rain from their soaked capes, the faint whirr of the Batmobile’s engine cooling. Bruce didn’t move immediately. He just stood there, like a statue, cape dripping onto the cold stone floor. The silence between them was thick with something—disappointment, maybe? Worry? She couldn’t tell.

Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice low, controlled, but with an edge that made it clear he wasn’t pleased. “You can’t do that,” he said, his words heavy with authority. “You could’ve been hurt. Or gotten someone else hurt.”

Cass looked down. She could feel it—the unspoken warning in his words, the weight of his expectations.

Jason’s voice cut through the tension, softer but firm. “She was trying to help,” he said, stepping in before Bruce could say more. His tone was almost protective, like he was defending her, but the words didn’t feel like enough.

Bruce’s response was immediate and sharp, a crack in the calm he had worked so hard to maintain. “She doesn’t know how,” he snapped, his voice edged with frustration. It was the truth, but it stung, and Cass felt the weight of it like a physical blow. Without thinking, without needing to say another word, Cass turned and walked away. She didn’t look back, her feet light on the cold stone as she moved toward the shadows, toward the quiet.

—

Jason found her in the corridor behind the east wing, tucked into the small window nook where the light barely touched. She was curled up, knees drawn tightly to her chest, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes focused on the darkened cityscape beyond the glass. She was still, too still, like she was trying to disappear into the shadows.

"Hey."

His voice was quiet, gentle, but it still broke the silence between them. She didn’t look up.

He sat beside her, a comfortable distance away, but close enough to let the quiet settle between them. The space was still, the only sound was the rain pattering softly against the window. Jason glanced over at her, his smile crooked, trying to find something to ease the tension that hung thick in the air. "You’re not in trouble," he said, his tone light but reassuring. "Well. Maybe a little."

He nudged her knee gently with his own, a playful nudge that didn’t ask for anything, just a small attempt at breaking the wall of silence.

"But..." He hesitated, eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "It was kind of badass."

Jason leaned back against the cold stone, his eyes drifting up to the high ceiling above them, tracing the lines in the architecture as if they held some kind of answer. "I get it, you know?" he said, his voice low and steady, the words flowing more easily now that the silence between them had softened. "The itch. The burn in your hands. You see danger, and you move before you think." He let out a breath, the sound almost like a laugh, though it carried a hint of bitterness. "Me too. I mess up all the time 'cause of that."

He turned to look at her again, his eyes steady, and there was something almost comforting in his gaze now. Something that said he wasn’t here to lecture, but to understand .

"So maybe we can fix it," he continued, a slight smile curling at his lips. "Together. Knowing when we should just go... slower."

Cass didn’t respond immediately. She studied him—the subtle twitch of his brow, the earnestness in his eyes, the genuine offer he had made. ThenCass reached out, her fingers barely brushing against his palm. It was a soft touch, almost hesitant at first, but there was something final in it. A promise. An agreement.

A deal.

—

Cass sat on the balcony rail, the cool night air brushing against her skin, her mind drifting. The city below hummed softly, alive with its own rhythm, but for a moment, the world felt far away. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that made everything else seem distant and small.

From below, the familiar rumble of the Batmobile echoed through the streets, its headlights cutting through the darkness as it pulled back into the cave. Jason was the first to climb out, his movements exaggerated, arms flailing as he mimed something, clearly retelling an event with his usual flair for the dramatic. He hopped around, weaving his arms in exaggerated arcs, throwing a few kicks into the air as if the whole world was his audience.

Bruce followed, his movements measured, almost mechanical, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he let Jason carry on. He didn’t interrupt or correct him. He just let Jason do his thing, watching with that characteristic stillness. But something in the way he stood, his hands folded behind him, gave away a small sense of approval.

Cass tilted her head, her eyes tracing the flow of Jason’s movements, the energy in his performance. She watched the swing of his arms, the way his face lit up with every new detail of his retelling. He was completely absorbed in the story, living it again with the same passion and exaggeration as when it first happened. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Cass’s lips. Cass turned her gaze, the smile still lingering just out of reach. Maybe someday, she’d tell a story too. In her own way. Maybe someday, she’d find the words, or the gestures, or whatever it took to share what she felt. To bring it to life like Jason did.

Chapter Text

"WAYNE'S WARDS? Mystery Girl Spotted at the Manor!"

The Gotham Gazette sat on the Batcomputer’s console, its cover photo grainy but unmistakable—Cassandra, on the edge of the Wayne Manor garden, crouched like a shadow, her head tilted toward the trees. Next to the article, a smaller photo: Jason, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, scowling beside Alfred in the manor driveway.

Bruce stared at the spread in silence.

"They’ve noticed," Barbara said from the upper mezzanine. She was already in costume, cape fluttering slightly as she moved. "They always do, eventually."

Jason leaned on the console, reading over Bruce’s shoulder. "'Orphan Jason Todd continues to evade Gotham’s society scene'—well, good. Let’s keep it that way."

Bruce exhaled, rubbing his temple. "We can’t. Not anymore."

---

"There’s nothing," Lucius said, tapping through encrypted files. "No hospital record, no social number, no birth certificate. As far as every database is concerned, your girl doesn’t exist."

Bruce frowned. "Then we create her. Quietly. Carefully."

"And if someone recognizes her?" Barbara asked. "If whoever wants to comes to look for her?"

Bruce’s silence was answer enough. "It’s for protection."

"Throwing a gala for her? For Jason? That’s painting a target."

"Gotham’s watching. If I pretend they’re just visitors, they’ll dig deeper. They need legitimacy—fast."

Barbara crossed her arms. "So you’ll forge one for her. Give her a name, a birthdate, a dress. And if Cain’s still out there—"

Bruce turned sharply. "Then he’ll come. And I’ll be ready."

---

The room had been cleared, mirrors lining the walls. Alfred stood by the record player, letting soft classical music spin into the space.

"Posture, Miss Cassandra. No, not rigid—fluid. Dance is a conversation. Not a battle."

Cass was barefoot, her first few steps stiff and confused. But her eyes were alert, locked onto the rhythm, onto Alfred’s movements.

Then slowly, she began to move. Not following the steps so much as responding to the music, the movement, the intent. Her body knew how to fight—but this was different. A call to listen. To feel.

Alfred smiled, more to himself than her. "There now... something tells me this suits you."

---

The chandeliers blazed. Soft music curled around marble pillars. Gotham’s finest swirled in silks and black ties, wine glasses catching the light like daggers.

Jason adjusted his collar for the tenth time, muttering curses under his breath.

"Stop fidgeting," Alfred said, then smiled as Jason gave him a half-hearted glare.

"Do these people even remember what real hunger feels like?" Jason muttered. "They smile as if they didn't live in Gotham."

Later, Bruce made the rounds, introducing Cassandra and Jason as his wards for the first time. The press, carefully selected, snapped photos from the agreed-upon distance. The smiles were all practiced. The moment, choreographed.

Cass stood perfectly still in a deep navy dress. Her eyes scanned the space like a hawk—watching movement, posture, tension. Every face held meaning. Every smile a weapon. Her back was pressed near the wall, away from the crowd.

She was trembling, just slightly.

Jason noticed. He made his way over, keeping his posture casual.

"Wanna dance?" he asked, offering a hand.

She blinked. Her new favorite way to say yes.

They moved awkwardly in a corner of the room, almost unnoticed. They danced in silence. No one interrupted.

For a second, it was theirs.

---

The television buzzed with static before snapping into focus.

"Bruce Wayne introduces adopted son and daughter at gala."

David Cain leaned back in the cracked vinyl chair, eyes narrowing as Cassandra’s image appeared onscreen. He ran a finger along the blade in his lap. "Still perfect," he whispered.

---

Cass moved like smoke—silent, fluid, a whisper of presence in the training ring beneath the manor. Bruce watched from the shadows, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Jason paced nearby, tossing a batarang from hand to hand. "She’s not even trying," he muttered. "C’mon, Cass, you gotta push back."

She stood at the center of the mat, bare feet grounded, hands raised in a soft defensive posture. Not afraid—never afraid—but restrained.

Jason lunged, sweeping a leg low. Cass leapt, twisting midair, and landed softly behind him. She didn’t strike. Just watched.

"You gonna fight me or what?" Jason snapped, spinning.

She cocked her head, eyes reading him like a book she already knew the ending to. She stepped forward, lifted a hand, and nudged his shoulder—barely a tap.

Jason snarled and charged. His strikes came fast and brutal. Cass ducked one, blocked another, and spun to redirect him. Still no counterattack. She moved like water around him, absorbing the heat without returning it.

Bruce’s voice cut in. "Enough."

Jason backed off, breath sharp. "What, I’m the problem now?"

"You were too aggressive."

Jason threw his hands up. "She’s always holding back! She doesn’t fight—she copies. We haven’t seen what she can do. What she really is."

Bruce’s expression flickered. "Control is essential for—"

Jason stepped forward. "This is not about control. She’s been here for months and never gone full force. Why? What's wrong with me wanting to see it?"

The silence lingered. Cass stood between them, still breathing slow, as if measuring the distance between two cliffs.

Bruce looked at her. "Cass. Again. But this time… don’t hold back."

Her eyes met his. Something shifted in her stance.

Jason raised his guard, warier now. "Okay," he muttered. "Show me."

She moved. Not faster. Not stronger. Just real. A perfect rhythm of strike, feint, parry—movements so instinctual they didn’t feel learned. Jason tried to keep up, his balance tested every second. He aimed a punch. She spun inside his guard and touched his collarbone, gentle as a falling leaf.

Then she stopped.

Jason stumbled back, panting. "That… okay, that was new."

Seconds later Cass was sitting on the edge of the mat, toweling off sweat. Jason sat nearby, wincing slightly as he rubbed his ribs. "Okay, not a mimic," Jason said finally, staring at her. "I got carried away. That’s on me."

Cass tilted her head at him. She tapped her chest, then mimed a small explosion—anger—and followed it with a dismissive wave.

Jason smirked. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Chill out. I get it."

Bruce watched them for a moment. Then he turned and walked toward the cave’s exit.

---

That night Jason sat on the edge of his bed, still in a tank top, still sore.

Cass had gone quiet after training. But not angry—just distant. She always withdrew like that when overwhelmed.

Jason stared at the ceiling.

"One night," he whispered, eyes narrowing. "We’ll go out. Just once. She’ll see what it’s really like. Not just in here." He smiled faintly. "And I bet we'll be amazing."

---

Jason sat by the window, mask in hand, staring out at Gotham’s distant glow. The city called to him like it always had. But tonight, he wasn’t going alone. Cass sat cross-legged on the floor, lacing her boots. She glanced up, as if sensing his thoughts.

"We’re ready." He stood, grabbed his cape, and nodded toward the window. "Come on. Let’s break some rules."

The city breathed beneath them—steam curling from vents, distant sirens echoing like lullabies. Jason and Cass leapt across the skyline with ease, their movements fluid, synchronized. A scream cut through the wind. They didn’t hesitate.

The alley was narrow, two muggers pressing a young woman against the wall. Jason dropped in first, shoulder-checking one to the ground. Cass moved like lightning—disarming the other, twisting his wrist with surgical precision before he could blink. Jason chuckled. "Okay, that was cool." Cass didn’t reply, only scanned the woman for injury and nodded once before vanishing back into the shadows.

Two more calls followed: a burglary in progress, and a drug drop in the East End. They moved with purpose—Cass adapting to Jason’s brute force with sharp, silent strikes of her own. He didn’t need to tell her what to do. She was always three steps ahead. For once, Jason wasn’t trying to prove anything. He wasn’t asking her to hold back or open up. He just fought beside her—and loved it. They were chaos in balance. And Jason couldn’t stop smiling.

They’d barely cleared the shadows when a trap sprung. A sniper—Jason turned just in time to take the graze across his shoulder. He cursed, dropped to one knee. Cass didn’t hesitate. She dove forward, disarming the hidden thug in seconds—when another bullet struck her square in the chest. Jason yelled. "Cass!"

She stood. Unflinching. Unmoved. Her eyes narrowed. And then she charged. Jason watched, stunned, as she fought harder, faster than ever. Yeah, it was time to go home.

---

Jason gritted his teeth as Alfred stitched his shoulder. Bruce said nothing, standing across the room.

"She didn’t flinch," Jason muttered. "Took a bullet and kept moving."

Bruce didn’t reply. "I told you not to take her out."

"She wanted to go."

"That’s not the point."

"No?" Jason stepped forward, defensive. "You keep her locked up, talk about protecting her, but she’s not some scared kid. I think she’s ready," Jason added, softer now. Cass was curled up next to him, already well bandaged. He looked at Cass, remembered the way she stood after the shot, unbroken. He grinned.

Next time, they wouldn't catch them.

Chapter Text

Speech, for Cassandra, was not merely absent—it was alien. Her world had been made of breath and muscle, twitch and tilt. Her father had never spoken to her the way others did. His words were commands, and his hands said more. Every gesture a threat. Every silence, a challenge.

Now, surrounded by people who filled the air with noise that wasn’t hostile, she was unmoored. Their mouths moved, and she could read their intent in their bodies, but not in their words.

She began listening differently. Not just watching them, but listening.

Jason mumbled and laughed and spat sarcasm like it was air. Alfred had rhythm and cadence, a kind of gentleness even when he chided. Bruce spoke rarely, but with weight.

She followed their lips. She watched the shapes. Heard the tones. The hard clicks of "k," the softness of "s."

And at night, in her room, she practiced.

Not with writing. She couldn't read. She didn't even try. Words on a page were dead things. But sounds—sounds were alive.

She lay in bed and formed shapes with her mouth. Soundless at first. Then whispering. Not real words. Just fragments. Echoes. "Br... Brzz... Brrsss..." She tried to mimic the sound of her name in Bruce’s voice. It didn’t come out right. She tried again.

She stood in front of the mirror, watching herself. How her jaw moved. How her lips rounded. Again. Again.

Some days, she followed Alfred and echoed his words silently. "Tea." "Bread." "Jam."

Jason caught her one night, crouched in the hallway whispering to herself.

“You okay?”

She startled.

Jason held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”

She shook her head. Tried to say something. Her mouth opened. A breath. "Juh... Juh..."

He blinked. “Were you trying to say my name?”

She flushed, stepping back.

He grinned. Not mean—surprised, maybe even a little touched. “That was pretty close. You can call me Jay, if it’s easier.”

She nodded.

He paused. “Can I help you? You wanna learn?”

She hesitated. Then nodded again.

So, Jason began teaching her—not with books, not with flashcards. He didn’t have the patience for that, and she wouldn’t have responded to it anyway. Instead, he pointed at things and said their names. Slowly. Repetitively.

He turned it into a game.

“This?” He held up a fork.

“Fffff...uh...k,” she tried.

He winced. “Close. Try again.”

They laughed. She laughed, really laughed, for the first time. A sound low and strange in her chest.

In the evenings, she practiced alone. Sounds. Syllables. Slowly, a vocabulary formed—not in her mouth yet, but in her mind. She began associating noise with shape. With movement. With meaning.

And then came the first real word. One she had felt before she understood it.

“Br... Bru... Brss.”

She pointed. The figure in the doorway.

Bruce turned.

Jason looked over, eyes wide. “She just said your name.”

Bruce blinked. Stepped forward. “Say it again?” he asked, kneeling.

She tried. “Br...ss.”

He didn’t smile, but something softened in his face.

Jason, behind her, grinned ear to ear.

“That’s right,” Bruce said quietly. “That’s me.”

—

That night, Bruce stayed a little longer in the hallway than usual. He didn’t say much—he never did—but he nodded once, as if to acknowledge something unspoken between them. A marker laid down. A new beginning.

Cass sat in the silence that followed and repeated it under her breath: Brss.

It wasn't perfect, but it had weight. It meant something. Not just the man, but the idea of him—safety in shadows, purpose behind the quiet. Saying his name was more than sound; it was faith.

Jason was the one who kept at it daily. Not always gently. He teased her when she fumbled, swore when she got too close and still missed, but never gave up. He didn’t handle fragility well—not even his own—but with her, he softened. Rough edges dulled, not gone, just careful.

He began testing her in casual ways.

In the kitchen, he pointed at a glass of water. “Say it.”

“Wuh... wuhh...”

“Come on, you’re halfway there.”

“Wuh...tr.”

He clapped. “Hell yeah. Look at you.”

She smiled, small but real.

Progress was slow. Words came in fragments, like catching leaves in the wind. Some stuck; most didn’t. The hardest were the ones that had no physical referent—“idea,” “feel,” “never.” But names? Names she could learn. They were people. They moved. They breathed.

Alfred took weeks.

Not because it was hard to pronounce, but because she couldn’t figure out how to say it without feeling like she was overstepping. His presence was like gravity—constant, quiet, deep. When she finally whispered it, barely audible behind him in the kitchen one morning, he froze.

Then turned. “Yes, Miss Cassandra?”

She stared at him, unsure if she had really said it.

He gave a soft smile. “It would be my honor to hear it again, whenever you wish.”

She nodded, a tight breath caught in her throat. Not quite crying. Something more internal.

“Cass,” Jason said later, tossing a batarang between his hands, “you’ve got guts. Most people don’t talk to Alfred until they’re, like, fully qualified adults.”

She made a sound that might’ve been a laugh.

The next hurdle was her own name.

It felt strange on her tongue. When people called her “Cassandra,” she recognized it, responded to it, but it didn’t feel like something she could own.

She stood in front of the mirror at night, as usual, mouthing it silently.
“Ka... kuh... sah...”

Jason, overhearing, leaned in from the hallway. “Try ‘Cass.’ Shorter. Easy.”

She paused. Nodded. “Cass.” Clearer this time. Not perfect, but closer.

He gave her a mock bow. “Welcome to the talking club.”

—

By the time winter crept in around the edges of the mansion, she had maybe a dozen words she could say clearly, and another dozen she could almost say. Sentences were still beyond her—but the desire was there now. That was the difference. She wanted to speak. Not just to communicate, but to connect.

She began humming to herself. Imitating the cadence of conversation. Not words—tones, rhythms. When Alfred answered the phone, she listened to the up and down of his greetings. When Jason cursed after stubbing his toe, she mimicked the sharpness of his vowels. She soaked it in.

And Bruce—Bruce began to notice.

Not just the progress, but the effort.

She had once only watched them like a ghost in the hallway—present, but outside of everything. Now, she leaned in during conversations, trying to participate. She still froze when too many words came at her at once, still panicked when someone expected a response—but she no longer fled.

One night, Bruce handed her a cup of tea, pausing before speaking.

“You’re doing well,” he said.

She nodded.

He hesitated. “If... you ever want more help... I can ask someone.”

She tilted her head, puzzled.

“A speech therapist. Or someone who—”

“No.” Her voice was small but certain.

He met her eyes.

She looked away. Then tried again, slower. “No... need. You... help.”

That was the first time she had ever put two words together aloud.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change much. But his hand, still holding the cup, stilled. She caught it. Understood.

She reached out, touched the edge of his glove. “Brss...”

He closed his fingers around hers, gentle.

And for a moment, that was enough.

—

The progress continued in strange, non-linear ways. Some days, she woke up with a new sound already waiting on her tongue. Other days, her mouth forgot how to shape even the simplest ones. But she kept going.

Jason started throwing in new challenges—emotions.

“Say angry,” he said one day after a training session.

She furrowed her brow.

“You know. Like when Bruce cancels patrol last minute.”

She thought. Then: “Ahh... guh... ruh...”

“Nice! And ‘happy’?”

She gave him a look—side-eye, smirking.

He laughed. “Yeah, okay. You don’t need that one when you can just look like that.”

Emotions were harder. They weren’t tied to objects. But they were tied to experience. She learned to say “tired” after a long day. “Hurt” after patching a bruised rib. “Good” when Alfred’s cooking landed just right.

It became a sort of lexicon—made from life, not language. Her dictionary was carved in action.

And it was Jason who gave her the final nudge toward something bigger.

They were in the Batcave, post-patrol. Jason was bleeding from his arm, just a shallow cut, but messy. Cass had helped stitch it, hands steady. Jason, half-delirious with fatigue, muttered something sarcastic about getting hazard pay.

Cass, without thinking, replied softly: “You okay?”

He froze. Looked up.

She blinked. She hadn’t meant to say it. It had just... come out.

Jason stared for a moment. Then laughed. Not his usual short, sharp bark, but a long, stunned, breathless thing.

“Jesus, Cass. You just talked to me.”

She looked away.

“No, don’t look away—hey, come here.” He pulled her into a one-armed hug, careful of the bandage. “You freaking rock.”

Her chest ached in a strange, warm way.

It wasn’t full language yet. But it was a voice. Hers.

Chapter Text

Cassandra woke before dawn, as always. Her internal rhythm was unshakable, shaped by a childhood of brutal routine. But now, there was no father barking orders, no cracked walls or blood-slick mats beneath her feet. The Wayne Manor breathed silence—alive in its stillness, echoing old wealth and older grief.

She padded barefoot down the long hallway, the floorboards cool beneath her toes. No one else was awake yet. She liked the mornings best, when she could move without question. She didn’t touch anything. Her hands remained at her sides, open but careful. She simply observed. Her eyes—sharp, unrelenting—devoured every detail.

In the kitchen, she found Alfred. He moved like a memory: graceful, efficient, kind. She watched the way he cracked the eggs—one swift motion with the wrist. How he seasoned them, not by measurement but by instinct. How he folded the cloth napkins with delicate finality.

He turned and smiled at her. “Good morning, Miss Cassandra,” he said. She blinked.  She studied his face. The rise of his brows. The small curl of his lips. The subtle shift of his posture when he acknowledged her presence. There was no threat. No tension. He meant comfort.

She tilted her head.

“Would you care for some breakfast?” he asked.

She nodded, slow. That much she understood.

She sat at the table as he placed a warm plate before her. She didn’t eat right away. She watched him again as he prepared tea, set out toast, arranged jam and butter with a strange sense of ceremony.

He gestured to the jam. “Would you like some?”

She reached out, mimicking his earlier movement. Not perfectly. But close.

A few moments later, Jason entered—grumbling, yawning, rubbing at his eyes. His hoodie hung off one shoulder. A bruise peeked above the collar. He glanced between Alfred and Cass.

“Mornin’,” he muttered. “Smells good.”

He dropped into the seat next to hers. Cass watched the way he sprawled, the way he moved with an ease she didn’t quite understand.

Alfred, pouring tea, spoke without looking up. “Miss Cassandra, would you pass the jam to your brother?”

Brother.

Jason froze mid-step, blinking. Cass blinked too.

Something strange settled into Jason’s chest at the word. He gave a half-smirk, trying to play it off. “Thanks,” he muttered, as Cass passed him the jar silently.

A few minutes later, boots sounded on the staircase. A voice followed—light, casual, but undeniably confident. “Well, this is cozy. Didn’t expect the breakfast club reunion.”

Jason turned, groaning. “Oh great. It’s you.”

“Nice to see you too, Little Wing.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Cass looked between them, her head swiveling like a curious owl.

Dick Grayson walked into the kitchen with a grin and a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His presence changed the air somehow—lighter, more alive. Like a gust of wind through a still room. “You must be Cassandra,” he said, extending a hand.

She stared at it for a second before shaking it, cautiously.

“Dick Grayson. Officially the favorite Robin, unofficially the only one with decent taste in music.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind him. He thinks being a circus kid makes him interesting.”

“Hey, I could juggle while kicking your ass. That’s impressive.”

Alfred cleared his throat loudly. “Language.”

They all chuckled—Jason reluctantly, Cass silently.

Dick’s smile softened. “It’s good to meet you, Cass. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

---

Hours later, the two of them stood atop the GCPD tower, wind slicing through their coats. Below them, Gotham sprawled in ruin and motion, indifferent to their presence.

On the giant monitor mounted on the helipad, crime scene footage flickered through frames: warehouse ruins, bodies crushed under collapsed steel, blood painted on the walls in deliberate patterns. Cain’s work.

“This was a message,” Jason said, scowling.

“Every hit is tighter, cleaner,” Dick added. “He’s not killing at random. He’s pulling Batman in, inch by inch.”

Jason clenched his fists. “He wants Batman alone.”

“And Bruce is gonna give him exactly what he wants,” Dick muttered. “Like always.”

---

Of course Jason followed him.

He tailed Bruce through the rooftops, staying just far enough to avoid detection. He moved like a shadow. He hated when Bruce did things like this—taking the burden alone, carrying the world like he had no help. It wasn’t noble. It was stupid.

The meeting spot was an abandoned rail yard. Cain was already waiting. He stood tall, hands empty, blade strapped to his back like a promise.

“Batman,” he said with that too-calm voice. “At last.”

Bruce stood firm. “You’ve left a trail of bodies. That’s not an invitation. It’s an indictment.”

Cain shrugged. “I had to get your attention. You’re always so busy.”

“You failed.”

Cain smiled faintly. “Did I?”

He reached into a pouch and pulled out a small data drive. He tossed it at Batman’s feet. Jason, hidden high in the rafters, held his breath.

“What is this?”

“Footage,” Cain said. “You should see it. The girl you’ve taken in... she’s not what you think.”

Bruce didn’t bend down. He only stared.

Cain continued. “A killing. Efficient. Cold. Beautiful. She was eight.”

“You’re lying.”

“Watch it.”

Bruce inserted the drive into a portable viewer. The screen flickered to life. The image was grainy, but clear enough. A child—Cass—moved through a group of men like water. There was blood. A man crumpled. No hesitation. No fear. Just movement.

Jason’s heart dropped.

“No,” Bruce said. “She would never—this is fake.”

Cain laughed. “She was born for this. Trained for it. The perfect weapon. You think love or morality can erase that?”

Jason bit down hard on his lip. His sister. The one who’d taken a bullet for him. Who passed him the jam in the morning. She couldn’t—

Cain turned his gaze upward, as if he knew Jason was there. “Ask her about the first time she escaped.”

Bruce stared, not blinking.

“Ask her what she did the night she ran from me. Ask her why she can’t sleep when it’s too quiet.”

Jason shifted back into the shadows.

Bruce turned. “We’re done here.”

Cain bowed. “Not yet.” Cain’s voice was calm, but something in it cut like a wire pulled tight. “You want to protect her? Then don’t lie to yourself.”

---

Jason found her on the roof.

She didn’t flinch when he approached. She never did. Just sat there, legs crossed, eyes tracing the shadows cast by Gotham’s skyline. He settled beside her, leaving a respectful distance. The air between them was cold, clean. They didn’t need warmth to feel close.

“Y’know,” Jason said, voice casual, “when I was on the streets, I did stuff I hated.” She tilted her head, not quite looking at him. “Nothing... dramatic. Just things that made me feel like I wasn’t a person. Like I was something else. Something you could ignore. Or use.” 

Silence. 

“But I kept telling myself—I wasn’t bad. Just trying to live.” He glanced sideways. Her hands were folded tight in her lap. “I think sometimes we do things before we know how to say ‘no.’ Or before we know we can,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we wanted to.”

A long pause. Then: “I didn’t want to,” Cass whispered.

Jason smiled softly. “I know.” She finally looked at him, making Jason shrugged. “You’re my sister, Cass. Whatever came before... that’s not who you are now.”

She didn’t smile, but her posture softened, Jason leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars—faint and flickering through Gotham’s haze. “You’re good now,” he added, eyes on the sky. “You’re so good, it hurts sometimes.”

"I'm... not. You are."

—

The screens glowed dim blue. Bruce stood with his arms crossed, gaze locked on the paused frame of the video: Cass, small and fast, striking with the grace of a dancer and the precision of death.

He didn’t look up when he heard footsteps. “Barbara.”

“I got your message,” she said, setting her bag down. “You wanted me to verify the file.”

He finally turned. “Is it altered?”

She met his eyes. “No. It’s real.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Could be staged.”

Barbara shook her head. “It wasn’t. The kill, the reactions, the blood splatter. It’s genuine.”

He turned back to the screen, something in his shoulders curling inward. “She was a child.”

“She still is,” Barbara said gently. “And you’ve seen what she’s done since. Who she is now.”

Bruce didn’t speak for a long moment.

“You should talk to her,” Barbara said. “She deserves that.”

He shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

“Bruce—”

“She’s ready,” he interrupted. “To go on real patrol. The city’s changing. It needs her.”

Barbara stared at him, incredulous. “That’s not what she needs.”

“It’s what I can give,” he said, voice like steel.

A long silence.

Barbara exhaled. “You’re not fixing this by putting her in a cape.”

Bruce finally looked at her. There was something almost broken in his eyes. “I’m not trying to fix her,” he said. “I’m trying to believe in her.”

Chapter Text

The suit was laid out on the table like an offering.

Cass looked down at it—sleek, dark, with sharp angles and glinting gloves. A black bodysuit stitched with subtle armor plating, flexible and quiet. A cape shorter than Bruce’s, longer than Jason’s. A mask without a mouth, without eyes, but somehow still a face.

She stood still, shoulders drawn inward, taking it in.

Behind her, Barbara crossed her arms. “You just need a name.”

Cass didn’t mind. "Don't want." She only wanted to help. 

“You might need one,” Dick offered, stepping beside her. His tone was gentle, but purposeful. “It’s not just for theatrics. Names… give you weight. Identity. And trust me, there’s a lot of weight in being a hero in Gotham.”

Cass nodded once, barely. She only wanted to help. The name wasn’t important. The mission was.

“In that case,” Jason said, sauntering in from behind them, “dibs on naming her.”

Cass turned slightly to find him leaning against the workbench, arms folded, trying hard to look casual. But his smile was soft. Familiar.

Dick raised a brow. “Dibs, huh? I’ve got a list already. All amazing.” Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m thinking of something sleek. Cool. Like ‘Nightgirl’”

“Awful,” Jason declared.

“You got a better one, Jay?”

Jason tilted his head, thoughtful. Then he smiled. “She loves bats. Like, really loves them. Told me once she wanted that to be her name. So—Black Bat.”

The silence stretched a moment.

Dick blinked. “That’s… actually good.”

Cass blinked between them. Jason gave her a small nod. “You like it?”

She looked at the suit again. Cass reached out slowly, fingertips grazing the chest symbol. A small black bat, just barely raised from the fabric. She looked up and gave a single, deliberate nod.

Black Bat.

Jason grinned. “Cool. It’s settled. I won.”

—

Later that night, Gotham’s skyline burned gold at the edges, smothered in fog. Three shadows danced across the rooftops.

Dick led the way, flipping across the gaps like he’d been born in the air. Jason followed with grounded, efficient motion, quick bursts of energy across the rooftops. Cass was behind them, silent. Effortless. Her cape whispered when she moved, never louder than breath.

Jason kept glancing back, a grin tugging at his face. “Not bad, huh? Do it with permission and without... people shooting you in the chest,” he said.

Cass looked at him, then forward, focusing. It felt different tonight. Not like training. Not like watching from the shadows. This was real.

Watching from a nearby building, Batman crouched in shadow. He had insisted on this patrol. Not to lead—but to watch.

“They’re fast,” Bruce said through the comms. His voice was gravel but edged with curiosity.

“Cass is faster,” Dick replied, glancing back as she vaulted the next roof without sound. “She barely makes a sound when she lands. I think she’s holding back.”

Jason glanced back at her too. “She’s nervous,” he said, with a mocking voice.

“No,” Cass whispered before she realized she had.

Jason’s face lit up. “Hey! Look who’s talking on patrol!”

Bruce’s voice crackled in. “First time nerves are normal.”

“She’s doing great,” Dick said. “Way better than I did my first night.”

Jason chuckled. “You puked.”

“I was eight, and we were upside down in a trash compactor.”

“Still counts.”

Bruce, unseen but listening, said nothing. But behind the cowl, his eyes tracked Cassandra’s movement closely.

—

The patrol unfolded like a slow-blooming rhythm.

Dick demonstrated positioning on ledges, using light to his advantage. “You want to keep just inside the glow—not out of sight, but just shadowed. People see movement before they see color.”

Jason showed her how to use echoes—kicking a can or scuffing a boot at the right time to mislead a target’s direction. “Sometimes sound scares people more than fists.”

Cass watched. Then she did.

She didn’t mimic—she understood . She adjusted every move based on observation. Better angles. Quieter leaps. Her instincts guided her body like language. When she dropped silently from a rooftop to land beside Jason, he jumped a little.

“Holy—Cass!”

“Loud,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dick laughed over comms. “She’s got you beat.”

At one point, Dick spun a batarang on his finger before flicking it into a streetlight. It popped with a soft hiss, plunging an alley into shadow.

Jason snorted. “Show-off.”

Cass reached into her belt. Flipped her own batarang with one hand, then caught it palm-down. Her eyes flicked toward Dick.

“Dude, did she just—”

“Yeah,” Jason said, laughing. “That’s my girl, she got you beat.”

—

Midway through patrol, a small incident unfolded in the Narrows. A mugger with a knife, late teens, panicked and reckless.

Cass got there first.

She moved through the air like smoke. The mugger didn’t even see her coming. She disarmed him in two moves—disarm, dislocate—and tied him with a wire to a rusted fire escape pole.

By the time Jason and Dick arrived, the kid was already secured and whimpering.

Jason grinned. “You’re too cool.”

The night continued.

A kid stuck on a fire escape. A street fight broken up in the Bowery. Cass watched, learned, and adapted. Her movement was an echo of everything they taught—sharper, faster, and always silent.

Between incidents, Jason took it upon himself to narrate their patrol like a late-night radio host. “Gotham’s beloved bats take the night again. Led by the fabulously dressed Jason Todd, AKA Robin, AKA Gotham’s top-tier vigilante.”

“No pants,” Cass said quietly.

Dick tripped. Jason stared at her, stunned. Then he burst into laughter so loud it echoed down the alley.

Bruce, from above, actually smiled.

—

It was near the end of patrol when they found the warehouse. Just a building near the docks—crumbling brick, boarded windows, forgotten by everyone.

But Cass stopped in front of it.

“What is it?” Dick asked.

She tilted her head. Before anyone could argue, she was gone—slipping through the broken door, swallowed by the dark.

Jason made a move to follow, but Bruce’s voice cut in. “Let her.”

Inside, Cass moved like water.

There was no blood. No scent of death. Just old rot and metal. Her footsteps made no sound across the debris. And then—there. In the center of the floor.

A mark. Carved into the concrete. Small. A circle with jagged wings. Not fresh. But not forgotten.

Her heart tightened.

Cain had been here. Not for them. For her .

This was a message. A signal. A hunter’s mark.

He knew. He knew she was in Gotham. That she had a suit. A symbol. A family.

He was watching.

Cass knelt beside the symbol. She didn’t touch it. When she stood, she said nothing.

Jason met her outside. “Anything?”

She shook her head.

He frowned but didn’t press. “Well… patrol’s done. First one back gets dibs on TV.”

They ran home. Laughed. Teased.

Cass ran just behind them, smiling when they looked.

But her mind was still in the warehouse.

She would deal with it. Alone.

Cain would not touch them.

Not Jason.

Not Bruce.

Not anyone.

This was her past. And she would be the one to end it. She was Black Bat now. And no one would take that from her.

Not even him.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall blinked 3:07 AM. The manor slept. Cassandra didn’t.

She curled her fingers into her palms, grounding herself. Inhale. Exhale. Her mind fought against memory, but her body wasn’t convinced.

“Don’t flinch. Weakness costs.”

His voice again. A ghost she couldn’t exorcise.

But she wasn’t flinching. She wasn’t weak. She had a family now. Bruce, with his silence. Dick’s steady warmth. Barbara’s sharp eyes. Jason’s chaos wrapped in care. They were hers.

And that terrified her more than Cain ever had. Because she knew the reason why she'd never had anything, not even a name, because when you have something... you can lose it.

She stood slowly, silently. Her Black Bat gear was already laid out, methodical. There was no hesitation in the way she dressed—only in the moment she looked back at the door.

She wanted to wake Jason. Or Barbara. Or even Bruce.

But if she told them, they’d come. They’d get hurt. Because of her.

So she left.

—

The city breathed beneath her—dark, loud, alive. Cassandra Cain crouched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, staring down at the rusted warehouse below. It looked like any other in Gotham’s east industrial quadrant. But she knew better. He was inside.

Don’t let him touch them, she repeated in her head. Don’t let him near them.

Her gloved fingers curled around the old concrete, steadying herself against the flood of thoughts. Her suit—tight black, stitched for movement and silence—felt like a second skin. But she had left the mask off. She wanted him to see her face.

She jumped. Landed silent. Moved like a whisper through the shadows. The warehouse door creaked open with the wind. She entered.

Inside, the air was still. Dust clung to the bones of forgotten machinery. A single figure stood at the center, unmoving.

David Cain.

Older now. Hair graying at the temples. But the same cold gaze. The same perfect stance. She saw the blade at his hip, the slight shift of weight to his back leg.

He’d been waiting.

“Cassandra, that's what you call yourself now, right?” he said softly. “You came home.”

She didn’t answer.

He took a step closer. “I knew you would. You’re mine. My legacy. You were never going to stay with them.”

She said nothing. But her body tensed.

“They’ve made you weak. The Bat, the impertinent girl, the boy wonder. You belong to something greater. You were born for it… but don't worry, there’s something beautiful about broken things glued back together.” 

His voice—it wasn’t cruel. It was reverent. As if he truly believed it. 

“You killed like no one else, you were perfect. ”

A flash.

Blood on her hands. That man lying on his desk as if it didn't matter. Cain waiting to give her a hug.

He was still speaking. “You tried to leave once. Ran to the hills. But you came back. You needed me. You always have.”

Running through trees, breath ragged, feet raw.

Then the tranquilizer.

Then his arms, wrapping her up like a snake.

“Shh,” he had whispered. “You’ll feel better when you’re home.”

Cassandra took a step forward now.

Cain smiled.

“You’re ready to return,” he said. “I can see it. The guilt weighs on you. You can’t hide it. They don’t understand what you are. I do.”

“I’m not yours.”

Cain lunged.

—

The fight exploded.

He came in low, sweeping for her knees. She vaulted above it, twisting midair, landing behind him and striking toward his exposed back. He parried with a reverse elbow, catching her chin. Her vision sparked, but she flowed with the force, flipped backward, and landed in a crouch.

Cain advanced. Knife drawn. No hesitation.

She ducked, spun inside his guard, aimed for his ribs. He shifted, redirected her blow, countered with a knee.

She blocked it, then elbowed him hard in the throat.

He stumbled. Coughing. Smiling.

"You remember everything I taught you."

She responded with silence and fists.

He moved like a storm—precision, rage, pride. She moved like water—graceful, reactive, deadly.

They crashed through crates, tools, empty shelving. Wood splintered. Metal screamed. Her boot connected with his wrist—the knife skittered across the floor.

Cain rammed her into a pillar. She gasped and headbutted him. Hard.

He reeled back, blood trailing from his nose.

She didn’t wait. A flurry of strikes—chin, ribs, temple. His body jerked with the blows.

Still, he laughed. "That’s my girl."

Cain reached behind, revealing a second blade. Threw it.

She caught it midair and ducked, slashed across his thigh. She disarmed him again. Slapped the hilt across his jaw. He crumpled.

"Do it. Finish it. You’ll never be free until you do."

She raised the blade.

Her arms trembled.

His eyes met hers. Calm. Inviting. "You’ll see. You need me."

She dropped the knife. It clattered to the ground.

Cain blinked.

She turned and walked away.

Behind her, he laughed again. Faint, cracked.

—

When she was far enough away from the warehouse her hands began to shake. The floor tilted. Her knees buckled. She sank down, pressing her back to the cold concrete wall. The blood—on her fists—wouldn't stop. She couldn't breathe.

He was right.

She had killed.

She was still a killer.

She curled inward. Chest tight. The sound of her heartbeat filled her ears. Faster. Louder.

Cass collapsed. Knees buckling. Breathing too fast. The weight finally crashing down. And she swore she heard footsteps and someone's desperate scream.

“Cass.”

It was Jason’s. Rough. Panicked. Real.

She couldn’t lift her head. The air was too thick. Her chest burned. Her body folded tighter.

A touch—firm but gentle—on her shoulder.

She shook her head. Her throat made a sound, animal and cracked. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Not this broken.

“You’re okay,” Jason said, softer now. “I got you. You're okay.”

He was kneeling beside her. One arm wrapped around her back, anchoring her. His presence was a tether, solid and warm.

“I—” she rasped.

“You don’t have to say it.”

His fingers found hers, unclenching them. The dried blood flaked between their palms.

She leaned, just a little. Enough to let her forehead rest against his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go.

Jason held her as she shook.

“I followed your signal,” he said after a long moment. “You forgot to turn it off. Dumbass.”

A weak breath escaped her lips. Almost a laugh. Almost.

His voice dropped lower. “I would’ve come even if you hadn’t.”

The words pierced deeper than any blade Cain had ever used.

Minutes passed. The storm inside her began to quiet. Not gone. But held back—by the steady rhythm of Jason’s breathing, by the streetlight flickering overhead, by the hum of Gotham below.

Her body still trembled. But she was upright. Breathing.

And for the first time in the night, it didn’t hurt.

She closed her eyes.

“Home?” Jason asked.

Cassandra nodded.

—

The warehouse still stank of old blood and rusted regret. But Cain was still there — barely standing, propped against a steel beam, like he belonged in ruins.

Batman emerged from the shadows, slow and deliberate. No words. Just the echo of armored boots.

Cain didn’t flinch. He smiled through split lips. “You always did like dramatic timing.”

Batman didn’t respond.

“She left a mess,” Cain continued, gesturing vaguely to the blood on the floor.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “She didn’t kill you. That was her mercy. This isn’t.”

Without warning, Batman struck.

A heavy punch to the gut, followed by a backfist across the jaw. Cain collapsed sideways, coughing violently. He tried to stand—Batman placed a boot on his chest and pressed down.

“If you come near her again,” Bruce said, voice like cut stone. 

"What are you going to do?" Cain interrupted, laughing. "You're not going to kill me anyway, are you?"

Bruce didn’t answer.

He just looked at him.

Not with anger. Not even disgust. Something colder. A quiet, dangerous certainty.

“I don’t need to kill you,” he said at last, crouching lower, voice just above a whisper. “But I will break you.”

Cain stopped laughing.

Bruce’s gloved hand pressed harder against his chest—not crushing, but commanding. Final. For a moment, nothing moved. The warehouse held its breath.

Then Bruce let go. Cain collapsed in a heap, coughing and gasping.

“I’ll make arrangements,” Batman said, already turning. “The GCPD will find you here. Don’t resist.”

Cain tried to laugh again, but it came out ragged. “You think this is over?”

Bruce paused in the doorway, cloak catching the wind.

“No. But you’re done.”

—

The hour was closer to dawn than midnight. Gotham’s stormlight pressed against the windows, golden and gray.

Cassandra sat in the hallway outside her room, back against the wall, knees tucked in. She hadn’t gone inside yet. The mask was off, her hair mussed with sweat and blood, some not her own. A thin blanket draped across her shoulders, one Jason must’ve left behind.

She didn’t hear footsteps.

But she felt them.

Bruce sat beside her silently. No cape. No cowl. Just a man, tired but present.

They didn’t speak for a long time.

Eventually, she broke the silence. “You… okay?” While gently pointing at the bruise on his cheek. 

Bruce touched the bruise lightly, his jaw tightening. “I’ll live.” His voice was low, almost gravelly. “You?”

She swallowed hard, eyes flickering away from his gaze. “Don’t know.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “That’s honest.”

A pause stretched between them, filled with the quiet hum of the city waking up beyond the manor walls.

“I’m proud of you,” Bruce said finally. 

Cassandra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “No kill.”

Bruce’s eyes softened, shadows fading for just a moment. “No kill,” he echoed, like a promise and a challenge all at once.

Chapter Text

The sky is a muted gray, the city still wrapped in the quiet of early morning before the chaos begins. Cassandra stands alone on a rooftop, watching the streets below. The city seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for something to happen. But for now, there is only silence.

It’s been months since the night she confronted David Cain. Time has passed in slow, painful increments, each day blurring into the next. The tremble in her hands is still there, just beneath the surface. She’s learned to hide it, to push it down until it doesn’t show. But some nights, when the silence is too heavy or the weight of the past presses too hard, it comes back. Just a twitch, a flare of tension in her fingers. She hides it under the gloves that constantly uses now. No one needs to see it.

Cassandra has spent more time in silence these days, not just because of the city’s ever-present noise, but because of the noise in her own mind. She’s been seeing Leslie Thompkins more regularly—quiet sessions, the kind that don’t require words. Leslie’s understanding eyes have become a kind of anchor for her, a reminder that she’s not alone, that healing doesn’t always mean talking, doesn’t always mean fixing what’s broken. Sometimes, it means just... being.

Bruce has given her space too. He checks in, makes sure she’s okay, but he doesn’t hover. Jason has been... quieter, too.  But there’s an unspoken understanding between them, a mutual protection that doesn’t need words to exist.

Tonight, she’s not sure why she’s out here on the roof, just watching the city, waiting for something to change. A mission is coming, and with it, a new threat. But it’s not the threat that has her restless. It’s the stillness of her own mind, the strange peace that’s settled in her chest. Part of her resents it—resenting the quiet after all the chaos—but part of her knows it’s what she needs. For now, at least. 

Cassandra drops from the rooftop in silence, her landing soft against the damp concrete of an alleyway below. The city has begun to stir—lights flickering on in apartment windows, the low hum of traffic picking up—but she moves through it like a shadow, untouched by its rhythm. She’s headed toward the Bat Cave.

Barbara called this morning. Another one is missing.

Six in total now. All young. All trained. Their disappearances are so clean they leave no trace—no surveillance footage, no struggle, not even signs of forced entry. It’s as if they simply stopped existing.

By the time Cassandra arrives, the team is already gathered. The meeting room is dimly lit, the overhead monitors casting pale blue across the serious faces around the table.

Barbara stands by the screen, pulling up files. “Nate Zhao, nineteen. Muay Thai champion. Gone three nights ago. No ransom note, no contact. The only link is skill—every one of them was exceptional, even prodigious.”

Jason leans against the wall, arms crossed. “If this was the League, wouldn’t they be showing off by now? They don’t usually hide their work.”

“I thought the same,” Barbara replies. “But the precision—it feels like them.”

Bruce’s voice comes over comms, remote but certain. “It isn’t.”

All eyes turn to the monitor as his face appears. “I’ve seen something like this before. Years ago. In Markovia. Someone was building an elite combat unit from handpicked talent—disappearing them, reprogramming them, weaponizing them.”

Dick exhales sharply. “So we’re talking about brainwashing?”

“Worse,” Bruce replies. “Redesigning minds. Breaking identities and building new ones.”

Cassandra shifts slightly. She doesn’t speak, but her thoughts race. Her fingers twitch beneath her gloves. Barbara looks over. “Cass, you okay?”

Cassandra gives a small nod. Barely more than a breath. But it’s enough.

—

Later that night, the four of them gather on a rooftop overlooking a shuttered dojo—one of the missing fighters’ last known locations. Rain begins to fall in slow, cold sheets.

“Let’s move,” Barbara says, scanning the perimeter. “Stay sharp.”

As they slip into the building, Cassandra moves first. Her senses are tuned to the quiet, to the weight of space and silence. And then she sees it—on the far wall, barely visible under the peeling paint.

A smile.

Not a stylized League insignia. Not the glyph of some ancient order. Just a smile. Etched crudely into the wall, deep and deliberate. And somehow… wrong.

Cassandra scans the room, her gaze sharp despite the rain slicking her hair and skin. The dojo smells of damp wood and forgotten sweat. Broken boards and tattered punching bags hang like ghosts of fights past. Nothing else seems out of place—until a faint, rhythmic tapping echoes.

“It’s a message.”

“Who?”

Dick let out a breath through his nose, eyes still on the wall. “The Joker,” Dick begins quietly, “he’s not just some clown with a bad sense of humor. He’s chaos, a force that thrives on fear, madness, and unpredictability.”

He pauses, looking directly at Cassandra. “He’s been around Gotham for decades. No one really knows where he came from or how he became what he is.” Dick’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “What makes him dangerous isn’t just his tricks or his weapons — it’s his mind. He’s a genius in manipulation, twisting people’s fears and weaknesses against them. He doesn’t just want to break bodies — he wants to break spirits, to prove that anyone can fall into madness.”

“Scary.”

“Yeah, i know.” He leaned against the doorframe, watching her quietly. “I should’ve been there,” he said after a moment. “That night with Cain. I heard what happened. What you did.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

“I wanted to be,” he added. “But Gotham needed people on the ground. There were fires everywhere. Bruce sent me to the Narrows. If I hadn’t gone, it might’ve gone up in flames.”

There was a pause. He wasn’t explaining. Just stating it plain.

“Still... I’m sorry.”

She turned, just slightly. Met his eyes. There wasn’t blame in her expression. Just a flicker of understanding. “I know,” she said, softly.

The rain kept falling. He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m heading back to Blüdhaven tomorrow,” he said. “The Titans are tracking something… in space.”

She nodded once. It made sense. Still, something in her chest pulled tight—something she didn’t have words for.

“You should meet them,” he said. “The Titans. They’re good people. I think you’d like Kory. And Gar... he’d definitely like you.”

A brief smile touched her lips. 

“I would’ve liked to know you better,” he said after a moment. “Not just who you are in the field. The rest of it too.”

She didn’t answer, but her gaze stayed steady, honest. There was a quiet between them that didn’t need filling.

“My door’s always open,” he said. “No matter what city I’m in.”

She stepped forward and touched his shoulder, light, brief. Not a farewell. Just an acknowledgment. Then she slipped past him, deeper into the building, swallowed by shadow.

He watched her go. Then turned back to the wall.

The carved smile stared back at him.

His own smile faded.

—

It started with a cough.

Sharp, dry, and unexpected. Cassandra ignored it, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and continuing the kata. The motion sent a ripple of heat down her spine. Not the usual warmth of exertion—this was deeper, wrong, dizzying. She adjusted her stance, grounding herself, but the floor felt uneven beneath her bare feet.

Across the training room, Jason paused mid-motion, dropping into a crouch, his eyes narrowing.

“You good?”

She gave a quick nod, already regretting it. Her vision pulsed at the edges.

Jason snorted. “Liar.”

She didn’t answer. Between them, there was a language that didn’t need words—but right now, she didn’t have the strength for even that. Her body, which had endured worse, felt suddenly distant. Numb and heavy at once. Her arms moved on delay. Her balance shifted the wrong way.

When she swayed mid-turn, Jason was already there, catching her before she hit the mat.

“Okay, time out.” His voice was low, edged with concern. He pressed a hand to her forehead, and she could see the tension in his jaw. “You’re burning up.”

She tried to shake her head, to push him away, but her breath caught short. The room tilted. His face blurred at the edges.

He blinked, slowly. Sweat trickled down his temple. He stumbled, hand bracing against the wall. His body didn’t feel right either. Muscles gone too loose, too hot.

His knees gave out.

—

Bruce found them both in the hallway outside the training room.

Jason was half-conscious, propped against the wall with one arm wrapped protectively around Cass, who had collapsed into him. They were a pile of fever, sweat, and stubbornness.

"Why does this always happen in pairs," Bruce muttered, stooping to check their pulses. They were strong but erratic.

Alfred had already prepared the infirmary. But Bruce carried them not there—not tonight. Instead, he took them upstairs. Jason to his own room. Cassandra to the adjacent guest suite.

Later, when they were resting—both too weak to argue—Bruce brought in cool cloths, cold water, and quietly canceled patrol. The city could wait.

—

Jason awoke in a haze of heat and cotton. He blinked and realized he was drenched in sweat. Someone had changed him into clean clothes. There was a cold cloth on his forehead and a familiar figure sitting at the edge of the bed.

"You stayin' home from the office today, B?" he croaked.

Bruce glanced over. "You're delirious."

Jason grinned weakly. "Deliriously charming."

"Try again."

Jason groaned and turned onto his side. "How's Cass?"

"Stable. Fever's high, but she's sleeping."

There was a long silence, broken only by the hum of the heater. Jason's voice was quieter when he finally asked, "You ever get scared?"

Bruce didn't answer at first. Then he said, "Yes."

Jason looked at him. "When?"

"Tonight."

—

In the next room, Cassandra drifted in and out of fevered sleep.

She dreamt of Cain. Of blood and knives and silence. She dreamt of the warehouse, of her hand trembling as she held the blade over his broken body. Of how she didn't kill him.

"You need me," he whispered. "You always have."

She bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat.

It took a moment for the room to make sense. Shadows danced along the ceiling, but there was no threat. Only quiet. And someone sitting at the edge of her bed.

Jason.

He looked like hell.

"Hey," he said, voice hoarse. "Still alive?"

She nodded.

"Same. Barely."

Jason offered her a crooked smile—tired, but sincere. The dim light from the hallway stretched across his face, carving shadows under his eyes. He was pale, lips slightly chapped from the fever.

“I brought you water,” he said, nudging a glass closer on the nightstand. 

Cass didn’t move at first. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish. But she forced her body to obey, reaching for the glass. Her hand trembled again—more than she wanted it to—but she got it, lifted it, sipped.

Jason watched, saying nothing about the shake. Just waited. When she set it down, she looked at him. Not just at him—into him. The way she did when she needed to understand something deeper than words could reach.

He leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes for a second. “So. We both go down at the same time. That’s either a coincidence, or someone’s testing something.”

“Rain.”

“Makes sense. Remember the last time you got sick? I used to get sick a lot in the alley, but after a while you get used to it.”

“Never,” she said.

Jason blinked, glanced at her. “Never?”

Cassandra nodded slowly. “Not like this.”

Jason studied her for a moment, the lines of his face deepening with concern. She could tell he was running through the possibilities in his head. 

"I’ll be fine," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Jason raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. "Yeah, 'fine' is your default answer. Guess we'll see about that.”

There was a long silence between them, punctuated only by the soft hum of the house. It felt like hours, though it was likely just minutes. Cassandra closed her eyes again, trying to push away the dizziness, the strange heaviness in her limbs.

Her thoughts drifted back to the dream. The whisper of David Cain’s voice still echoed in her mind. You need me. You always have. The words unsettled her, even now, even here in the quiet of Wayne Manor. 

“How did he act?” Jason asked quietly. His voice was hoarse, as though the words had been pushed through a dry throat, but his eyes were sharp, scanning her face as if searching for something. "Cain. When, you know, you were hurt, or sick or whatever.”

Cassandra hesitated, her gaze flickering downward for a moment. It was the kind of question that opened a door she wasn't sure she wanted to walk through. The words were heavy—too heavy—but she could feel Jason’s eyes on her, patient but insistent. He wanted to know. Needed to know.

It wasn’t the kind of question she’d usually answer. Not to anyone. But Jason wasn’t just anyone. 

“He...” Cassandra started, then stopped. Her throat felt dry, and she briefly closed her eyes, letting the memory sift through her like water through a cracked sieve. “He watched,” she said, her voice soft, distant.

Jason's expression softened. He didn’t say anything for a long while. Cassandra’s fingers trembled slightly as she took another sip of water, the cool liquid offering a fleeting sense of relief.

Jason exhaled, the breath deep and tired, as if carrying the burden of years in that one release. "My mom used to say she was sorry after things got bad. Then it’d happen again. Pills, needles, people yelling. Then silence." His voice had a quiet, almost broken quality to it, but there was no self-pity. 

Cassandra turned more fully toward him, her movement slow, deliberate. She wasn’t sure if the tremor in her fingers came from the fever or from the weight of his words. She felt that familiar ache in her chest, the kind that came from too much unsaid. She didn’t need him to explain, but something in the rawness of his confession tugged at something deep inside her. She wanted to understand, to listen.

Jason leaned back again, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling as though they held the answers to his own tangled past. "My dad... he was a lowlife. Petty crime, scams. But he used to tell me Gotham could change. Said if we worked hard, we could move out of Crime Alley. Get a real place. He believed it, even if it never happened." His voice had softened now, almost nostalgic.

“You believed him?” 

Jason didn’t immediately answer, just let the question hang in the air, floating like an echo. Then, with a simple nod, he said, “Yeah. I was a kid. I wanted to. Still do, sometimes. I’d like to remember that version of him. Not the one who left. Just... the guy who believed something better could exist. I would like to know more about them.”

Cassandra watched him, the slight shift in his expression, the way his eyes unfocused, lost in memories that she could only glimpse. She understood that pull—how the past could haunt you in strange ways. How sometimes, all you wanted was to hold onto the pieces that made you feel like you weren't always drowning.

She reached for the glass again, the tremor in her hand betraying the strain she tried to hide. But Jason didn’t look away, his gaze steady, patient.

“Jason,” she said softly, the words tasting strange in her mouth. “Thank you.”

He offered a faint, tired grin, the curve of his lips small but genuine. "Anytime," he replied. 

—

Later that night, Bruce sat between their rooms.

The hallway was dimly lit. A book sat open on his lap, unread. His head rested against the wall, and his eyes were half-closed. But he wasn’t asleep.

He listened.

Jason was talking again, softly. Something about books. Cass replied with short answers. He could hear the rhythm of her breath, steadier now. Jason's voice dipping into a rasp before going quiet.

The house was still. For once, no alarms. No sirens.

Just the sound of his children. Safe. Alive.

He stayed there the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

The assignment came on a Tuesday; “Create a family tree. Include parents, siblings, and significant relatives. Due Friday.”

Jason grunt. “Great,” he muttered, shoving it into his bag. “What next? A cheerful essay on childhood trauma?”

He tried to ignore it all day, but it stuck in his mind like a splinter. That night, after patrol, he sat at the kitchen counter with a sheet of printer paper, drawing branches. At the top, he wrote Jason Peter Todd. Below, Catherine Todd and Willis Todd.

Easy. He’d done it.

Except—

Except… there was a gap. A space that felt too wide to ignore.

He stared at the blank section below his parents’ names, his pen hovering over the page. He’d never met his mother or his father in any meaningful way. He tried to push the thought away, but it lingered—like the memory of a door that never opened.

"Jason?" Cassandra had entered silently, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Just... working on this stupid assignment.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, her eyes flicking from his face to the paper on the counter. She tilted her head, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Peter?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jason scoffed. He turned the paper toward her, his finger tapping the empty space beneath his parents' names. “What do I put here, Cass? I don’t even know where to start.”

Cassandra leaned in, her eyes scanning the blank section of the paper with a look that was both soft and understanding. "Bruce?" she suggested quietly.

Jason scoffed, rubbing his hand over his face in frustration. "I know you want him to have all the answers, but B doesn't know everything, Cass."

She shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe not... but he always helps.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his temples starting to throb. "I don’t need him right now, alright?”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. "What do you need then?"

He glanced at her, then, with a dry smile, said, “On a scale from one to ten... how willing are you to sneak into the Crime Alley?”

Cassandra blinked, her face unreadable for a moment. Then she looked at him, her voice steady and without hesitation. "Ten."

Jason's lips twitched into a grin despite himself. "I love you, sis.”

—

The wind hit hard as they rode, Jason’s jacket flaring behind him, Cassandra hunched low over the handlebars. The city blurred by in neon streaks, but as they turned down toward Park Row, everything dimmed. The buildings got older. The shadows stretched longer.

They pulled to a stop just before the alley’s mouth.

Jason dismounted, staring into the narrow passageway. “God,” he muttered, “I forgot how small it is.”

Cassandra stayed by the bike, waiting. Watching.

Jason took a few slow steps in. The brick walls hadn’t changed. Same rust-colored stains near the dumpster. Same burn marks in the concrete from a Molotov someone tossed years ago.

Jason didn’t know what he expected to feel. Anger? Grief? Maybe some kind of epiphany? But instead, he just felt… hollow. 

Jason crouched near the back wall of the alley, fingers brushing the edge of the concrete. There was an old tag there, faded with time—J.T. was here—scratched into the wall when he was eight. Right before he got caught and cuffed by a beat cop with too much to prove.

He remembered Catherine yelling when he came home. Her voice slurred, her breath sour with old pills. But she bandaged his scraped palms anyway. Muttered something about how he needed to stop picking fights with the world.

Jason didn’t move.

Cassandra stepped closer, quiet as ever, but not so close that he’d feel cornered. She just waited, letting the silence stretch—letting him have space in it.

“My dad used to bring me here,” he said suddenly, voice low and strange, like he was remembering how to speak it. “He’d tell me to keep watch. Like I was part of it. Part of him.” He scoffed. “Said I was smart. Said I’d ‘go far if I played my cards right.’ I didn’t know what the hell that meant.”

Jason stood slowly, brushing grime from his palms, not really looking at her. “When he died, I didn’t cry. Just… stared at the TV. Mom tried to OD that night. I found her. Dragged her to the neighbor’s door. Didn't know how long she’d been out.” A breath rattled out of him, half a laugh, half a choke. “She died anyway. Two months later. Nobody came to the funeral. I didn’t even know there was one until a social worker mentioned it like it was small talk.”

Cass finally stepped up beside him, her hand brushing his sleeve—not grabbing, not pulling, just there.

Jason’s shoulders tensed, then eased. He kept his eyes on the bricks in front of him. “Then I met Bruce. I thought that meant something. That it would change me. Fix me, maybe. But even now, Cass, after everything—I still don’t know them . Not really. I don’t know me . And even if I wanted to know… there’s nothing left.”

“There’s the GCPD,” Cass said.

Jason’s head turned. Slowly. He stared at her, expression unreadable. “You want to break into Gotham PD with me.”

“I said ten.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re out of your mind. But alright,” he said at last, jaw tightening. “Let’s rob the cops.”

—

The Gotham City Police Department loomed over them like a fortress of brick and old ghosts. Floodlights buzzed. The windows on the upper floors glowed with the tired yellow of bureaucracy and overworked detectives.

Jason and Cass crouched on a rooftop across the street, watching. The air smelled like rain and concrete and stale coffee venting from a back duct.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Jason muttered, pulling on his gloves. “No, wait—I can believe it. Because this is exactly the kind of stupid things you always do.”

Cass didn’t respond, already focused on the camera rotations and guard patterns. “We go now,” she whispered.

They moved like shadows. Ten minutes later, they were inside.

Jason picked the lock on a maintenance door while Cass looped the exterior cams. They slipped through service corridors and side stairwells like whispers. Jason’s heart pounded harder than it should’ve—not from fear of getting caught, but from what he might find.

Cass guided them through the third floor, where old case files were still stored in battered filing cabinets and outdated databases that hadn't yet been digitized or buried.

Jason pulled open a drawer labeled T–Z, flipping through the folders until his fingers hesitated on:

Todd, Willis.

He opened it with a breath held tight.

Arrest records. Possession. Assault. Petty theft. Two stints in Blackgate. A mugshot Jason had only seen once, when he was a kid. The eyes were his. The jaw, maybe. Everything else looked like a man already halfway gone.

There was a second folder next to it. Todd, Jason P.

He hesitated. Then opened it.

His entire life—at least the part before Bruce—was laid out in detached, clinical ink. Shelter records. A behavioral report from the juvenile detention center. A file noting his escape the week before Bruce found him trying to steal the Batmobile's wheels.

Jason’s eyes caught something near the back. A birth certificate. 

Name: Jason Peter Todd

Father: Willis Todd

Mother: —

Jason’s chest tightened. “That can’t be right. Why isn't Catherine there?”

Jason’s fingers trembled as he rifled through the folders, desperation clawing at him. Then—hidden beneath a stack of yellowed papers—he spotted a folded document, sealed with the official stamp of the Gotham Family Court.

He pulled it out, unfolding it carefully. The heading read: “Certificate of Adoption”

His breath hitched. His eyes darted down the page.

Application for Legal Guardianship – Catherine Todd, minor: Jason P. Todd, age 2.

Jason’s world shattered in a heartbeat. The woman he thought was his mother—the only mother he had ever known—wasn’t really his mother at all. Just a guardian, a legal placeholder.

His breath grew ragged. The room spun, the filing cabinet tilting, the fluorescent light above flickering like a failing heartbeat.

Jason sank to the floor, the adoption certificate still trembling in his hands, the edges crumpling beneath the pressure of his fingers. His chest tightened like a fist curling in on itself. “She’s not even... my mom,” he whispered. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Cassandra was already beside him.

Not just near—with him. She crouched close and curled into the same space, her arm pressing lightly against his. Not pulling him in. Just anchoring him.

Her presence said what words couldn’t: I’m here.

Jason exhaled hard, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. “Why lie, Cass?” His voice cracked. “Why let me believe she was my mother if she wasn’t? She... she could’ve told me.”

Cass didn’t answer—not with words. She shifted forward and pressed her hand over his, the one still gripping the certificate like it might disappear. Her fingers were steady. Warm. She tapped her thumb twice against his knuckles, a kind of rhythm. 

Jason looked down at her hand. Then her face.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move away.

He swallowed hard. “I thought it was real. I thought at least that part of my life was... something.” Jason's throat clenched. He stared at the paper, the words blurring, then sharpening again like they couldn’t decide if they were truth or betrayal.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until the certificate slipped between his fingers. Cass moved. Not cautiously. Not carefully. Not like he was fragile.

She just leaned in and pulled him into her arms. “ I’m here. You’re okay.”

It was firm. Uncomplicated. The way she hugged—like she meant it, like she wasn’t afraid of the weight he carried. Jason stiffened for half a second, but then something inside him cracked open, and his arms wrapped around her without thinking. With his face buried in her shoulder

And then—

“Alright, I don’t know which of you thought this was a good idea,” came a voice from the doorway, rough with irritation and too many years on the force. “But you’ve got five seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing in my evidence room before I start writing up two dozen felonies.”

Jason didn’t flinch at the voice. He didn’t even lift his head from Cassandra’s shoulder. His jaw clenched tighter, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might just stay there—silent, unmoving, daring the world to take one more thing from him.

Cassandra, calm and precise, loosened her grip slightly. Then she turned her head just enough to glance over her shoulder.

Commissioner Jim Gordon stood there, trench coat draped over his shoulders, tie askew, a paper coffee cup in one hand and his other hand already reaching toward his belt radio. His expression was tired—not furious, not surprised—just tired in that bone-deep, Gotham kind of way.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, rubbed at his temple, and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “I’m too damn old for this.”

“Really, Todd?” 

Jason finally lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but dry, jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together. “I’m not here for trouble,” he said, voice rough. “Not this time.”

Gordon sipped from his coffee, unblinking. “You two broke into a restricted facility. Disabled cameras. Bypassed three locked doors. You know how bad this looks?”

Cass's posture was calm, open—but her eyes were locked on Gordon like she was calculating every possible escape route.

“I’m not here to arrest you,” Gordon said, catching the look. “But I am calling Bruce.”

Jason groaned and leaned back against the filing cabinet, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Of course you are.”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, deadpan. “Because this —” he gestured vaguely at the chaos: the open folders, the dusty floor, the two kids crouched in a place they absolutely weren’t supposed to be—“is above my damn pay grade.”

Jason muttered something unrepeatable under his breath, low enough that only Cass caught it. She didn’t react—just kept her gaze steady on Gordon, who was now pulling out his phone with all the weariness of a man who’d seen too much and slept too little.

“I mean it,” Gordon added as he dialed. “Stay put. Both of you.”

Jason’s fingers curled against his knee, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the paper still lying on the floor. The adoption certificate stared back at him like it had all the answers—and none of the comfort.

Cass placed a hand on his shoulder again, grounding him. “He’ll understand,” she said quietly.

Jason didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. The words jammed in his throat like broken glass.

A few minutes later, the rumble of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy boots. Measured, deliberate. Jason didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to. Bruce had a gravity that always gave him away.

He stopped just inside the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. Gordon stepped back with a quiet sigh, letting the man in black take the lead.

Bruce looked at the two of them, then at the file cabinet, then—finally—at the papers on the floor. His gaze lingered on the adoption certificate like he already knew what it was. And what it meant.

Jason met his eyes at last. “You knew,” he said. The words came out more like an accusation than a question.

Bruce’s mouth was a thin line. “Yes.”

Jason’s hands fisted. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Bruce said, voice low. “But I didn’t know if it would help. Or hurt.”

Jason shot to his feet. “It’s my past. My life. You don’t get to decide what parts of it I deserve to know.”

“I wasn’t trying to decide that,” Bruce said, calm but not cold. “I was trying to protect you.”

Jason’s laugh was short and bitter. “You always say that. Like it’s some kind of magic excuse. Let’s just go.”

The silence in the car was worse than the sirens.

Bruce drove like a shadow—steady, quiet, every muscle in his jaw locked tight. Jason sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes hard on the passing streetlights. Cassandra was in the back, knees pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves fisted in her hands.

—

Nobody spoke until they were back under the Cave. Bruce killed the engine. The sound of the rotating Batcomputer monitors filled the space—clicking softly, whirring, waiting.

Jason shoved the door open and stalked toward the main platform.

“You’re both grounded.”

Jason scoffed instantly, defiant arms crossed over his chest. “We’re not ten.”

“You broke into the GCPD, Jason. You stole sealed records. You could’ve been arrested, or worse,” Bruce said at last.

Jason spun around, eyes sharp. “You mean I could’ve gotten you in trouble. That’s what this is really about, right?”

Bruce didn’t rise to it. “No. This is about the fact that you put yourself at risk for answers I would’ve given you.”

Jason turned on him again, voice ragged. “You let me think she was my mother , Bruce… and it's funny, I don’t even know why I’m this angry. I barely remember her. And now I don’t even know if I want to remember her. Because what if she only stuck around because the court gave her a check every month?”

“That’s not who she was.”

“You didn’t know her!” Jason snapped.

“You are right,” Bruce admitted. “But she raised you,” Bruce said carefully. “She fed you. Cared for you. Maybe not perfectly—maybe not well—but she was your mother.”

“No,” Jason snapped. “She die in front of me, Bruce!” Jason shouted. “She left me alone every night for years, and I still thought she was the only real thing I had!”

He turned, pacing now, breath shaky, chest heaving with something like panic trying to wear a mask of fury.

“Jason,” Cass said gently, from behind.

He didn’t hear her. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

“And now? Turns out that wasn’t even true. So what do I have left, huh? Who the hell am I, if not even the worst parts were real?”

“You’re my… Robin,” Bruce said, stepping forward. 

Jason froze.

For a long moment, he stood in the middle of the Cave, fists trembling at his sides, chest still rising and falling like he’d sprinted the whole way back from the GCPD. The word— Robin —hung there, sharp as shattered glass and just as dangerous.

Jason whipped around, eyes blazing with a storm of anger. “No. No, you don’t get to say that like it means anything. You’re just another guy who lied to me.”

“Jason.” Cass moved between them now, her eyes wide and pleading, hands raised—not as a warning, but as a quiet appeal. “Please.”

Jason looked at her—really looked. She was pale, hurt, like she didn’t know who to follow in the wreckage of everything he’d just said. He stepped back, jaw tight, voice sharp. “I have a real family out there. Somewhere. And I’m going to find them.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, voice low but firm. “Jason—”

“I mean it,” Jason snapped, stepping back toward the stairs with a fierce determination. “I don’t care if you ground me, lock me in the manor, or call the League—I’ll find a way.”

Bruce’s tone grew urgent. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re hurt and angry, and that makes you reckless.”

Jason gave him a crooked, broken smile, one that barely masked the pain beneath. “Guess I learned from the best.”

Then he turned, climbing the stairs with purpose. This time, Bruce didn’t stop him.

Cassandra stood frozen, hand still half-outstretched, her whole body a knot of confusion and heartbreak. Her eyes flicked between Bruce and the staircase, unsure who needed her more.

The Cave hummed quietly around them.

—

Cassandra found him at the old train yard near Tricorner.

He was crouched on the edge of a rusted freight car, his jacket pulled tight against the cold, the wind whipping through the cracked windows like a warning. The Gotham skyline was distant from here—dim, distant, like a memory already starting to fade.

He didn’t hear her approach. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care anymore.

Cass stopped a few feet away, hugging her arms to herself. “Jason…”

He didn’t look up.

She stepped closer, slow and careful. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words quiet, but certain. Her voice cracked anyway. “The GCPD... it was stupid. I just— I thought—”

Jason wiped a hand across his eyes quickly, as if that might erase the tears before she saw. It didn’t.

“I’m not mad at you, Cass. I’m just… I’m sorry too,” he said, finally turning to look at her. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. Sorry I snapped at Bruce. Sorry I…” He broke off with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for anymore.”

Cass stepped forward, quietly climbing up onto the same freight car, her boots landing soundlessly beside him. She sat beside him, not too close, not too far, their shoulders inches apart.

“It’s okay to be angry,” she said.

“I’ve always thought that at least I had my story, y’know?” Jason whispered. “It sucked. It hurt . But it was mine. Catherine and Willis—whatever they were, I thought that part of me was real.”

His hands curled into fists on his knees. “But that was a lie too. And now I don’t even know who she was—my mother. My real mother. What if I never find her? What if there’s nothing left of her to find?”

He looked down. “I loved Catherine, Cass. She was awful sometimes. She was barely standing. But she bandaged my hands. She let me cry when I was too old to. And Willis… I don’t even know. But there’s this part of me that still misses him.” He swallowed. “But I need—I need to feel like my life is mine again. Like I get a say in it.”

He glanced at her. “I want to know. No matter how stupid it is. I want to know who she was. Who she is.”

Cass looked at him for a long moment, weighing the weight of his words—the raw ache underneath them. She shifted, the wind catching at her hoodie, and finally spoke.

“If we’re doing this,” she said quietly, voice steady, “we do it right.” She paused, eyes glistening in the dim light. “We do it together.”

Jason smiled, sad and grateful and tired. Then he shook his head. “No, Cass. Not this time.”

She stared at him, confused.

“I need to do this alone.” His voice was firm, final. But gentle. “Out of everyone... you’ll understand that better than anyone.”

Cass looked at him, her jaw trembling. “But—”

Jason touched her shoulder, just briefly. “This... this is something I have to walk through myself.”

She stood frozen as he stepped down from the freight car, boots crunching on gravel. He glanced back once—just once—and gave her a small, real smile.

Then he turned and disappeared into the dark.

Cass stayed where she was, the wind pulling at her sleeves, the metal beneath her cold and unmoving. The train yard was silent now, save for the distant hum of the city—far away, muffled by time and rust and distance.

She hugged her arms around herself, not to stay warm, but to stay whole . Her eyes burned, not from the wind, but from the ache that filled the space Jason had left behind. She’d seen him walk away before. Watched him vanish into shadow and silence like it was where he belonged.

But this time hurt different.

She sat there on the edge of the freight car, still and small against the vast sprawl of Gotham’s forgotten corners. She didn’t cry. Not really. But her breath hitched, sharp and uneven, as she pressed her forehead to her knees.

She wanted to call Bruce. Wanted to yell. To scream. To go after Jason and drag him back, kicking and cursing and whole. But she didn’t move.

Because she did understand.

Still, it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Her fingers brushed absently along her belt, a muscle memory born of years of training—and paused.

A soft light blinked on the side of her gauntlet. The tracker signal.

Still active. Still transmitting.

Jason had left it on.

Cass stared at the blinking green pulse, her throat tightening. It wasn’t a cry for help. It wasn’t surrender. It was trust—quiet, stubborn, unmistakable.

She reached down and tapped the screen, then let her hand fall back into her lap.

He was gone. But not alone.

She would let him walk that path. She would let him choose his pain, his truth, his name. But if the world tried to swallow him again—if it came at him with claws and teeth and silence—she’d be there.

She would always be there.

Chapter Text

The plane descended quietly into Addis Ababa, its landing gear touching down with a muted thud that barely stirred the slumbering city. Jason Todd pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane, watching as the first fragile tendrils of dawn painted the horizon in muted shades of lavender and gold. The air smelled different here — sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the choking, smoky haze he’d left behind in Gotham. For a fleeting moment, the weight of his past seemed to lift, replaced by something fragile and new: hope.

He adjusted the worn strap of his battered bag and exhaled slowly, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from a cautious anticipation he hadn’t allowed himself in years. Months of relentless searching had led him here, to the outskirts of Addis Ababa.

Sheila Haywood.

The name had appeared in every lead, whispered in conversations he’d tracked across, lingering in shadows that felt more like destiny than coincidence. His mother. Or at least, the woman who might be.

Jason’s fingers tightened around a crumpled photograph—the only tangible link to a past he’d barely known. The edges were frayed, the image faded, but the woman’s eyes—dark, tired, resilient—were unmistakable.

He stepped through the dusty pathways of the refugee camp, the early morning light casting long, skeletal shadows across tents patched together with hope and hardship. Around him, life stirred quietly—children waking, mothers tending to their families, the low murmur of survival. His pace slowed as he spotted her, a figure moving with quiet purpose, distributing food with practiced hands that bore the marks of struggle and sacrifice.

Jason froze. He took a breath. Then another.

He stepped forward. “Ms. Sheila Haywood,” he said. “My name is Jason Todd,” he added.

She paused, the spoon in her hand hovering mid-air as her head turned slowly. Her eyes met his—dark pools of disbelief and pain that flickered with a sudden, fragile fear. The name “Todd” fell from his lips like a prayer, unspoken for so long, laden with memories she had tried to bury beneath years of silence.

Jason’s breath hitched. He couldn’t hold it in anymore.

"Mom! Mom!" he screamed, the word tumbling out of him, louder now, echoing across the dusty pathways. His voice cracked with the force of it, raw and desperate. "Mom! It's me, Jason! I found you!" His eyes were wide, disbelief flooding his expression as he repeated it, almost in a frenzy.

The woman he had never known, the mother he had yearned for, took a shaky step forward, her own eyes glistening as she reached for him. There was no hesitation this time. Jason held on to her, his voice barely a whisper now, trembling with emotion. “Mom… Mom… I’ve waited so long…”

She returned the hug, but her hold was hesitant, tempered by caution. When she pulled away, her eyes darted nervously around the camp before settling back on him—eyes now shadowed by the burden of secrets and unspoken fears.

“I would love to talk to you, Jason,” she said gently, her voice trembling.

Jason’s face lit up, eyes wide with something close to joy, or maybe relief. “There’s so much to tell you,” he said, his words rushing out. “About my life—my sister Cass, Bruce, all the things that happened to me…”

Sheila raised a hand, silencing him. Her smile faded, tone low and serious. “Jason, it’s best if we don’t talk about this here. It’s not safe.”

Jason’s heart beat in his chest like a war drum, but the words hung in the air. He nodded quickly, the reality of the situation sinking in, but his hope wasn’t so easily extinguished.

“Where do we go?” he asked, almost urgently, not willing to let the moment slip away.

Sheila's features softened, but her tone remained quiet, almost anxious. “Somewhere private. Follow me.”

—

Meanwhile, back in the Batcave, Cass fingers flew across the keyboard as she tracked Jason’s movements. Her brow furrowed in growing concern. The coordinates blinked on the screen—Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

"Ethiopia?" Cass muttered, a mix of disbelief and frustration tightening her voice. "Seriously, Jay?”

Cass slammed her fist down on the keyboard, the sharp crack of it echoing in the silence of the Batcave. She felt her pulse quicken, but there was no time for hesitation. The mission— this mission —was too important. She leaned back in the chair, fingers digging into the armrests, the weight of the world pressing down on her chest.

Ethiopia. I need to get there. Fast.

Her mind raced, calculating the best route. She could make it before dark. She had to. Bruce’s toys—those damn flying machines—would be the fastest way. The problem was, she didn’t trust herself behind the controls of one of those things. If I had a choice, I’d ask Dick. But he’s off in space, so… that means…

The thought of asking Bruce felt like a knot in her stomach, tightening with every passing second. Great. Bruce. She could already hear the voice of the Bat in her mind, that sharp, controlling tone that had only grown more insistent over the months. 

She and Bruce had done their best to avoid each other since Jason left. It was like they were on some endless treadmill, both of them stuck in a pattern of work and frustration, pushing harder and harder, but never really getting anywhere. And in the brief moments of solitude, when she locked herself in her room, the weight of it all would crash over her.

She missed Jason more than she’d ever let anyone know. The brother she had grown up with, the one who had always been there, the one who understood her better than anyone. She missed the sound of his laugh, the way he could make her smile without saying a word. The distance between us feels like a goddamn chasm , she thought, her heart tightening.

Cass stared at the screen, the red dot of Jason's location blinking relentlessly. The seconds felt like hours. She could feel the anxiety creeping up her spine, settling into her bones like an unwanted guest. Everything about this felt wrong—too many unknowns, too many things that could go wrong. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting anymore. There was no time to second-guess herself. She was already behind. The air in the cave felt heavy now. Her eyes never left the flashing coordinates on the screen. Fine. Bruce it is. 

With a sharp inhale, she moved toward the communicator on the desk, her hand hovering just above it for a moment, frozen by the thought of what she was about to do. Finally, her fingers closed around the comm device. She pressed the button, and within seconds, the Batcave filled with the sound of Bruce’s familiar, gravelly voice.

“Cass, what is it?”

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She didn’t have the energy for them. “Jason’s in Addis Ababa.”

There was a pause on the other end, one that stretched just a second too long, making the weight of Bruce’s thoughts settle in the pit of her stomach. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured. “I’ll handle it. You stay here.” 

Her fingers curled into fists. “I’m not staying behind,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice low, but filled with an edge of finality that she rarely allowed herself to show. “I’m going, Bruce. You’re not stopping me.”

“Cassandra, I said stay. I don’t need you—”

“I don’t care what you need, Bruce!” Cass’s voice cracked. “I’m going. I’m not sitting here while you try to control everything.”

“I’m not trying to control you!” Bruce’s voice was more clipped now, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "You’re not listening. You think you can just rush in and fix it? That’s not how this works. It’s more dangerous than you realize.”

Her heart was hammering in her chest, but she didn’t care about his tone. She couldn’t. She had to push through. “You’re wrong, Bruce. So don’t you dare try to lecture me like you understand any of it.”

There was a heavy exhale from the other side of the comm. Then, something shifted in Bruce’s voice. It was almost like he was about to give up. But he didn’t. Not Batman.

“Cass, you think I don’t know? I’m the one who’s been tracking him. All this time, I’ve been chasing pieces, clues, and dead ends. But Ethiopia... That's the final lead.”

Cass froze, her blood running cold. “What are you talking about?”

Bruce’s tone dropped, low and heavy, as if he was admitting something he couldn’t take back. “Joker.” The name hung in the air between them like a specter. “It was all a setup. A trap. The Joker’s been one step ahead this whole time, and I... I thought the clues didn’t mean anything. But now I know, Addis Ababa—that was the last one. It was all connected.”

Cass’s heart skipped a beat. Her eyes widened, the gravity of his words slamming into her with the force of a punch. “Wait... you’re telling me—” Her breath caught, her mind racing. “The Joker's... in Addis Ababa ? What do you mean, Bruce? Is he with Jason?””

Bruce’s voice came through the comm, quieter now, raw. “I don’t know. I lost him. I—” He hesitated, the words hanging like a weight between them. “I thought I was chasing these clues for nothing, that they were distractions. But now... now I see. Joker has been intercepting Jason’s trail all along. And this—this was always the endgame.”

That was when everything clicked for Cass. Her mind raced, and she could practically hear the sound of Jason’s voice, hear the desperation in it, feel the cold dread clawing at her stomach. “That’s why I have to go, Bruce! That’s why!” Her words were sharp, frantic, filled with a fire she hadn’t let herself feel in months.

“Cass,” he said, his voice steady, but strained. “It’s dangerous. We don’t know what we’re walking into. I can’t risk you getting hurt too. You’re not going—”

“I can’t afford for Jason to get hurt!” Cass shouted, the words leaving her mouth like a punch to the gut. Her chest tightened, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts as the weight of the situation hit her all at once. She was done listening to Bruce. “Do you hear me, Bruce? I’m not sitting here while he—” Her voice cracked, and she took a deep, shaky breath, pushing back the raw, helpless feeling that threatened to swallow her whole. “I can’t lose him. I can’t lose my brother.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It stretched between them, crackling with the weight of all their unspoken fears, their fractured trust, their months of unresolved tension. Bruce’s breathing on the other end was ragged, the frustration and helplessness in his chest spilling over into the comm.

“I’m going,” Cass repeated, her voice low and final. She didn’t wait for him to argue. “Tell me what I need to do.”

And then, just as she was about to disconnect, his voice came through, barely above a whisper.

“Fine. But we’re doing this together. We’ll find him, Cass. I’m not losing any of my kids today.”

—

Jason followed Sheila through a winding maze of tents and tarps, the morning sun now fully risen, casting harsh light across the makeshift village. The whispers of daily survival echoed around them—water being poured, soft weeping, distant laughter—but to Jason, it all faded into a low hum. All he could hear was the drumbeat of his heart.

Sheila didn’t speak. She moved quickly but carefully, always glancing over her shoulder as if expecting shadows to rise and take shape behind them.

Finally, they reached a low concrete building on the camp’s edge—half-collapsed, long abandoned, forgotten by relief workers and warlords alike. Sheila pulled back a corrugated tin sheet and motioned for him to enter.

Jason hesitated. Something felt… wrong.

But his need for answers outweighed his instincts. He ducked inside. The air was cooler in here, thick with dust and silence. Light filtered through cracks in the roof, casting long streaks across the floor. Sheila followed him in and sealed the makeshift door behind her.

“Sheila?” he asked, turning to face her. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“I just… wanted somewhere quiet,” she said, voice tight.

Jason tilted his head, frowning. “You okay?”

But she didn’t answer. That’s when the back wall creaked.

Jason pivoted instantly, all his training flooding back. Four figures slipped out of the shadows, men in plain clothes, but their stance gave them away. They moved like enforcers — calm, deliberate, precise. Not random thugs. Not looters. Professionals.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

None of them spoke. The largest one twirled a baton in his hand, while another quietly slid the door closed behind them with a click .

Jason’s stomach twisted. He stepped back, half-turning to Sheila. “What is this?”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at him. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and slowly pulled out a cigarette.

Jason barely had time to curse before the first man lunged.

He ducked, twisting into a low sweep that knocked the attacker sideways, but the second was already swinging. Jason blocked the punch, lashed out with a sharp elbow to the ribs, and followed it up with a knee that dropped his opponent to the ground with a thud.

“Back off!” he barked.

But the third one tackled him from behind, and Jason barely managed to twist out of the way, slamming the guy against the wall. For a moment — just a second — it looked like he could win.

But it was a trap . Every step of it.

The fourth one struck him across the back with the baton — and Jason gasped, falling to one knee. Two more blows landed before he could recover.

He kicked out, connected with someone’s shin, scrambled to his feet. Blood trickled down his cheek. His lip was split. But he wasn’t done.

“I don’t know who sent you,” he spat, swaying, fists still up, “but you picked the wrong kid.”

Then he looked to the side — past the chaos, past the fists — to her. Sheila. Standing by the doorway. Her face half-lit by sunlight through the tin.

Sheila’s cigarette drooped between her fingers, forgotten. Her eyes were cold now, almost empty, as if a part of her had already given up.

“Sorry, Jason,” she said quietly, voice trembling with a mix of regret and something darker. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

The men pressed in harder, their blows coming fast and ruthless. Jason fought to keep his balance, his eyes darting to the small tracker strapped to his wrist. By sheer reflex, he reached out, desperate to grab it and send a silent distress signal to Cass.

His fingers brushed the device—then suddenly, a sharp kick slammed into his hand, wrenching the tracker away. It skittered across the dusty floor, just out of reach.

Before Jason could react, a chilling figure stepped from the shadows.

Pale and gaunt, with skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, the man’s face was a grotesque mask of madness. His wild eyes burned with a dangerous gleam, and a twisted smile—one that could freeze blood—curved across his lips. He casually twirled a battered metal crowbar, its dull steel catching the weak light like a deadly promise.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy wonder ?”

—

The low hum of the engine filled the silence between them, a steady thrum that seemed to echo the tension in the cabin. Dust curled in lazy spirals around the front of the transport as it cut through the arid wasteland, tires grinding over broken rock and scorched earth. The horizon shimmered with heat, fractured and uncertain. 

Cass sat rigid in the passenger seat, her visor pushed up, brows furrowed. Her eyes locked on the tracker strapped to her wrist—Jason’s signal, glowing red, steady, rhythmic.

Every pulse was a heartbeat. His heartbeat. 

She was getting closer.

Then— Beep.  

SIGNAL LOST.

The dot blinked out.

Cass froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the blank space where the beacon had been, willing it to reappear, to bounce back, to flicker—anything. It didn’t.

“Bruce…” she whispered, barely audible.

“I see it.” His voice was flat, almost too calm. His hands gripped the steering yoke tighter, leather creaking under the pressure. His jaw was a granite edge. He tapped his own wrist monitor. Same result. Blank. Silent.

Jason’s signal was gone.

Cass’s fists clenched in her lap, knuckles pale. Her voice trembled. “You know what it means.”

Bruce didn’t look at her. “I know what it could mean. Could be signal jamming. Power failure. A dead zone in the canyon. There are variables.”

But he hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

Her jaw clenched. “We were close. We were right there. ”

Bruce’s voice dipped low, but it cracked around the edges. “And we’ll get him. We don’t stop just because the line went quiet.”

Silence stretched again, heavier than before.

Cass turned toward the window. Her reflection in the glass was pale and tight-lipped. Her shoulders were shaking—barely, but enough. Panic laced with guilt. Fear and fury tangled in her chest.

He powered down the engine, then turned toward her.

“Listen to me,” he said, calm but unwavering. “We don’t lose him. Not today. But we go smart. Tactical. This isn’t a rescue if we rush in and both go down. We wait for the recon drones to sweep the perimeter, then we hit it hard—fast, tight, and precise. We do it the right way.”

The recon drone’s signal crackled faintly on Bruce’s wrist display, distorted by terrain and interference. He frowned, scanning the grainy static feed. Too low. He needed height.

“I’m stepping out,” he muttered. “Need line-of-sight to ping the drone. Just a second.”

Cass didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She just watched him as he opened the side door and stepped out into the sweltering sun, climbing a few paces up the rocky incline toward higher ground. His back was to her now.

She watched him go.

One second.

That’s all it took.

Cass moved with purpose. Silent. Surgical.

She grabbed her utility belt and pulled it snug across her waist. Her mask slid back down over her face — a shift from sister to soldier. She popped the door's manual lock, slipped out the opposite side without a sound, and hit the dirt running.

She knew Bruce would stop her. Knew he’d try to protect her. But Jason was out there—alone. Maybe dying. Maybe worse. She couldn’t waste another second on tactics. On waiting.

By the time Bruce turned around, drone signal strengthening in his gauntlet, the passenger seat was empty. His heart sank.

“Cass?” he called out, scanning the vehicle, voice sharp now. “Cass— dammit. ”

—

The dust hung thick in the air, disturbed only by the distant ticking sound behind him.

Tick. Tick. Tick .

Jason Todd lay motionless, slumped on the cracked concrete floor. Blood pooled beneath him, slick and dark. His fingers twitched weakly as he tried to move, but his body screamed with pain. The crowbar had cracked bone. Bruised muscles. Something inside him felt wrong—off. Loose. His breath rattled in his chest.

His left eye was already swollen shut, and blood clung to the corner of his mouth like a bitter secret. Every breath was a knife. Every second, a countdown.

He blinked slowly. A flash of motion to the side. Sheila. Tied to a support beam. Her head slumped forward, but she stirred—barely.

Jason’s fingers dug into the floor, trying to pull himself toward her. He couldn’t lift his head more than a few inches. But still, he dragged himself forward. One agonizing inch at a time. “Mom…” he choked. “I’m… I’m here…”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Behind him, the sound came louder now—closer. The bomb. He knew the rhythm. Joker’s games always had their finales timed to a cruel beat.

His thoughts twisted, drifting.

He wanted more time.

More time with Bruce—to walk the city streets side by side without any unspoken weight. To share quiet moments over coffee, the silence saying more than words ever could. To finally fix that battered wristwatch Bruce had kept for years—the one Jason found in the mansion. It never quite kept time right. Jason thought he would’ve liked to fix more things with Bruce. Maybe then, maybe now, they could’ve learned how to be father and son. Truly be.

More time with Dick, to repair their relationship. Time to make breakfast together and learn from each other's tastes. To spar without keeping score or anger. To talk—not just speak, but really listen. To laugh. Jason wanted to feel that laughter with Dick, without the sting of being left behind.

More time with Barbara. To prank her just once and laugh together. To play chess and lose every game while pretending he almost had her. Time to talk about Les Misérables and The Iliad .

More time with Alfred. To sit late in the kitchen, the gentle clink of teacups softening the ache in his chest. To finally learn the difference between a stitch and a backstitch, just like Alfred had tried to teach him. To taste that strange tomato soup again and pretend it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.

More time with Cass.

That thought struck hardest of all. He remembered the sound of Cass’s laughter the first time she beat him in a spar. The way she curled into his side on the manor’s rooftop after nightmares. The way she trusted him completely. No conditions. No judgment. 

He wanted to teach her how to ride a motorcycle, even if Bruce would have killed them both. To dance with her in the kitchen while Alfred yelled about scuffed floors. To read to her again… watch her grow up and feel that silly older brother pride that he already felt. 

More time to go to school. To sit in the back of a lecture hall and pass notes. To sneak out for street food. To keep being the good student he was, the one who got the grades. More time to fall in love. Someone who’d laugh at his dumb jokes, kiss his scars, and know the boy underneath the brokenness.

More time to have a family. Not like Willis. Not like Catherine. Not like Sheila—who sat tied beside him now, fractured in her own ways, too afraid to face what she’d done.

More time to be better. Not perfect. Just better.

Jason reached out again, fingers trembling as sharp pain stabbed through his ribs.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And then—footsteps.

Jason flinched instinctively, every part of him pulling taut like a wire about to snap. His body was screaming, too broken to move the way it should, too bruised to obey his instincts. He tried to lift his head, but pain surged up his spine like a live wire. His vision blurred, fading in and out, and for a moment he thought it might be someone else—someone worse. But then the footsteps stopped, and a figure dropped beside him, knees cracking hard against the concrete floor. 

“Jason.”

His name, spoken like it hurt to say. Sharp. Breathless. Fractured. He knew that voice. Knew it deep in his bones, deeper than pain, deeper than the darkness crowding the edges of his vision.

Cass.

She was here.

Not just her voice. Not a hallucination conjured by blood loss and guilt. She was really here. He blinked slowly, forcing the world into focus, and there she was—kneeling beside him, her face streaked with sweat and soot, armor scraped and dull, like she’d run straight through fire and didn’t stop until she reached him. He saw the wild panic in her eyes, saw the exact moment her breath hitched and her hands hovered over his chest, terrified to touch, terrified not to.

“Hey…” he managed, the word barely more than a rasp. His lips cracked around it. “Took you long enough.”

She didn’t answer. Her hands moved fast, checking his ribs, the blood, the mess of it all. She was shaking—he could feel it in the way her fingers trembled against his side, could see it in the taut line of her shoulders. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her throat worked like she wanted to scream but couldn’t. And then she folded forward, curling around him like a shield, like she could physically hold him together if she just stayed close enough.

Jason’s hand found hers, weak but deliberate. He squeezed—barely, but it was enough. “I’m okay,” he whispered, knowing full well it was a lie but saying it anyway. “I’m okay.”

Cass shook her head violently, the tears coming fast now, cutting silent lines through the dirt on her cheeks. She was trying to be strong—she always tried—but she was unraveling at the seams. She leaned in, forehead nearly touching his, and he could feel how close she was to breaking. Her whole body was tight with it, vibrating with fury and grief and the desperation of someone who had already lost too much.

She didn’t speak at first, just pressed herself closer to the ground beside him like she could sink into the floor if it meant staying by his side. He watched her closely, his eyes half-lidded, heart stuttering under the weight of all the things he wished he could say. And then, at last, her voice came—soft, wrecked, but steady.

“I’m here.”

He closed his eyes at the sound of it. It hit like a balm and a blade at once.

“I know,” he said, coughing. It rattled in his chest like broken glass. He tried to sit up, but she stopped him with a gentle palm, firm but careful.

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, breathing her in—sweat, smoke, and the faintest trace of the lavender soap she always stole from Alfred’s cabinet. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

In the dim light, Sheila stirred in the corner. Her movement was slow, dazed. Jason felt Cass’s body stiffen beside him as her gaze snapped to the woman, her whole posture shifting in a second—alert, ready, protective.

“It’s okay,” Jason murmured, tugging gently on her arm. “She’s tied up. He lied to her. Used her. Just like he used me.”

Cass didn’t respond with words. Her jaw clenched, her throat bobbed, and she nodded once—slow, deliberate. She understood. That was all that mattered.

But the ticking had grown louder now.

They both turned to look at the bomb in the corner of the room—the red light blinking faster, a countdown too close to its end. The sound drilled into his ears like a metronome of inevitability.

Jason’s breath hitched. He knew what came next.

“Go,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Cass, you have to—”

“No,” she said again, this time with steel in her voice. Her hands were already moving, sliding beneath him, arm wrapped tight around his back. “You’re not dying here.”

“I can’t…” He sagged in her grip. His legs wouldn’t hold. The strength had drained from him, leaking out like the blood pooling beneath them.

“You don’t have to.” Her voice was low but fierce, teeth clenched with effort. She braced herself and began to lift—slow, brutal, step by step, dragging him up with everything she had.

“You’re insane,” he whispered.

“I’ve got you.”

The words repeated like a promise. Like a prayer.

“I’ve got you,” she said again. “You’re okay.”

He wasn’t. But she said it like it could make it true.

The ceiling groaned above them, concrete beginning to crack. Dust rained down in lazy spirals, illuminated by the flickering emergency lights. The ticking behind them sped up, each blink of red more urgent, more final.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Cass’s body was trembling under Jason’s weight, every step forward like dragging the whole world with her. Her arms burned, muscles screaming with strain, but she refused to stop. Not for a second. Her boots slid against blood-slick concrete, but she kept moving—toward the exit, toward the light, toward hope .

Jason coughed again, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Cass…” he rasped. “You… gotta go. Let me go. Please.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even blink.

The bomb was counting down now, not in ticks—but in beeps. 

Jason’s vision was blurring, but he looked up—and there, silhouetted in the fractured light at the top of the steps, stood a figure cloaked in black. Cape billowing in the wind that suddenly roared through the collapsed entryway. Eyes glowing faintly beneath the cowl.

Batman.

Bruce moved like thunder.

In an instant, he was beside them, his gauntlet already scanning Jason’s vitals, fingers steady and firm. His other hand reached for Cass’s shoulder—supporting her, grounding her.

“I’ve got him,” he said, voice low and unwavering.

Cass relinquished her grip only when she felt Bruce take the weight. Even then, her hands hovered, unwilling to let go completely. She turned her head. “Sheila’s still inside.”

Bruce didn’t miss a beat. “I see her.”

Cass didn’t wait. She turned and ran—back into the smoke and rubble.

Jason groaned. “She’s… she’s gonna die in there—”

“No,” Bruce said. “Not today.”

He hug Jason, his movements mechanical and honed. “Hang on, son,” he muttered. “You're not leaving me again.”

—

Inside the room, Cass reached Sheila’s limp form. The woman had slumped back against the post, eyes fluttering, head lolling. The ropes around her wrists were too tight. Cass’s hands flew to them, knife flashing from her belt—snip, snap, done .

Sheila stirred weakly. “Why…” she breathed. “Why did you come back?”

Cass’s voice was clipped, breathless. “Jason.”

She pulled the woman’s arm over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Zero.

The world shattered .

A deafening roar erupted from the building, a plume of fire and debris jetting skyward. The shockwave hit like a battering ram, throwing Cass and Sheila backward. Bruce planted his feet, held Jason tighter, and dug in against the blast. Dust and smoke engulfed them all—swallowing the camp, turning morning into night.

Then—silence.

Not complete. Just the stunned, ringing absence of explosion.

Cass coughed, her lungs burning. She blinked rapidly, ears ringing, but she was still there. Still alive. Sheila groaned beside her, conscious. Barely. But alive.

Bruce’s voice came through the haze. “Cass. Report.”

She stood, swaying. “We’re clear.”

He turned back toward them, Jason cradled in his arms, unconscious now. Blood still leaking. But breathing.

Cass moved to his side. She touched Jason’s face gently, brushing sweat-matted hair away from his brow.

“Home?”

“Yes, home.”

—

Cass had thought everything would be fine. It had to be fine.

They got out. Jason was safe. Bruce had him. Sheila was breathing. The fire—the literal, metaphorical, searing destruction of everything they’d been—was gone. They made it out. They won . 

But now, standing at the threshold of a sterile hospital room, everything she thought she knew felt like a distant memory. The harsh, antiseptic scent stung her nose, thick and suffocating, as though it were seeping into her lungs, erasing everything else. Her hands trembled at her sides, as if they’d forgotten how to be still, how to hold on. 

Cass stood frozen at the edge of the room, her heart pounding in her chest, yet somehow distant. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore. Not when she turned her gaze toward him. Not when she saw him lying there, so impossibly still. Too still.

Bandages wrapped his chest, his arms, his head, covering the parts of him that had been torn apart and remade by pain, by violence. By everything they’d been through. Monitors beeped at the edges of her hearing—steady, mechanical. Impersonal. Counting the seconds that felt like hours, like eternity. Each pulse, each flicker of a screen, marked a life force she could barely touch. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was all she could hear, and it wasn’t his heartbeat anymore. It was just a machine counting time she couldn’t grasp. Machines breathed for him. Fed him. Kept him warm when his body had forgotten how. And every second that passed felt like a lie.

“He’s stable,” the doctors had told her, their voices soft, patient, like they were talking to someone who needed their words more than they needed truth.

“He might wake up,” they offered. A promise wrapped in a string of hope. But hope wasn’t a pill she could swallow without choking on it.

But none of it mattered. Not the words, not the sterile, clinical hope they tried to give her. Not the soft assurances that Jason would wake up. Not the “maybe” they dangled in front of her like a carrot on a string. It meant nothing while he lay there, unmoving, unreachable. Not while he looked so small—too small—so far from who his brother really is. 

Cass took a step forward, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she forced herself to move. One foot in front of the other, each step heavier than the last. She reached his bedside, her eyes glued to him like she could will him to open his eyes, to see her —just one more time. But nothing changed. He didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch. He was so still it made the air feel heavier, thicker, harder to swallow. She lowered herself into the chair beside him, moving as though she might shatter if she did anything too fast, too suddenly.

She should’ve been faster. She should’ve done more. Cass squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to fight back the rush of tears that burned her eyes. Trying to fight back the truth that was flooding her in waves: Jason—her Jason—wasn’t here. Not the way he used to be. Not the way he deserved to be.

Cass exhaled shakily, then reached out, just a little, just enough to close the distance. Her fingers brushed against his hand and, at first, she pulled back like she was afraid of disturbing the fragile peace of the moment. But it wasn’t peace. Not really. Not when all she could hear was that damned beeping, marking each moment that passed as one more she couldn’t get back.

Finally, with a shaky breath, she let her fingers curl around his hand, palm warm beneath hers. She could feel the lifelessness of it, the way his fingers were limp, unresponsive. A part of her expected him to squeeze her hand back, to return the grip with something, anything. But there was nothing. Just the weight of his hand, the heat of his skin, the absence of everything that made him Jason.

And that, more than anything, made her want to scream.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because all this was her fault .

Chapter Text

The Batcave is quiet—eerily so. The hum of computers and the faint drip of water from some unseen part of the cave are the only sounds that break the stillness. Cassandra leans against the cold stone wall, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her head heavy with the weight of too many sleepless nights. Too many thoughts crowding her mind, too much noise—both inside her head and around her. It’s like the world’s too loud, like it’s demanding things from her she can’t give.

She doesn’t even notice when the arguments start anymore; they’ve become the constant background noise of her life. She’s grown numb to Bruce’s anger, almost immune to the sharpness of his words, the tension that hangs between them like a living thing. But today—today it’s different. This time, she feels it deeper. A weight she can’t shake. A pressure that’s been building for weeks, for months even, and she knows she can’t ignore it. Not this time. Not like before.

The air shifts, thick with something bitter, before the sound of glass shattering cuts through the tension like a knife. Her body goes stiff, her instincts kicking in before her mind can catch up. Without thinking, she’s moving toward the noise, her steps quick but quiet, the familiar creak of the Batcave’s stairs beneath her feet.

When she reaches the heart of the cave, she sees him. Dick. Standing over the shattered remnants of a glass display case, his body rigid, his jaw clenched so tight she can practically hear his teeth grinding. His eyes are dark, full of frustration and something deeper, something that Cass doesn’t quite know how to name. Pain. Maybe. Maybe that’s what it is. But she knows one thing for sure—Bruce is gone. The space he leaves behind is unmistakable. It’s that hollow, aching silence that follows every argument, every fight, every time he leaves without a word.

Cass’s gaze flickers to the broken glass at Dick’s feet, her mind already working through the possibilities. She doesn’t need to ask the question, but she does anyway. "Did he...?" Her voice is barely a whisper, and even then, the words feel heavy, as if they’ve been sitting at the back of her throat for too long.

Dick doesn’t look up at her. He doesn’t need to. He knows exactly what she’s asking. The slight nod he gives is enough to confirm it. His voice is low, barely audible, but it hits her like a wave. "Yeah. It’s about Jason."

At the sound of his name, Cassandra feels the familiar knot in her chest tighten, a vice grip around her heart. The air seems to thicken, her stomach sinking as she struggles to keep the tears at bay. She wants to be strong. She needs to be strong. But the pain—God, the pain is overwhelming. It swells inside her, pressing against her ribs, a pressure she doesn’t know how to release.

Cass’s thoughts drift, like they often do, back to the emptiness in the mansion—it had been overwhelming, swallowing her whole. She couldn’t escape it, couldn’t outrun the truth that she had failed him when he needed her the most. When it mattered most. She had been too slow. Too weak. 

She swallows hard, trying to push down the suffocating feeling in her chest. She wonders, not for the first time, if Bruce will ever forgive her. If he even wants to. Or if, deep down, he’s given up on her altogether. The weight of his anger, of the accusations she imagines he silently carries, is more than she can bear some days.

She knows what she needs to ask, even if it feels wrong. Even if it feels like an escape. "About the open doors… What's Blüdhaven like?"

Dick looks at her, something flickering behind his eyes. His mouth twists into a faint smile, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. "Blüdhaven? It’s worse than Gotham," he says, voice rough with the kind of bitterness only experience can bring. He lets out a hollow laugh. "So, you’ll probably love it."

—

The apartment is small—modest, lived-in, and dimly lit by warm lamps and city light filtering through the window. It’s the kind of place where every creak of the floorboard can be heard, where the couch is slightly too lumpy and the coffee table bears the scars of too many rushed meals and forgotten weapons cleanings. But it feels real.

"Well. Here it is. The palace of Blüdhaven’s finest. Try not to get lost in the west wing—you know, the bathroom."

She glanced around at the clutter with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Mismatched furniture, an old poster of a long-defunct circus tacked to the wall, a half-eaten sandwich abandoned beside a stack of unopened case files. The smell of old takeout and cologne clung to the air. It wasn’t clean in the polished, sterile way Wayne Manor always had been, but it wasn’t dirty either. Just messy. Human.

"It’s… comfy."

Dick raised an eyebrow, watching her as she stepped further in, her gaze drifting across the space like she was cataloging it. “Comfy?” he echoed, half in disbelief. “That’s a first. Usually people say ‘chaotic’ or ‘Dick, do you actually live like this?’” He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair that already had at least one other jacket draped across it.

He watched her move with a kind of quiet resolve, her fingers tugging zippers open and pulling out clothes folded with meticulous care—each one smoothed and stacked with the sort of practiced precision that made it clear this wasn’t her first time unpacking in silence. Her gestures were purposeful, almost methodical, as though the structure of the task itself could hold back the weight of everything unspoken. She didn’t rush, but there was a subtle urgency in her rhythm, the way her hands moved with just enough speed to suggest that stopping might mean unravelling.

“You don’t have to do that right now,” Dick said gently, motioning toward the half-empty duffel bag. His voice was soft, hesitant, like he didn’t want to startle the delicate balance she seemed to be holding onto. “We can just… order takeout. Sit for a bit.”

Cass didn’t answer right away. She shook her head, her dark hair falling slightly forward, obscuring part of her face. “Better to do something,” she murmured, and it wasn’t just a dismissal—it was a quiet insistence. 

Dick nodded, though his eyes lingered on her for a few seconds longer. There was a question forming in the back of his throat, one that felt jagged and too personal, but it had been pressing on his mind since the moment she walked through the door. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers absently lacing together. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more tentative.

“Cass…” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to her. “How did he take it?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. Her hands stilled briefly over a folded shirt—just long enough to betray that the question hit its mark—before resuming their task. Slower now. Measured. She was holding something in, as if keeping her hands busy would keep her from breaking open. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the muted hum of the city filtering through the windows and the quiet rustle of fabric.

Finally, her voice came, low and almost monotone. “He didn’t say anything,” she said, still not looking up. “Just turned away.”

“He’ll come around,” Dick said after a beat, but even as the words left his mouth, they sounded thin—stretched too far over a wound that needed more than time to heal. He rubbed at his jaw, eyes flicking toward the window, then back to her. “He’s just… you know. Bruce.”

Dick let the silence linger, letting it stretch between them until it pressed against the apartment’s dim, narrow walls like fog seeping in through cracks. He wasn’t afraid of silence, not really—not after years in the manor, not after missions where a glance could speak louder than a dozen words—but this was different. This silence felt fragile. Taut. Like a breath held too long in a chest that couldn’t take much more.

And he hated the look on her face.

Too still. Too calm. That kind of stillness wasn’t peace—it was containment. A mask. Like she was locked inside herself, holding everything back so tightly that one exhale might undo her. He recognized it, not because he’d worn it himself—though maybe he had—but because he’d seen it too often in the people he loved. It was the look of someone who didn’t know where to put the pain yet, so they just didn’t put it anywhere.

So he did what he always did when things got too heavy. He reached for humor.

“Well,” Dick said, glancing around, “it’s not the Batcave, but the fridge hums menacingly and the radiator hisses like it’s plotting something. So, you know... still on brand.”

His grin came easily enough—practiced over years of patrol banter and awkward debriefings—but it faltered at the edges before it could land. Cass didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smirk. That quiet, knowing look she sometimes gave him was gone too. Dick’s smile faded.

She just stood there, half-turned in his direction, her posture caught somewhere between leaving and staying. Her hands hovered over the folded clothes like they were something precious—something she couldn’t let go of yet. Her fingers tensed once, knuckles whitening for the barest second, and then stilled again.

Then, without a word, she crossed the short distance between them.

It wasn’t graceful, like most things she did. Not fluid or precise. It was hesitant, a little awkward, like she didn’t quite remember how this was supposed to work. But she stepped in close, and her arms wrapped stiffly around him, not tight, not sure. Her head rested against his chest.

Dick blinked, caught off guard by the sheer vulnerability of it. He exhaled slowly, and his arms came up around her with gentle certainty. He didn’t speak. Not yet. Words felt unnecessary, maybe even wrong. So he just held her, letting her be quiet in his arms. 

And then, against his chest, came her voice. Soft. Muffled. Small.

“I needed to get away.”

Dick’s arms tightened around her instinctively, careful but sure, as if he could somehow transfer a little steadiness from his frame to hers. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, breathing in the subtle scent of smoke and wind that always clung to her. Familiar. Real.

“I know,” he said again, quieter this time. “I know, Cass.”

She didn’t cry—not really. There were no sobs, no broken sounds. But he felt the faintest tremor roll through her body, a shiver that came from somewhere deep, like the first crack in a frozen lake. Her shoulders, so rigid before, began to ease. Not collapse, not entirely. But soften, just enough to let someone in. Just enough to stop holding up the whole weight alone.

And for once, Dick didn’t try to make it better. He didn’t reach for levity or logic, didn’t search for the right words to patch over things that couldn’t be patched.

He just held her.

And in that moment, that was enough.

—

Dick sat on the edge of his worn couch, the dim light from the flickering streetlamp outside casting long, uneven shadows across the cluttered apartment. The city’s distant hum seeped in through the cracked window, a constant reminder of the world beyond these four walls—but inside, everything felt subdued, as if the volume of life had been turned down just for him. He rubbed his temples slowly, trying to ease the dull ache pressing behind his eyes, exhaustion gnawing at him from the inside out.

Cass had been here for nearly a week now. During that time, Dick had watched her slip into a rhythm that unsettled him more with each passing day. The long stretches of sleep she took during the daylight hours. The restless patrols she insisted on taking at night through the rougher parts of Blüdhaven, places he suggested only reluctantly, places he knew could be dangerous—but she insisted. And every afternoon, without fail, she made the trek to visit Jason, moving through those visits like clockwork, steady but distant, as if trying to ground herself in something outside of the turbulence she was carrying.

It was like she was caught in a cycle, moving through the motions of life without truly living, trapped in an endless loop where restlessness and exhaustion fought for control. Dick found himself watching her more than he cared to admit, catching her in moments of quiet fragility that she seemed desperate to hide. He wanted to say something—something that might break through the walls she was building—but the words never came. Because the truth was, he still didn’t know her as well as he thought he did. Not really.

And that's because of, well, Bruce. The shadow he’d always lived under—both a guide and a cage. Dick hated himself for wanting to step out from beneath it, for craving a life beyond Bruce’s expectations, but that longing hadn’t come without a cost. It had frayed his relationship with Jason, leaving unspoken wounds between them, wounds that still bled in silence, even now. And Cass... Cass had always been different. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and staring at the faint glow of the hallway light. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. His eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall. Cass would be back from the hospital any minute now. He ran through the things he wanted to say—the words that might remind her she wasn’t alone, that she didn’t have to carry everything herself—but they caught in his throat, tangled and heavy, refusing to come out right. The truth was, he wasn’t sure if any words could bridge the distance or ease the weight she was bearing.

God, he was a terrible older brother.

The door creaked open with its usual whisper of sound, a gentle protest that barely registered in the silence of the apartment. Cass stepped through with the same quiet rhythm she carried everywhere, her presence subtle and fluid, like smoke curling through the edges of a too-loud world. She moved without fanfare, a shadow wrapped in stillness, her boots barely making a sound against the hardwood. The weight of the day clung to her like the evening fog clung to the rooftops outside. She was halfway through removing her jacket when Dick’s voice, roughened with weariness, cracked through the hush like a pebble tossed into still water.

“How’s Jason?”

Cass froze for a moment, fingers tightening on the sleeves of her jacket. Her eyes drifted down, not in shame or guilt, but in that way she had of retreating inward, folding emotion into the smallest possible shape to keep it from spilling out. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, even, practiced in its restraint. “Same,” she said simply. “Still not waking up.”

Dick’s shoulders dropped. Not dramatically, not in some show of despair—just enough to show that the news, though not unexpected, had still managed to hit him somewhere tender. His jaw clenched, a small tic betraying the effort it took to stay composed. He nodded once, the movement sharp and silent. Then, as if summoned by some instinct he didn’t quite understand, he stood.

“Cass.”

She stopped, halfway through tugging off her jacket, her posture tensing. Her hands stilled where they gripped the fabric. She turned her head slightly, waiting.

“I was thinking,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, already regretting how awkward this sounded. “We’ve solved, like... a hundred cases together. Broken up crime rings, dodged explosions, fought assassins.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “But we’ve never, I don’t know, taken a night off. Watched a series. Hung out.”

Cass turned to look at him fully then, her expression unreadable but focused. There was a watchfulness in her gaze that made people nervous, though Dick had learned by now it wasn’t judgment. It was assessment. Caution. Curiosity, tightly coiled. “And?” she asked.

"And we should, even if we suck at being people,” Dick said flatly, and his grin twisted with self-deprecation. “Seriously. This entire family is emotionally constipated. I’m trying to fix that tonight. Humor me.”

Cass didn’t answer immediately. Her silence wasn’t uncomfortable, not to him. It was part of who she was—thoughtful, measured, never speaking unless she meant it. She stared at him for a long second, then tilted her head, almost like she was trying to read something he hadn’t said aloud.

“So,” Dick said, pressing on, “what do you like to do? You know—hobbies.”

“Patrol.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Cass, no. Not mission stuff. Not Black Bat. You. What do you like?”

She blinked again, slower this time. “Training.”

“Oh my God.” Dick actually laughed, exasperated but fond. “You are so Bruce-coded it hurts. Come on, Cass.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, and for a heartbeat Dick wondered if this whole idea had been a mistake. But then her gaze softened, just a touch, and she looked past him toward the window—the city beyond flickering like a living circuit board. “Listening,” she said quietly. “When Jason reads.”

Dick didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The words hit with a quiet weight that settled in the air between them. There was no need to ask for clarification. He could picture it instantly: Jason sitting at a bedside, voice low and steady, reading aloud. And Cass—silent, still, soaking in the rhythm of his voice like music.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That counts. That’s something.” He swallowed the weight in his throat, forcing himself to keep going. “Okay, new plan. No patrol tonight. No training. We’re doing something else.”

Cass’s brow rose just slightly. “Like what?”

“Cooking,” he declared, with the determined optimism of someone who hadn’t fully thought this through.

She blinked, then looked at him like he’d suggested they take up skydiving without parachutes. “I don’t—”

“Oh no,” he said, voice rising into a teasing lilt. “Don’t tell me—rich girl, never had to use a stove?” He grinned, wide and genuine now. “Of course . You and Bruce probably think groceries appear magically out of thin air if you frown at the right frequency.”

Cass tilted her head, unsure if she was being insulted.

He took her wrist gently, tugging her toward the narrow galley kitchen with the same confidence he used on rooftops. “C’mon. First lesson. We’re making pancakes. Easy mode. You can’t mess up pancakes.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen looked like it had been lightly bombed by a rogue sack of flour and a squadron of eggs. White dust floated in the air like fine ash, clinging to every surface and settling into every crevice. The countertops were a chaotic sprawl of open cartons, sticky measuring spoons, and at least two different brands of syrup that Dick insisted were “for options.” A trail of handprints marked the fridge door like a crime scene. The stove hissed faintly with heat, the scent of over-warmed butter and batter starting to thicken the air.

Cass stood still in the middle of it all, arms folded tight across her chest, her body stiff as though bracing for an ambush. Her eyes tracked Dick’s every move with sharp precision—not because she didn’t trust him, but because none of this made sense. There were no orders. No structure. Just… chaos. Loud, clattering, flour-coated chaos.

Dick, for his part, was making it worse with every movement. He wielded the whisk like it owed him money, sloshing milk into a mixing bowl with the wild optimism of someone who’d never once measured anything in his life. His hair, already a mess from running his hands through it, was powdered with flour like he’d been caught in a sugar storm. The apron he wore—Alfred’s old one, worn and faded, with Don’t Feed the Bats printed across the front in sarcastic block letters—was doing little to contain the fallout.

“I thought you said this was easy,” Cass said, her voice low and dry.

Dick shot her a grin, unfazed. “It is. We just have different definitions of ‘easy.’” He paused, tilting his head toward the bowl, then back to her. “You want to mix?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her arms loosened slightly. Then she stepped forward with measured care, as if approaching a live wire. She took the spoon from his hand without ceremony and dipped it into the thick batter, her movements sharp, focused. She stirred in smooth, controlled figure-eights, the kind of precise, symmetrical motion that belonged more in a dojo than a kitchen.

Dick watched her for a beat and then let out a breathless laugh. “Cass, it’s pancake batter, not a kata.”

She paused, blinked at him, brow furrowing. “It’s not supposed to be smooth?”

“Not that smooth,” he said, still laughing. “God, even your stirring is better trained than mine.”

But there was no mockery in his tone—just warmth. Fondness. The kind of admiration that came from watching someone make a battlefield out of everything they touched and somehow still find grace in the fight.

He stepped closer, shoulder brushing hers, and reached for the skillet. “Okay, this part’s important,” he said, his tone shifting into something softer, more careful. “Don’t flip too soon. Wait for the bubbles to pop on top. That’s how you know it’s ready.”

Cass nodded once, her eyes trained on the pan as he ladled in a scoop of batter. The sizzle of it hitting hot metal made her flinch—barely—but Dick caught it. A reflex, not fear. The kind of reaction that came from a life of expecting sudden violence. But she didn’t step back. She stayed close.

And he saw it then: the subtle shift in her stance. The tension in her shoulders beginning to unwind. The rigidity in her spine giving way to something more natural, more human. It wasn’t comfort, not yet—but it was the absence of alarm. 

She glanced sideways at him. “You are… messier than Alfred.”

Dick snorted, flipping the pancake with a dramatic flourish. It landed mostly where it was supposed to. “Alfred’s a kitchen assassin. I’m just some guy trying not to burn down my apartment.”

Cass tilted her head, and the corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—but something like it. A flicker. A shadow of one.

“You like this?” she asked, not accusingly—just curious.

“Cooking?” Dick nodded, attention on the pan. “Yeah. I mean, it’s simple. You follow the steps, and you make something. Doesn’t fix the world, but it feels like you’re building something instead of breaking it.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “Feels like a kind of peace. Even if it gets messy.”

Cass didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze shifted around the kitchen, taking it all in—the clutter, the warmth, the imperfect batter, the quiet hum of the city filtering through the half-cracked window. It was nothing like the cave. Nothing like the training rooms or the rooftops or the mission logs. It was too warm. Too alive.

“I think I like it too,” she said at last, and the admission seemed to surprise even her.

Dick’s grin widened. “Awesome. Because y’re on flipping duty next.”

—

Two months later, Dick stood at the window of his apartment, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee, the other resting lightly against the cool glass. Outside, Blüdhaven murmured with its usual low, mechanical rhythm—freight trains humming in the distance, traffic lights blinking like tired eyes, sirens cutting through the rain-wet hush without urgency. The storm had passed a few hours ago, leaving the streets glassy and slick, as though the city was trying, awkwardly, to remember how to shine.

Inside, things had changed.

Not drastically. Not in any sweeping, cinematic way. But in the way mornings now felt a little fuller. The way there was movement and warmth and noise in this space that had once echoed with the emptiness he swore he preferred. Cass was still herself. Quiet, cautious. Blunt in some ways, elusive in others. But she was here. Present. And that, more than anything, had become the miracle he hadn’t dared to name.

She moved through the apartment like shadow and smoke, in oversized hoodies and bare feet, earbuds in, jaw set in quiet concentration. Sometimes she'd be muttering under her breath, reciting something from a lecture, piecing words together like a puzzle no one had ever let her try before. The fact that she was even taking online classes still stunned him—not because she couldn’t, but because for so long, Cass had lived like someone who didn’t expect a future. She’d trained to survive, not to stay.

She was two weeks into a literature module. Three into world history. He’d caught her more than once staring at her tablet with an intensity usually reserved for tactical schematics. 

He hadn't stopped smiling for an hour.

Cooking had become their accidental ritual. It was still clumsy, still littered with burnt edges and the occasional culinary abomination. But it was theirs . Sometimes it was breakfast before dawn patrol. Sometimes it was pancakes at midnight after they’d both agreed—without saying it—that the world felt a little too sharp that day. Cass had even started trying things on her own, flipping through dog-eared cookbooks Dick had never touched before. He’d woken up once to find her at the stove at six a.m., brow furrowed, pan in hand, the entire kitchen filled with the scent of something vaguely edible.

He hadn’t dared interrupt her.

There were nights she still disappeared into the shadows, answering the call of the city the same way they all did. She was still Cassandra Cain—still Black Bat. But now, there were nights she stayed in. Willingly. She’d curl up on the couch beside him, knees drawn up, eyes half-lidded, watching sitcom reruns she didn’t quite understand but chuckled at anyway, like she was laughing more at his laughter than the show itself. Other nights, she’d lie flat on the rug, one arm flung across her face, listening as he rambled through case updates or ranted about surveillance lag with the unfiltered intensity of someone who hadn’t realized they were being heard.

The apartment no longer echoed the way it used to.

But there was one thing that hadn’t changed.

Her visits to the hospital.

If anything, they had become longer. More regular. Sometimes she’d leave in the early morning without a word and not return until just before midnight. No blood on her, no exhaustion from a fight—just quiet. Worn quiet. A kind of weight behind her eyes that spoke not of grief, but of something harder to carry: hope.

Dick never asked what she did there. He didn’t need to. He’d seen it once—walked in on her sitting beside Jason’s bed, knees drawn to her chest in a plastic chair too small for comfort, reading The Count of Monte Cristo aloud in that halting, careful way she reserved for language that had to be earned. Her voice had been soft. Fragile, like glass warming in sunlight. Jason hadn’t moved, not even a twitch. But she’d kept reading.

She always kept reading.

Dick sipped from his mug, the coffee gone lukewarm. His breath ghosted the window, fogging the glass. Down below, the city kept moving. Blüdhaven didn’t wait for healing. Didn’t slow down. But somewhere in the stillness between patrols, in the quiet between the scars, something like recovery had started.

It didn’t look like heroics. It looked like laundry left unfolded on the couch. Like the last pancake in the pan being saved, even when no one admitted they were hungry. Like literature modules and metaphor questions and the sound of someone else brushing their teeth in the next room.

It looked like Cassandra Cain falling asleep on the floor with a book across her chest.

It looked like someone still hoping Jason Todd would wake up.

And in the silence of the apartment, broken only by the patter of fresh rain beginning again, Dick let himself hope too.

—

People came and went, like tides—pulling in and rolling out, leaving traces of themselves behind in coffee cups, in doorways, in the echo of footsteps on the stairs.

Kori arrived first. And the space changed. Like someone had opened a window in a house that had been shut too long. The air shifted. Light moved differently. Cass was sitting on the floor, one leg tucked under her, folding laundry with the same deliberate focus she brought to disarming a bomb. When the door opened, she looked up and simply… stared.

Kori stood in the doorway, bright against the gray drizzle behind her, a burst of color and warmth wrapped in a worn denim jacket and the scent of ozone and space-dust, like the air after a storm. Her hair, vivid and unbound, tumbled down over her shoulders like fire catching the wind. She didn’t step in right away. Just smiled—that wide, earnest smile that somehow made the world feel less broken.

“Hello, Cassandra,” she said gently, like she already knew not to make the moment too loud. Her voice was soft, careful in a way Kori rarely was, as if recognizing something fragile in the air.

Cass blinked slowly, like she was adjusting to new light. Her fingers froze over the T-shirt she’d just folded, the fabric slack in her hands. “Your hair,” she’d said, delighted. “It is very fluffy. ”

Kori’s laugh was soft, almost startled, like she hadn’t expected such an immediate reaction. “Thanks,” she said, stepping inside with the grace of someone who was always half-hovering above the ground.

“Can I touch it?” Cassandra asks. 

Kori’s eyes widened slightly—not in alarm, but in gentle surprise. She blinked once, then tilted her head and smiled again, even softer this time. “Of course,” she said, her voice warm and inviting.

Cassandra moved slowly. Not out of hesitation, but reverence. Like Kori’s hair was something sacred—a living flame that deserved careful hands. She reached out, fingers brushing through the vibrant mass of curls with featherlight curiosity. Her touch was soft, barely more than a whisper, as if afraid she might disturb the wild magic of it.

“It’s like cloud,” she said, wonder blooming in her voice. “And it's glowing!”

“Sometimes that happens," Kori said, voice quieter now. “When I’m happy.”

They vanished into the room not long after. Dick could hear the rhythm of their voices—soft, steady. They talked about languages. About combat forms. About the way Tamaranean fighting styles translated into Earth’s clumsier gravity. Dick had drifted to the doorway once, but stopped short at the sound of Kori laughing at something Cass said—light and clear, like windchimes. Cass didn’t laugh, but her voice followed in its quiet way, thoughtful, even pleased. 

By the time Kori kissed Dick goodbye, hours later—one hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over his jaw—he realized with a start that he’d barely spoken to either of them.

And it had been perfect.

After that, it was Gar and Rachel.

Garfield, ever the heart of the group, didn’t hesitate to leap into action—literally. Transforming into increasingly absurd animals that made her laugh in short, startled bursts she couldn’t quite control. First a squat little frog with eyes too big for its face. Then a tabby with a smushed nose that insisted on headbutting her knees. At one point, Dick heard a noise so strange he paused mid-step—and Rachel only offered a dry, amused, “Flamingo,” like it was a perfectly rational explanation for a honking shriek echoing down the stairwell.

And then the laughter—Cass’s laughter—floated out after them.

It stopped him cold.

He didn’t mean to cry. It wasn’t planned. No great sobbing collapse. Just a fissure. A crack running through him so quietly he almost missed it. A single tear slipping down his cheek. It was the moment when the situation hit him. 

The time he’d wasted.

Three years. Three long years before he had even begun to treat her like family.

Not as a teammate. Not as a soldier. Not as another of Bruce’s strays carved out of violence and shaped into something useful—but as a person. As Cassandra. His sister. The weight of that realization sat heavy on his chest more and more often these days, creeping into the quiet spaces of his life like a bruise that never quite faded. She had been there through all of it, from the darkest nights on Gotham’s rooftops to the countless battles fought in silence—always in silence, because words had never come easy for her. But she was there. Every time.

He used to tell himself it was because she kept to herself. That she didn’t talk much, didn’t make it easy to get close. That it was hard to know how to reach her. But all of that rang hollow now. It wasn’t her distance that kept them apart—it was his neglect. His distraction. His preoccupation with Bruce, with his own place in a legacy that always felt one step from collapsing under its own weight. 

And every time he thought about that—every time he watched her slowly rebuild herself, moment by fragile moment—his mind, without fail, went to Jason. 

Jason, who might never open his eyes again. The brother he hadn’t known how to help, and now might never get the chance to.

He tried not to. But lately, it felt like he was everywhere—trapped in the corners of Dick’s vision, in the split-second after a blink. The echo of a laugh that didn’t belong to anyone. The creak of the floorboards when the world got quiet enough. Sometimes Dick didn’t know whether it was memory or madness.

He would walk into the kitchen and expect to find him there—leaning against the fridge with that practiced nonchalance, tossing out some sharp remark, just on the edge of cruelty. That smirk that was all performance, covering up things none of them had had the words for back then. Sometimes he even caught himself replying out loud. A joke. A warning. A plea. The silence that followed always felt like punishment.

Because with Cass, there was still time. Time to learn her rhythms, to protect her without smothering her, to tell her how proud he was, how much she mattered. But with Jason... there was only stillness. Only the beeping machines and the scent of antiseptic and the ghost of a voice he hadn’t heard in far too long. The wound between them would never close, because it was still bleeding, somewhere deep inside both of them.

Everyone told him it wasn’t his fault. Rachel, with that quiet, eerie certainty that came from seeing more than anyone should. Garth, steady and kind. Wally, with his too-bright smile and too-fast words. Kori, whose heart was too large for her own good. Garfield, whose laughter tried so hard to make the world easier to bear. They all said the same thing. Y ou did your best. It wasn’t on you. But it didn’t matter how many times he heard it. The guilt had rooted itself too deep, woven into the very fabric of who he was. Because deep down, he didn’t just regret failing Jason.

He regretted not being the kind of brother both of them had needed.

—

Barbara was another frequent presence in their lives, a steady thread woven into the fabric of their routines. While Dick reveled in his time with her, it wasn't just her company he cherished, but the way she seamlessly fit into the trio they had become. She helped him organize everything, from his chaotic cases to the clutter of his apartment. Barbara had a way of making order out of chaos, and Dick couldn’t help but appreciate the clarity she brought. The two of them would sort through old files, bouncing ideas back and forth. She had always been an integral part of his life, but in these quieter, more intimate moments, he felt the depth of their friendship in a way he never had before.

Barbara was also a bridge between Dick and Cass in unexpected ways. She would come over and talk to Cass about her classes—books, theories, new things she was learning—something Dick had never been able to do as well, given Cass's tendency to keep her thoughts close to her chest. The conversations that flowed between Barbara and Cass were as much about intellect as they were about connection. Barbara seemed to know how to unlock the walls Cass had built, guiding her to express herself, even if it was through a subtle look or a quiet gesture. The three of them found a rhythm in their time together—training, patrolling, and sometimes just sitting in companionable silence. When it wasn’t so intense, the hours would drift away in laughter or casual conversation, sometimes even spontaneous dance sessions that turned their living room into a chaotic yet joyful space.

Months passed since Cass had moved in, but her presence in the apartment had become so intrinsic to his daily life that Dick often found himself reflecting on the days before she had arrived. It was hard to remember what the space felt like without her soft steps on the floor, or the soothing sound of a mug clinking as she placed it down after a long day. Every quiet moment felt like a marker of their growing bond, and it had transformed the apartment from just a place to sleep into a home.

Today was one of those rare quiet days when the world outside seemed to hush under the weight of a heavy rain, as though even Blüdhaven’s streets were taking a break from the chaos. The soft patter of raindrops against the windows was the only sound that filled the apartment, lending a sense of calm to what would otherwise be a day full of mission reports, patrols, and the usual grind. Inside, Dick had just finished giving Cass a crash course on somersaults—an essential move that, even with her skills, could use a little refining. She, however, had made it look effortless. With that knowing, almost teasing smile of hers, Cass executed a flawless somersault right there in the middle of the living room, landing with the kind of grace that would have made any acrobat proud.

Dick groaned in mock exasperation, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to give away the pride that was tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, okay. I get it. You're amazing. Leave me alone," he muttered, feigning annoyance, though his eyes glinted with amusement.

Cass, of course, didn’t let up. Her smile was the same, unwavering and calm, her satisfaction radiating from her like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was no arrogance in her expression, no hint of boastfulness—just a quiet contentment, as though she had simply done something that was expected of her.

After a beat, Cass spoke again, her voice low, almost contemplative. "I like this."

Dick blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He paused, turning toward her, trying to process her words. For a moment, the quiet around them deepened, as if the rain itself had quieted their space, allowing him to focus entirely on her. "What?" he asked, his voice a little softer than before, curious.

“This life,” Cass clarified, her shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug, her eyes distant, looking past him as though she were speaking to something far deeper than the simple physical space of the apartment. “When Jason wakes up... we should do this more. I’d like to talk to Bruce too. I think enough time has passed and—”

The sound of the communicator cut her off, like a jagged shard of glass, breaking the fragile calm that had settled between them. Dick’s heart leapt into his throat, an instinctual tightening in his chest, the kind that came with years of knowing that any moment could be ripped away by bad news. He moved toward the communicator without thinking, flipping it on in a single fluid motion, his mind already bracing for whatever was to come. He didn’t even have to glance at Cass to know that her posture had changed too, the air around them suddenly thick with something sharp, something tense.

Bruce’s voice crackled through, cutting through the quiet with a rawness that was too unsettling to ignore. It was low and clipped, more strained than usual, and yet Dick immediately knew that this wasn’t just another routine update. This was something far more urgent, something that carried a heaviness with it that no one could have prepared for.

“It’s about Barbara,” Bruce said, the words slow and deliberate, each one punctuated by a silence that felt like an eternity. “And... the Joker.”

The name Joker was a knife in the chest. It sent a shudder through Dick that he couldn't quite shake off.  cold chill passed through the apartment, a shift in the very air that was both tangible and suffocating. Dick’s hand gripped the edge of the communicator harder, his knuckles turning white. Every instinct was screaming at him to rush into action, but he held back, waiting for Bruce to continue, his own breath hitching in his chest.

Cass, standing near the window, shifted imperceptibly. It wasn’t a movement Dick could put into words, but there was something in the way her body tensed, her shoulders barely shifting, that told him she had heard it too. The room seemed to freeze around them, the soft drumming of the rain against the windows suddenly muted as though the world itself was holding its breath.

Her voice came, soft and controlled, but underneath it there was an unmistakable edge—something wild and untamed that Dick hadn’t expected. “What happened?” she asked, the words slipping from her lips with the care of someone trying to keep their emotions in check, but unable to hide the rawness in her tone. She wasn’t just asking for details—she was already preparing herself for something terrible.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. The silence stretched, an uncomfortable void between them, and when Bruce spoke again, his voice had changed. The usual steady strength was gone, replaced by something that Dick could only describe as fragile. For a brief moment, Bruce’s voice trembled—not in fear, but in something else, something more human. It was a crack in the veneer of the unshakable Bat, a brief fracture in the armor that everyone, even Dick, knew was always there but rarely visible.

“Cass…” Bruce’s voice faltered on her name, just for a heartbeat. And in that fleeting moment, Dick felt a weight settle on him, the air in the room thickening as if the gravity of the situation was pulling them all into its orbit. The way Bruce said her name, soft and almost reverent, felt like the weight of a thousand unsaid words, the kind of loss that couldn’t be repaired by any action or strategy.

“She’s been shot,” Bruce continued, his voice still carrying that strained edge, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence. “Barbara... the Joker shot her.”

Cass’s face, usually so composed and unreadable, tightened with a subtle shift—a fleeting change that Dick couldn’t miss. It was like a cloud passing over her features, altering the very air around her. For the first time in months, she looked small, the weight of the words hanging over her too much to carry without the strain showing. Her chest rose and fell erratically, the breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she leaned in closer to the communicator, as if somehow, if she listened harder, the words might shift, might lose their gravity. But the words didn’t change. They just lingered in the space between them, becoming louder, heavier, more suffocating with each passing second.

A sharp, raw pain knifed through Dick’s chest as he watched her. He felt it in his bones—something aching and primal that he couldn’t suppress. He saw the small, subtle way her fingers curled, not into fists, but something tight, something almost protective, as if she could shield herself from the truth. He saw the way her body seemed to fold in on itself, retreating, processing the blow in the silence between them. And he knew, without having to ask, that she was already blaming herself. The fear of losing someone who had become more than just an ally, more than just a friend—Barbara had become her anchor, her constant, her lifeline in a world that so often left her to stand alone.

Cass didn’t need to speak for Dick to understand how much Barbara meant to her. She had opened herself in ways that were never loud, never obvious, but in the quiet spaces of their shared moments, Dick had seen it—had seen the quiet trust that had formed between them, the way Cass relied on Barbara’s presence in ways that words could never fully capture. And now, as the terrible weight of what Bruce had just told them hung in the air, Dick could see the cracks in her new and fragile happiness. 

Cass’s voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. But there was a strength in it, a quiet power that struck Dick to his core. “Is she…?”

Bruce’s reply came quick, but it felt like it landed with the same impact as the first words. His voice was still steady, still professional, but there was something tight in it—something raw. “She’s stable for now. But we don’t know how long that will last.”

It was the kind of answer that should have offered some relief, but it did the opposite. It carried the unbearable weight of uncertainty , the unspoken fear of what might come next. Stable for now—those words echoed in the hollow space between them, but they held no promise. They weren’t a guarantee. Dick swallowed hard, trying to find his voice, but the silence stretched longer, heavier. His mind raced, thoughts spiraling through the infinite possibilities of what could happen next, but he couldn’t find a single word to fill the silence.

Cass, however, had already turned away from the communicator. She didn’t need to hear anything more. Her face, usually so carefully guarded, had already hardened, her expression slipping into that familiar mask of quiet resolve. The vulnerability she had shown in those moments before was gone, replaced by something colder, something distant. The fire behind her eyes, usually so focused and driven, was now clouded with a turmoil he couldn’t reach.

“I… I need to go,” Cass said, her voice small but final, the weight of her words making the air feel even thicker. It was an understatement, a quiet declaration, but it held the kind of certainty that Dick couldn’t deny. She was already beyond reasoning, beyond waiting. She was already on a mission, and nothing—not even the storm in her chest—could stop her. “I need to see her.”

“I’m coming with you,” he said, his voice firm, his words cutting through the stillness between them.

—

For someone like Cass, whose body bore more scars than could be counted, each one a testament to the violence that had shaped her life, the sterile white walls of hospitals were supposed to be just another part of the world she had to endure. By sixteen, she should have been used to the stinging smell of antiseptic, the soft beeping of machines, the cold hands of doctors and nurses that hovered over her like ghosts. 

But to Cass, none of it felt natural. None of it was comforting.

For her, hospitals had never meant safety or healing. They didn’t represent recovery, or even the possibility of it. But what she hated most of all wasn’t just the sterile, uncaring nature of the place. It wasn’t the cold that made her muscles tense or the bright lights that made her skin crawl. It was the way hospitals had come to symbolize something far worse: guilt. Guilt for the people she couldn’t protect. Guilt for the lives she couldn’t save. 

Cass’s chest tightened at the thought of walking into those doors, to see Barbara there—vulnerable, fragile, broken—and knowing there was nothing she could do to undo the damage. No strike she could throw, no move she could make, no word she could say to make it better. In a hospital, there was nothing she could fix .

But... as a gothic vigilante, as someone who had spent years in the shadows, moving through the city’s underbelly, fighting against its demons— she could fix something . Anything.

A life of pancakes, dancing, lazy afternoons spent sipping coffee, chatting, and laughing. A life where the smallest moments were filled with softness and warmth. Where the weight of the world didn’t press down on your chest like an unshakable burden. A life like that, for Black Bat ... no, for Cassandra Cain , it didn’t exist.