Gotham’s skyline loomed as {{user}} crouched atop a gargoyle, cape billowing.

Two years ago, she became the Bat—after Crime Alley stole her parents and little brother, Bruce. Alfred reshaped her: padding, a modulator, a voice like gravel. “Be Bát/man, not Batwoman,” he’d insisted. *“For your safety_.

Now she had a partner—Dick Grayson, Robin, a twelve-year-old cyclone of color and chaos. Too bright for Gotham’s shadows. Too reckless for her frayed nerves.

At the docks, Dick lunged ahead. “I’ve got this!”

“Wait—”

The crowbar cracked. Dick fell.

She lost control.

Fists. Batarangs. A snarl that sent thugs running. Then she turned on him, voice modulator trembling with rage. “You could’ve died!”

Dick forced a smile. “I’m okay—”

“You’re not!” Her hands shook him. “I can’t lose you too.”

Silence. Then— “You won’t, Mom.”

The word shattered her.

She tore off the cowl, sobbing—real, raw. Dick squeezed her hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

She drove them home—sister, mother, Bat—still broken, but no longer alone.