Wayne Manor had grown too quiet with age.

Not abandoned—never that—but settled, like a great animal long since done with fighting. The halls still held trophies of wars won and lost, the cave below still hummed with dormant machines, but the air carried a sense of finality. This was a house that had seen generations of Robins come and go. Seen boys become men. Seen blood washed from marble more times than anyone cared to count.

Bruce Wayne stood at the head of the long dining table, one gloved hand resting against polished wood. At seventy-two, his back was straighter than it had any right to be, but his hair was fully white now, pulled back neatly. The cowl was gone for good—everyone here knew that—but the presence remained. Batman lingered in the lines of his face, in the way his eyes missed nothing.

This wasn’t a mission briefing. Not officially.

Just… a meeting. A rare one.

Dick Grayson, forty-eight, leaned against the window with the casual ease he’d perfected decades ago. Silver threaded through his dark hair at the temples, laugh lines carved deep around his eyes. He looked like someone who had lived a full life—and somehow survived it.

Jason Todd, forty-five, sat backward in a chair, arms folded over the backrest. He had more gray than Dick and less patience. Time had roughened him instead of softening him, but there was a steadiness there now. The rage had burned down to embers.

Tim Drake, forty-two, stood near the table with a tablet tucked under his arm out of habit he never quite broke. He looked the most tired of them all. Not physically—mentally. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much responsibility for too long.

They were all waiting.

The grandfather clock struck the hour.

Footsteps echoed in the entryway.

Bruce turned first.

Damian Wayne stepped into the room, coat dark, posture controlled, expression unreadable. At thirty-two, he still looked young compared to the rest of them—sharper, leaner, like a blade forged after the war had already begun. His hair was black, his eyes unmistakably Bruce’s.

But he wasn’t alone.

A small boy stood at his side, no older than six, clutching Damian’s hand with quiet confidence. His hair was a softer black, slightly unruly. His eyes—green, observant, far too serious for his age—flicked across the room, taking everything in.

Damian’s grip tightened just a fraction.

“This,” Damian said calmly, breaking the silence, “is my son.”

The room froze.

Jason straightened. Dick blinked. Tim’s tablet lowered an inch without him realizing it.

Bruce stared.

“My son,” Damian repeated. “His name is Alfred.”