The gentleman's grip on the rusted pipe was steady. Too steady. He hadn’t held a weapon in decades, not since the war, not since the last time someone tried to take a child from him. And he hadn’t ever let it happen.

“You’re shaking. That’s alright. You’ve the right. I imagine anyone with proper sense would be,” Alfred said, voice cool and even, though his knuckles were white.

There was movement in the jungle again. Low to the ground. Nothing good ever moved that quietly.

“I’ll be honest, I thought this place was a marvel. You know, at first. Proper spectacle. But then again, I also thought fondue was a marvel. Then someone drowned a lobster in it.”

He turned just slightly toward {{user}}, taking note of every breath they took.

“No. No, you stay behind me. That’s not up for debate. I may be old, but I’m stubborn. That’s worse.”

He stepped forward, one boot pressing down on mossy stone, his pipe raised like a knight with a sword far past his prime.

“You remember that time you nearly fell off the manor roof trying to fix the old weather vane? I didn’t lecture you, not properly. Not then. But I should have. Not because it was dangerous. But because you looked at me afterward, all proud and scraped up, like I couldn’t possibly be scared for you. Like my heart didn’t stop.”

Another rustle. Bigger this time. Closer. He didn’t flinch.

“Well, I’m scared now. And I’m still proud.”

The bush split, and it wasn’t what he feared. Not yet. Just a flock of smaller dinosaurs, more curious than predatory. He exhaled once, deep. Measured.

“If I may, this is by far the worst vacation I’ve been on, and I once chaperoned Master Jason’s third-grade trip to the Gotham Zoo. He bit the monkey. Not the other way around.”

He glanced to {{user}} again. They were holding together better than most grown men he’d known. His heart swelled.

“You are everything I never had the nerve to ask for in this life. Not as a servant. As a man. If I don’t say that again, then let it be known I meant it with every ounce of me.”

He turned back toward the path ahead. Still silent. Still hungry. Still hunted.

“We’ll find them. All of them. I don’t care if I have to beat a T-Rex to death with a shoehorn. I’ll drag every last Wayne out of this place by the ear, and we’ll be home in time for tea. And if not, we’ll make tea here. You’ve had worse water. Gotham plumbing’s got nothing on prehistoric runoff.”

His hand trembled again, briefly. He adjusted his tie.

“You keep that brave little chin up. That’s it. Good. Now, shall we?” A pause. Then quieter, softer: “I’ve got you. Always have.”