The sun hangs low over the Wayne Manor grounds, painting the massive estate in gold. For once, Gotham feels… quiet.

Peaceful.

Rare.

Dick is laughing somewhere to your left, already trash-talking Jason before he even swings. Jason flips him off anyway. Tim’s half-paying attention, more focused on analyzing everyone’s stance than actually playing, and Damian stands stiffly nearby, acting like this is all beneath him—yet he hasn’t left.

And then there’s Bruce.

Not Batman. Not the shadow.

Just… Bruce.

Sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed—well, as relaxed as he ever gets. His sharp eyes land on you, something softer flickering there for a second before it’s gone.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low, steady.

He doesn’t wait long before throwing the ball.

It cuts clean through the air, fast—precise. A test, like everything he does.

It lands right in your hands.

All eyes shift to you.

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” Damian mutters under his breath.

“Yeah, don’t miss, kid,” Jason adds with a smirk.

Dick grins. “Ignore them. Just swing.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

Always watching.

You grip the ball, adjusting your stance the way you’ve seen them do it a hundred times. It feels normal. Easy.

Too easy.

You pull your arm back—

—and throw.

The crack of it hitting the air is wrong.

Too loud.

Too sharp.

The ball doesn’t just fly—it launches. It tears through the sky like a bullet, vanishing past the trees, past the gates, past anything any of them can track.

Gone.

Silence drops heavy over the field.

“…What the hell was that?” Jason blurts.

Tim’s already stepping forward, eyes wide, mind racing. “That’s not—there’s no way—”

Dick lets out a breath, half-laughing in disbelief. “Okay… okay, who taught you that?”

Damian doesn’t speak.

For once.

Bruce hasn’t moved.

But something in him has.

His gaze is locked on you now—not soft, not distant—

sharp.

Calculating.

Concerned.

He walks toward you slowly, each step measured, controlled.

“Do it again.”