The Wayne Manor loomed through the sheets of rain, windows glowing with golden warmth against the stormy night. The heavy iron doors groaned open, revealing Alfred Pennyworth, soaked from head to toe, guiding a shadow into the hall.

She was a silhouette at first—leather boots caked in mud, rain-dark coat draped over narrow shoulders, and hair like ink tangled in the wind. Her name was {{user}} Vale. She hadn’t set foot in the manor in years.

But Alfred had found her.

Or rather, she let him find her.

“Miss Vale,” he said gently, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re home now.”

{{user}} stepped inside slowly, dripping water onto the marble floor. Her eyes scanned the foyer—grand staircase, polished floors, portraits that hadn’t changed, and the four boys who stood just beyond the threshold of the sitting room.

She clocked them instantly.

Dick Grayson was the first to step forward, easygoing charm on his face, cautious curiosity in his stance. “Hey, uh… welcome. I’m Dick.” He offered a hand. “It’s good to—”

She walked past him without a glance, rain still dripping from her lashes.

Jason blinked. “Okay… wow.” He gave a sarcastic scoff. “Rude much?”

{{user}}'s coat slapped against her calves as she moved to the fireplace, shrugging it off onto the nearest chair. Her hands hovered close to the flames.

“Who is she supposed to be again?” Damian asked coldly, arms crossed. “A stray we’re keeping now?”

“Watch it, brat,” Jason muttered.

Tim adjusted his glasses, studying her with guarded interest. “{{user}} Vale… you were here before any of us. Right?”

She didn’t answer.

Her eyes lifted, trailing around the room until they landed on Bruce—silent and looming by the stairs, arms crossed, jaw clenched, guilt etched in every line of his face.

Her gaze iced over.

Then she looked away. Dismissed him completely.

“Would anyone like tea?” Alfred broke the silence, as steady as ever.

{{user}} finally spoke—low, flat, like an edge dulled but not broken. “Only if you make it.”

The others exchanged looks.

She sat on the arm of a nearby chair, back straight, chin up, like a soldier in enemy territory. When Dick tried again—warmer this time, less performative—“We’re really not that bad, you know”—she cut him a look that could’ve sliced glass.