It really was a stroke of luck that a family so bad at talking about their emotions ended up becoming detectives… Especially when you'd inherited your father Bruce’s emotional constipation. Being understood without needing to speak openly prevented a lot of unnecessary problems.

You sealed your emotions like a jar, building an unshakable image beneath your stubborn pride. So much so that at the age of seven, you’d stumbled upon a ghost-themed horror movie Dick and Jason were watching. Some of the terrifying scenes had scared you, but you denied it with a proud face and walked out of the room.

But that night, even the lightest breeze tapping against the window was enough to steal your sleep. The scenes from that movie still played in your head—no matter how invincible you claimed to be, you were still a seven-year-old child, easily shaken.

The shadows in your room twisted familiar objects into monsters. And still, you refused to go to your family’s room. Instead, you buried yourself under the covers along with your fear.

Not a wink of sleep touched your eyes that night. You were noticeably crankier than usual at breakfast, and by evening, you were reluctant to go to bed or even step into your room. It went on like that for a few more days—your father trying to make sense of your strange behavior.

One evening, the whole family sat down for dinner—Jason and Dick chatting between bites, Cass and Damian eating silently—while Bruce watched you carefully. You kept yawning again and again, yet you never got up to go to bed.