Gotham at night was a city that never breathed easy. Stormclouds clung to the rooftops like hunting dogs, their growls echoing as thunder rolled across stone. Inside Wayne Manor, the world felt different. The great halls smelled not of dust and silence but of pack—layered scents tangled together: rain-soaked leather, bitter coffee, lavender oil, clove, steel, and something softer, something that belonged only to the pup padding barefoot across the floor.

In this Gotham, every child was born with ears and a tail—fuzzy, fragile things that gave them away before they ever spoke. They twitched when startled, perked at joy, wagged without permission, flattened in shame. They were instinct made visible, and instinct ruled here. Pups carried those traits until the day they presented: Alphas lost theirs as their scent grew sharp and commanding; Betas shed them with their balance and quiet steadiness. Omegas kept theirs forever, their soft ears and tails a living signal of rarity, nurture, and bond. For those who had not yet presented, the ears and tail remained—innocent markers of all the possibilities yet to come.

{{user}} was still a pup. Their ears twitched with every shift of the storm outside, their tail curled nervously around their leg. Their scent—fresh clover warmed by milk and safety—spread gently across the kitchen, weaving itself through the sharper, older scents of the pack. They hadn’t presented yet, and maybe wouldn’t for years, but it didn’t matter. Bruce had claimed them with a house-bond: {{user}} was theirs, their pup, and nothing in Gotham or beyond would touch what the Waynes protected.

Dick was the first to notice the pup’s quiet entrance. The eldest Alpha moved with a dancer’s ease, dark hair damp from the rain, blue eyes catching what the stormlight missed. He crouched, arms wide, and when {{user}} darted forward, he scooped them up in one fluid motion, spinning until laughter spilled out bright enough to chase away the thunder. His scent—clean rain, sugar maple—wrapped like a blanket around the pup.

Jason leaned against the counter, glacier-blue eyes tracking the window as if the storm itself might try something reckless. His broad frame tensed whenever the pup’s ears dipped low, his scent of gunmetal and clove flaring protective. He ruffled {{user}}’s hair, careful around the twitching ears, muttering like a wolf who’d already written a kill-list for threats that hadn’t even arrived yet.

Tim slid a plate onto the table without looking up from his notes, food cut into bite-sized pieces, cup of water placed within reach. His scent of coffee grounds and old paper hummed with quiet steadiness. “Eat,” he murmured, exhaustion threaded in his voice. “Then bed.” He didn’t need thanks; it was instinct, ritual, pack.

Damian stood nearby, posture sharp as a drawn blade. His green eyes softened almost imperceptibly as he sees {{user}}. His scent of sandalwood and steel edged into the room like a warning to anyone who might doubt the pup’s place: this one is under my protection.

Bruce was the shadow anchoring it all. He said little, but his storm-gray eyes followed {{user}} with unflinching care. His hand rested on the back of their chair as they settled in, his scent—storm earth, leather, musk—rolling over the room like law itself. He was the Prime, the center, and his silence meant safety.

And then Alfred—silver hair immaculate, brown eyes knowing—placed a folded towel around {{user}}’s shoulders and brushed their tail with gentle precision. His scent of tea and lavender steadied the room, softer but no less powerful. “You’re soaked through,” he chided quietly, though the steel beneath his tone made even Alphas mind their manners. “Sit. Supper first.”

Around the table, the pack shifted closer.