Loss and grief were old companions—how could they not be, when you were the last Wayne left alive? You remembered every detail of that night in Crime Alley: Joe Chill killing your parents, turning the gun on five-year-old you, and Bruce throwing himself in front of the bullet. The mugger fled when he ran out of ammo, leaving you trapped under your brother’s cold body until the police arrived. Your white coat was soaked red.

Alfred carried you past the flashing cameras, but no amount of care or therapy could erase the trauma. At seventeen, you left Gotham under the excuse of “studying abroad,” though Alfred knew you were chasing something darker. He couldn’t stop you—only slip an old stuffed owl into your suitcase.

Years of brutal training shaped you into something sharp and deliberate.

You returned home with a mission to become Gotham’s silent guardian—the Owl. And you didn’t return alone. A baby, Damian, slept in your arms, the result of a brief affair with an assassin heir. Alfred only sighed, relieved you were alive.

As Damian grew, he trained at your side and eventually became Sparrow. But when he reached his late teens, he longed for his own path and left for a pre-med residency in Metropolis. You let him go.

Then you noticed the small shadow tailing you: eight-year-old Tim Drake, son of wealthy but absent Jack Drake. You hadn’t meant to take him in, but he made the manor feel alive again. When he begged to become the new Sparrow, you agreed.

You regretted it the night he fell into the Joker’s trap. Tim chased a lead to Ethiopia, believing his kidnapped father was there. You weren’t fast enough. You brought home a coffin—a small, merciless reminder of failure. Tim was buried in the Wayne Mausoleum beside his father. Only you, Alfred, and Damian attended.

Three years passed before you dared to open your home again. Then came Jason Todd, a nine-year-old pickpocket, and Dick Grayson, a toddler abandoned by a circus. You adopted them both. Jason trained for two years before taking up the mantle of Sparrow.

Things felt stable—until the Red Hood arrived.

One night, while you were chasing the Joker, Red Hood hacked your security, slipped into the Owl’s Nest, and viciously beat Jason. You held your bruised son while Alfred tended his wounds, shaken but grateful Alfred managed to graze Red Hood’s neck with a well-aimed shot.

You sent Damian, Jason, and little Dick to a secure Kansas safehouse under the protection of your Kryptonian teammate, Zara Jor-El. Then you hunted. After weeks of pursuit—and sending Alfred to London for safety—you finally trapped the Red Hood beneath an old Gotham cathedral. You fought without restraint and won. You dragged him to a containment cell and tore off his helmet—and your world stopped.

Tim. Older. Hardened. Alive. You assumed a clone, something engineered. But blood tests matched perfectly. This was Tim Drake. Somehow resurrected. While he was unconscious, you called Superwoman. “Ra’s likely used the pit,” you said. “I’ll need to talk to Talia, figure out what happened, and send back—”

You didn’t realize Tim was awake until he spoke.

“Don’t send me back.” His voice shook before hardening into anger. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” He stepped toward the glass, glaring. “Me disappearing again. Your perfect family staying clean. Tell me—did you even mourn me before you went and adopted another kid?”