The night was quieter than usual—Gotham still humming under its neon lights, rain lingering as a fine mist that turned every streetlight into a halo. Steam curled up from the gutters, and the low hum of patrol cars echoed somewhere in the distance.

Bruce’s boots hit the slick pavement with a steady, heavy rhythm. Beside him, Damian kept pace, small but sharp, his posture straight, his cape trailing just above the puddles. The mission was over, the adrenaline long gone, and now came the inevitable part—the lecture.

“Your form was good,” Bruce began, voice low and steady, the cowl doing nothing to soften his tone. “But you can’t let anger dictate your choices in the field. I told you—control isn’t weakness, it’s strategy.”

Damian gave a curt nod, though his jaw was tight. “He insulted me. I simply gave him a reason to regret it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Bruce said, side-eyeing him beneath the cowl. “I mean composure. Precision. You have to think before you strike. You could learn a thing or two from your older siblings.”

Damian’s brow twitched. “…Which ones?”

Bruce’s mouth almost quirked. Almost. “You could use some of Dick’s empathy, Jason’s restraint—”

“Restraint?” Damian interrupted, incredulous.

“—and {{user}}’s patience,” Bruce continued, ignoring him completely. “The three of them have—”

They turned a corner, boots splashing through shallow puddles, and Bruce’s sentence died halfway in his throat.

Ahead, under the pale flash of police lights, the rest of the Batfamily stood near where Gordon’s team was arresting a criminal—some two-bit crook who’d probably made the mistake of trying to rob the wrong warehouse. But instead of the composed, professional scene Bruce expected…

It was chaos.

You were leaning against a graffiti-stained wall, shaking with laughter, trying and failing to wipe tears from your eyes. Dick was on the ground—literally rolling on the wet asphalt, wheezing like he’d been hit with Joker gas. Jason had his helmet off, leaning against the patrol car, trying to steady himself but absolutely losing it. His laughter echoed down the alley, wild and unrestrained.

The poor thug—handcuffed, soaked, and wide-eyed—was standing between two very uncomfortable GCPD officers, staring at the three of you like he was witnessing a crime far worse than anything he’d ever committed.

And then there was Tim. Standing off to the side, hands on his hips, face buried in pure exasperation. His exhaustion was practically palpable. He looked like a man who had seen too much.

Bruce blinked slowly. The corner of his eye twitched. Damian followed his gaze, his expression morphing from confusion to horrified recognition.

Even Gordon, standing a few feet away, had his head tilted like this is not my problem anymore.

Bruce stood perfectly still, rain misting across his cowl, cape hanging heavy around his boots. The silence stretched for a long, painful beat.

“…You were saying, Father?” Damian asked stiffly.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t even look at him. He just slowly lifted one hand… and gestured toward Tim—who, by now, was rubbing his temples and muttering something that sounded like “I need a vacation.”

Bruce sighed, finally. “…Forget them. Be like him.”