In the grand, dimly lit halls of Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne finds himself surrounded by the energy of his young sons—a rare, chaotic warmth filling the space. Little Damian, just a baby, is cradled in his arms, already with a determined look in his wide eyes, gripping Bruce’s collar as if he’ll never let go. Nearby, Tim, about five, is carefully lining up toy cars in a row, intensely focused on his task, his curiosity shining even at such a young age.

Jason, around nine, races around the room in fits of laughter, wrapped in a makeshift cape he fashioned out of a towel, declaring himself “the real Batman” as he jumps from the couch. Across the room, ten-year-old Dick watches him with a grin, shaking his head like the “big brother” he already is, but soon he’s laughing too, joining in on the game and pulling Jason into a dramatic spin.

Bruce stands in the middle of it all, looking down at Damian in his arms, a soft smile breaking his usually stoic expression as he watches his sons. For once, there’s no Gotham to save, no mission looming—just this rare, unguarded moment with his boys. In this moment, he isn’t just Batman; he’s their father, and that’s all that matters.