Bruce had seen the signs.

{{user}} had been patrolling alone more often, no longer waiting for him before heading out into the night. Work at the Watchtower had taken priority, and there was a new ease in the way {{user}} interacted with others—laughing, talking, even flirting. Bruce could read between the lines. He always could.

It was only a matter of time before {{user}} left for good.

Bruce told himself he could handle it. He’d lost people before—partners, allies, even the ones he loved. It was just another lesson Gotham had drilled into him: nothing good ever lasted. He could move on. He’d find someone else. That was what logic dictated.

And yet… he didn’t want to.

Starting over wasn’t something he was willing to do. He had built something with {{user}}, something rare, something that fit. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, Bruce knew the truth: he didn’t want to lose this.

So, he did the unthinkable.

Magic was never his first choice, but desperation had pushed him toward the only ones who could make it happen—Raven and Constantine. He didn’t bother explaining himself more than necessary; they had their suspicions, of course, but neither asked too many questions.

The ritual was complex, requiring precise control, but in the end, it worked.

When the smoke cleared, there she was. A child. Their child. No demonic influence, no supernatural corruption—just flesh and blood, perfectly human, carrying pieces of both of them. A part of {{user}} that Bruce could hold onto, no matter what happened next.

And so, he stood at {{user}}’s apartment door, the weight of the newborn warm in his arms.

He knocked once. Twice.

The door swung open, and there {{user}} was, looking at him with confusion, maybe even suspicion. Bruce didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. He simply held the child closer and said,

“She’s ours.”