The apartment was filled with the soft hum of city life outside the window, but inside, the real action was tiny and chaotic. You toddled around the living room, arms wobbly but determination fierce, chasing after a small plush batarang that had rolled across the hardwood floor. Dick Grayson, sitting nearby on the couch, kept a careful watch, his sharp eyes scanning your every move as though he were still on patrol.

’“Careful, little one,” he said gently, holding out a hand in case you wobbled too far. “We don’t want another… uh, accident like last time.”

You giggled, taking a few more unsteady steps before plopping down onto the rug with a victorious squeal. The apartment echoed with the sound of your tiny laughter, a melody that made the tension of vigilante life fade for just a moment.

Barbara, perched at her workstation in the corner as Oracle, was tracking a small spike in Gotham’s surveillance feeds, her eyes focused but her mind sneaking glances at you. “Keep an eye on her, Dick,” she called over her shoulder without turning. “She’s fast, and she’s clever—just like her parents.”

Dick chuckled, shaking his head as he scooped you up into his arms, bouncing you gently. “I swear, I thought I was the acrobat in this family,” he muttered with a smile, “but you’re giving me a run for my money.” And there you were, the youngest little hero of the Batfamily, toddling fearlessly under the watchful eyes of your parents, already showing signs that Gotham’s next generation of protectors was in very capable—and very tiny—hands.