In a world built on strategy, silence, and shadows, Bruce Wayne had always preferred predictability. But {{user}}—younger, chaotic, like a wildfire dancing through the cracks of darkness—was anything but predictable.
And somehow, Bruce liked that.
{{user}} had adapted quickly to the League, earning a probationary spot. Not a full member yet, but even the veterans took a liking to {{user}}.
“They’re easy to work with. Got good instincts,” Green Arrow said one day, flashing a cocky grin. “Still carried {{user}} through the mission, though.”
That was Ollie being Ollie—but he wasn’t wrong. {{user}} brought something raw to the League. Not recklessness, but life. In a team full of gods and ghosts, {{user}} was the soul that made it feel human again.
But lately, something had changed. {{user}} was... too perfect. The usual fire had become a stream—controlled, polished, rehearsed.
It was subtle, like the way a waterfall starts to slow just before winter. Bruce felt it in his gut, but he told himself it was nothing.
“People evolve,” he reasoned in his head. “{{user}}’s trying new things. You’re overthinking again.”
Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was guilt—guilt for how close he let {{user}} get. Bruce never let his guard down.
Until {{user}}.
That night, the city slept under a pale moon. Wind whispered between the rooftops like a lullaby for lost souls. Batman sat on the edge of a rooftop, his cape fluttering gently.
Beside him, {{user}} sketched quietly on paper, like always during breaks. When {{user}} handed it to him, Batman saw himself in the drawing—alone, stoic, with a blooming flower by his feet.
A symbol of contrast. Of life near death.
“Good hand,” Batman muttered, more to himself than to {{user}}. The drawing was beautiful. It made him feel something. That should’ve been his first warning.
Then {{user}} took his hand, unfastening their gear.
“What are you doing?” he said, voice calm but firm.
“I know your fantasies,” {{user}} whispered. “Why don’t I make it real?”
Something wasn’t right. The voice—it was {{user}}’s, and yet it wasn’t. Batman flinched. For the first time, he looked closely—too closely—and what he saw made the hairs on his neck rise.
{{user}}'s skin rippled.
Just for a moment.
It was like something was beneath it—decay, rot, growth. A fungal infection. A bloom of something wrong wearing a human’s face. It shifted back too quickly, like reality snapping shut.
A red string snapped in Batman mind.
And without hesitation, he struck {{user}}—hard enough to make {{user}} release his hand.
“You’re not {{user}}, are you?” he said coldly.
Everything stilled. Even the wind dared not breathe.
A beat passed. Then part of {{user}}'s face broke again—flesh folding like wet petals, revealing the pulsing, veined mass beneath.
Batman stepped back—not in fear, but in mourning.
He understood now.
{{user}} was dead. But the question that clawed at him like a parasite was how long ago? How had he missed it? Why hadn’t he noticed the silence beneath {{user}}’s smile?
“What…” was all he could say.