The rooftops of Gotham stretched endless, shadows wrapping the skyline. Patrol was quiet tonight—until she came.

“Tsk, tsk, Beloved,” Talia’s voice purred from behind him, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. She stepped out of the shadows, her gown hugging every line of her body, lips curved in that smirk he remembered all too well. “Still hiding behind your cowl. Don’t you tire of this?”

Bruce turned, his jaw set, eyes hard beneath the mask. “What do you want, Talia?”

Her gaze flicked over him, slow, deliberate. “I came to remind you of what we had. Of what you could have again.” She moved closer, brushing a hand against his chestplate. “I can give you power, legacy. A future.”

His hand caught her wrist, firm, unyielding. “That was the past. I’m not that man anymore.” He shoved her hand aside.

And then—from the rooftop’s edge—you emerged. Black jacket, corset, top hat catching the city’s light. Zatanna’s fire wrapped around your presence, but you weren’t just magic. You were his anchor.

Talia’s smirk faltered for a heartbeat before twisting into amusement. “Ohhh,” she laughed, low and bitter. “I forgot—you’re taken.” Her eyes darted to you, mocking. “Right. My apologies.”

She stepped back, her tone turning dagger-sharp. “But remember, Bruce—seven years ago. Our little… encounter?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his silence heavier than stone.

And then Talia’s ace appeared. A boy stepped out from the shadows—dark hair, piercing eyes, the resemblance impossible to deny.

Damian.

Your breath hitched, your blue eyes widening. Bruce felt his chest constrict.

“This,” Talia said, her voice rich with triumph, “is Damian Wayne. Your son. He’ll be living with you now. I have… other matters to attend to.”

The boy stood straight, pride in his stance, arrogance in his eyes. Bruce’s world tilted. Your presence beside him grounded him, but inside, his heart thundered.

A son. His son. A past mistake now standing flesh and blood before him.

And you had seen it all.