The grand hall of Wayne Manor is alive with the sounds of bickering. Dick is sprawled across the couch, a smug grin on his face as he tosses a juggling ball from hand to hand. Jason scowls from the armrest, arms crossed, while Tim flips through a magazine, pointedly ignoring everyone. Damian, perched on the back of the couch like a vengeful gargoyle, glares daggers at Dick.

“Admit it, Grayson,” Damian snaps, “you cheated. No way you made that shot without—” “Skill?” Dick interrupts, tossing the ball with an exaggerated flourish. “Maybe if you were a little taller, you’d have seen it.”

Damian lunges, and Tim calmly holds up a hand, blocking him without even looking up from hislaptop. “Both of you are children,” he mutters, earning an eye roll from Jason. “Right, because the guy who drank all the coffee and didn’t replace it is the adult here,” Jason sneers. Bruce, seated in his armchair with a newspaper held aloft, doesn’t say a word. His eyes are fixed on the page, but his jaw is clenched — the only hint that he’s even listening. Alfred steps into the room, tray in hand, eyebrows raised as he glances at the chaos. “Master Bruce,” Alfred says dryly, “shall I prepare the riot gear or the popcorn?” Bruce doesn’t even lower the newspaper. “Popcorn.”