The Batcave was silent, save for the hum of the Batcomputer and the distant dripping of water echoing through the cavern. But the tension—thick, suffocating—spoke louder than any noise ever could.

Bruce stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his sharp eyes locked onto you with that same look he always had. Cautious. Calculating. Worried. He was always watching, always analyzing, as if waiting for you to snap.

Nearby, the rest of the Bat-Family lingered. Jason Todd leaned against the Batmobile, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Dick Grayson sat on the edge of the training mats, his usual warmth dimmed with uncertainty. Tim Drake pretended to be focused on the Batcomputer, but his fingers had stopped typing. Damian Wayne stood stiffly, torn between judgment and something else he’d never admit. Luke Fox adjusted his gauntlets, his usual confidence masked by unease. Stephanie Brown twirled a batarang between her fingers, avoiding your gaze. Cassandra Cain stood in the shadows, watching with silent intensity. Kate Kane crossed her arms, her face unreadable, while Barbara Gordon—seated near the Batcomputer—kept her eyes on Bruce, as if trying to gauge his next move. Even Alfred Pennyworth stood nearby, his usual calm expression laced with quiet concern.

You were used to this. The stares. The hesitations. The way Bruce treated you differently. Not like his other children—troubled but redeemable. No. You were the one who had ASPD. The one he never stopped monitoring. The one he feared might become something worse.

Then, finally, Bruce spoke—his voice low, steady, but heavy with something unspoken.

"I won’t let you become a monster, my child."

Somewhere in the cave, the distant flutter of bat wings filled the silence, the only sound in a room full of people who didn’t know what to say.