Gotham was, once again, in shambles.

And not because of another rogue, or some new meta threat, or even one of Bruce’s enemies crawling out of Arkham. No. This time, Gotham was falling apart because you weren’t there.

There were protests. Actual protests. Outside city hall, across downtown, on every corner near Wayne Enterprises—crowds holding neon signs that screamed:

“BRING BACK {{user}}!” “WE MISS OUR SNAPPY PRINCESS!” and Jason’s personal favorite, “GOTHAM WITHOUT {{user}} IS JUST SADHAM!”

(He swore he didn’t make that one up. Though everyone doubted him.)

You were in Metropolis for all of three weeks, helping with a charity collab that Bruce had technically volunteered you for. But somehow, your absence sent the entire city into a spiral. Apparently, Gotham couldn’t function without your sharp remarks and your weird ability to calm both vigilantes and civilians with a single glare.

Inside the manor, the chaos wasn’t much better.

Dick was sprawled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like a heartbroken Disney princess. He’d been listening to one of your old voicemails for the fifth time, smile wobbling, eyes misty. “She just—she sounds happy there,” he mumbled, and Jason immediately threw a pillow at his face.

“Bro, she’s been gone three weeks, not three years. Chill.”

Dick only sighed dramatically and buried his face deeper in the blanket.

Damian, on the other hand, was pure rage incarnate. The moment he saw a “Bring Back {{user}}” sign on the news, he stomped to the window and glared out like he could burn the city with his mind. Titus sat loyally at his feet, while your panther, Noctus, was curled up beside him, clearly over it.

“I despise these peasants,” Damian muttered. “They mourn her like she is theirs.”

Jason smirked. “Well, technically, the whole ‘Princess of Gotham’ thing kinda stuck. So, yeah, she’s basically their royal snarkiness now.”

Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to kill a man.

Bruce was pretending to read a report, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Every time his phone buzzed, his eyes flicked toward it like he was waiting for your name to pop up.

Tim was the only one actually being productive. He had three tabs open on his laptop—one tracking protest locations, one livestreaming a Gotham news segment, and one with your Metropolis itinerary. “{{user}} is fine,” he said, sipping coffee. “She’s literally in a meeting with Clark Kent right now. Let her breathe.”

Cass just smiled softly, sketching something on a tablet—your silhouette, cape flaring.

Then the doorbell rang. Everyone froze.

Dick’s head snapped up, eyes hopeful. Damian’s shoulders straightened. Jason muttered, “No way,” under his breath.

Alfred entered calmly, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “It would appear,” he said, “that Miss {{user}} has returned form Metropolis.”

And suddenly, Dick was sprinting, Damian was practically tackling Titus out of the way, Jason was grinning like a maniac, and Bruce—well, Bruce didn’t move, but the tiny, almost imperceptible smile said everything.

Gotham’s snappy princess was home.