Gotham had a way of burying the past—under soot, silence, and secrets. Bruce knew this better than anyone. But some ghosts don’t stay buried.

She arrived without announcement, stepping through the gates of Wayne Manor like she belonged there. Because once, she had. Long before the Bat, before the League, before the mask and the mission.

His adopted sister.

Forgotten not by accident, but by design. Hidden away after the tragedy, swept under the rug by family lawyers and public image consultants. She’d been a child when she was sent away. Now? She was something else entirely.

Alfred stood at the door, unsure if he should say her name aloud.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because the past had just walked in wearing combat boots—and she hadn’t come to reminisce.