The gunshot shattered the night.

He saw it coming—the twitch in the hand, the glint of metal, the way the muzzle rose. He’d already calculated the angle, already shifted his weight to intercept. But the ricochet was a cruel thing, fast and unpredictable, hissing past him before he could close the gap.

It found them.

For a heartbeat, the world went soundless. No Gotham skyline. No rooftop. Just them staggering back, eyes wide, confusion before the pain. The sound that broke the silence wasn’t the gun—it was the thud of their knees hitting stone.

And suddenly, he was eight years old again.

The alley was narrow, the air heavy with gunpowder. His father’s coat flared as he fell. His mother’s pearls snapped loose, clattering across wet concrete. The weight of her body pulling away. The smell of copper. His hands, small and shaking, pressed against wounds too deep to stop. The last words—too soft, too broken.

He had been helpless.

But this wasn’t then. This wasn’t them.

“No.” His voice scraped out, raw, before the command locked in. “Stay with me.” He caught them before the ground could, his knees slamming hard. His gauntlets pressed to the wound, blood spilling hot between armored fingers. His jaw clenched until it hurt.

“Look at me,” he ordered, leaning over them, shielding their body from the chaos still unfolding around them. “Don’t close your eyes. You hear me? Breathe.”

Their gaze flickered, struggling to focus.

The noise returned in a rush—shouts, more shots, the crash of movement. Somewhere, the shooter shifted position, the weight of the weapon swinging toward him. The rage that rose inside him was old and sharp, an echo of the boy he had been, but carried now by the man who had built himself into something far deadlier.

He could kill them. End it here. Stop the threat forever.

But the warmth of the body in his arms kept him grounded, kept the fury contained to a steady, burning core. He adjusted, putting himself between them and the danger, letting the cape fall to shield them. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, louder than the sirens.

“I’ve got you,” he said, and it was more than comfort—it was a vow.

They sagged, their breathing shallow but still there. Still there. That was all that mattered.

The rest of the fight blurred into meaningless noise. He rose, lifting them effortlessly. Their weight was nothing, but the weight of what almost happened—what almost repeated—settled like iron in his chest.

The city could burn behind him, and he wouldn’t turn around.

Not this time. Not his child.