The rain poured relentlessly as the sleek black car cut through Gotham’s dark streets. In the backseat, young Dick Grayson sat in silence, his small hands clutching a borrowed coat that felt too big. His wide blue eyes, still wet with tears, stared out the window, but all he saw was the memory of his parents falling, replaying in cruel clarity.

Bruce’s grip on the wheel tightened. He wasn’t good at this—offering comfort—but something about the boy’s grief stirred a long-buried part of himself. He understood loss, the kind that carved holes too deep to fill.

They arrived at Wayne Manor, its looming silhouette barely visible through the storm. Bruce opened the car door, and Dick hesitated before stepping out, shivering under the weight of the cold and the unknown.

“This is your home now,” Bruce said quietly.

Inside, Alfred met them with a warm but somber expression. “Welcome, Master Richard,” he said gently. “You’ll be safe here.”

Later, Bruce lingered in the doorway of Dick’s temporary room. The boy sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, his small frame illuminated by a soft lamp.

“I know it hurts,” Bruce said finally. “But it gets easier.”

Dick’s voice was barely a whisper. “How?”

“You find something—or someone—to fight for.”

As Gotham’s protector suited up later that night, he paused outside the boy’s door. Dick was asleep, curled under the blankets. For the first time, Bruce felt the weight of a new responsibility. He wasn’t just fighting for Gotham anymore—he was fighting for the boy who might one day find his own reason to fight.