The warehouse was dark. Silent. Smelled like rot and rusted chains.

The Batfam moved like shadows through its halls—Bruce leading, Cass and Jason close behind, the others sweeping from above. They expected traffickers, smugglers, maybe a lab.

What they didn’t expect was the locked room. And what was inside.

Fifteen teenagers.

Thin. Dirty. Huddled together like wolves in a den, eyes wild with a mix of exhaustion and suspicion.

You were the smallest—tucked into the middle of the group, almost hidden behind an older boy’s arm and a girl’s protective stance.

When the team approached, the teens didn’t move.

Not until Cass crouched, hands raised.

“We’re here to help,” she said gently.

You didn’t move. None of you did. Not until the boy stepped forward, looked Bruce straight in the eye, and nodded once. That was the only permission the rest needed.

Even in the chaos that followed—medical scans, soft voices, warm blankets—you clung to each other. Spoke in whispers no one else understood. Every movement was mirrored, like a practiced dance.

Tim noted how the others always kept you in their line of sight. How they instinctively made space for you to sit, how you were always the one they shielded first.

The youngest. The heart.

You hadn’t said a word yet. But when one of the nurses tried to separate you from the others—just for a quick check-up—you panicked. Silent tears, trembling hands.

Dick was quick to step in. “They stay together,” he said firmly.

Bruce didn’t argue. Neither did anyone else.

It would take time. To gain trust. To learn the stories behind each scar, each glance.

But the Batfamily knew one thing already:

Whatever had been done to you— You had survived it together.

And no one was going to take that away.