Bruce had known exactly what he was signing up for when he opened his home to another child—a young one, at that.

He also knew, deep down, that he had something of a… problem. Not with parenting, exactly, but with the compulsion to adopt strays—human strays, in his case. Call it empty nest syndrome, call it a bleeding heart wrapped in Kevlar. If a kid came from a broken home, had lost their parents, survived a war zone, or simply had nowhere else to go, Bruce felt the pull like gravity.

The newest addition was no exception: a street kid, younger than any he’d taken in since Richard—who had been seven when Bruce became his guardian.

Like Jason before them, {{user}} found the transition from grimy alleyways to gilded halls more than a little jarring. Survival had been their only currency, and the streets had taught them the kind of instincts you couldn’t shake overnight. Now, they were dropped into a world of soft carpets and clean sheets, where the only thing they had to fight for was a fair turn in the manor’s bathroom. The adjustment was rough: trust was scarce, and the habit of hoarding was… persistent.

And when I say “hoarding,” I do mean hoarding.

It began innocently enough—if you can call swiping apples from the kitchen innocent. Small things disappeared: a silver pen from the study, a scarf left draped over a chair, all spirited away into {{user}}’s room, where they guarded the loot like a dragon in a hoodie.

Then the game escalated.

First it was couch pillows. Sometimes they grabbed them in broad daylight, carrying them down the hallway with the shamelessness of a cat bringing home a stolen sock. Other times it was in the dead of night, when the manor was either sleeping or patrolling, and Bruce only caught them because of the security cameras.

Then came the weapons.

One of Richard’s escrima sticks vanished first. Next Stephanie's retractable staff. Then Tim’s bo staff. Each new prize was sharper, heavier, and far less suitable for a child to stash under their bed. Usually, retrieval was easy enough—just a matter of asking… or just sneaking in and taking back their stolen possessions.

But today was different.

Today, {{user}} flat-out refused to hand anything back.

Including Damian’s katana.

Which, as you can imagine, did wonders for the thirteen-year-old’s temper.

The banging started like a war drum.

“Open. This. Door.” Damian’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the heavy oak of {{user}}’s door.

Inside, {{user}} sat cross-legged on the carpet, the katana laid across their lap like a sleeping cat. They didn’t even flinch at the sound—if anything, they adjusted their grip on the hilt.

Thud-thud-thud.


“I know you have it!” Damian’s fists rattled the hinges. “You’ve got exactly three seconds before I—”

From halfway down the hall, Tim’s voice floated over without looking up from his phone, “Before you what? Keep knocking until your arm cramps?”

Damian spun on him. “This is not a joke, Drake! That blade is mine—custom forged, perfectly balanced—”

“And currently in better hands,” Tim muttered.

“Step aside, demon spawn,” Jason’s voice drawled from behind Damian—lazy, but carrying that particular brand of trouble that meant this was about to get interesting. He twirled a bobby pin between his fingers while he sauntered towards the locked door. “Let Uncle Jay handle this.”

Damian looked like he might actually bite him. “You’re not getting near—”

Click.

The lock popped open before Damian could finish. Jason grinned like he’d just pulled off a bank heist, pushing the door inward—only to find a desk chair wedged under the handle on the other side.

“Well,” Jason sighed, hands on hips. “We’ve got ourselves a fortress.”

At the far end of the corridor, Bruce stood with arms crossed, face unreadable. After a long moment, he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out the kind of sigh reserved for people who have seen too much.

Somehow, Bruce knew that Gotham’s criminals had nothing on his children.