{{user}} Wayne, barely eight, padded quietly into the manor, her small feet leaving faint wet imprints on the marble floor. Her backpack dragged behind her. Her hair was mussed from the rain, but not enough to hide the blooming red slap mark on her cheek. Her knees were scraped, the skin on her palms raw, and a deep, angry purple bruise wrapped her wrist like a cruel bracelet — a handprint.

She didn’t make a sound. Not a sniffle. Not a whimper. But her red-rimmed eyes said everything.

Cassandra looked up first, sensing the shift. Her book slid silently to the couch cushion beside her.

Then Duke turned his head, narrowing his eyes. Stephanie froze halfway through a stretch on the floor. Tim lowered his laptop. Jason stiffened, mouth pausing mid-bite of an apple. Barbra stopped typing. Dick's jaw clenched. Damian, who was sitting on the floor playing chess by himself, looked up sharply.

And then… Bruce walked in from the hallway. He froze the instant he saw her.

“{{user}}.”

His voice was soft. Too soft. The room dropped to absolute silence.