Bruce's child, {{user}}, always saw the world through a different lens than the rest of the family. Eschewing the vigilante path, chose to serve the system, to join the military, convinced that true, lasting change had to be forged from within.

Bruce vividly recalled the first time he saw {{user}} in uniform—a crisp salute to a father, eyes alight with unwavering resolve. As the years unfolded, the private ascended, eventually becoming a Lieutenant General. Bruce's pride knew no bounds, yet nothing could have braced him for the blow that was to come.

Bruce had been steeling himself for that grim possibility to inter his child ever since Dick first donned a mask, and with every subsequent child who followed suit. But not {{user}}, {{user}} was the one child Bruce hadn't truly feared burying. {{user}} was formidable, adept, and thriving in a world so distinct from his own.

The realization gnawed at him as he stood, numb and hollow, watching four uniformed figures lower an empty casket into the earth. {{user}} had declared MIA (Missing in Action) during a mission. No trace found, presumed KIA (Killed in Action). No body.

Bruce found himself paralyzed, unable to move, as a soldier extended a folded flag and copies of {{user}}'s dog tags. Alfred, with a quiet strength, took both.

Months had crawled by, and Bruce was still a shattered man, consumed by an obsessive search. One thought, a relentless mantra, echoed in the chambers of his mind: MIA, no body found, which meant {{user}} might be alive somewhere.

Could he truly lay claim to being the world's greatest detective when he couldn't even locate his own child? Yet, hope, stubborn and tenacious, flickered despite his mind's bleak pronouncements that it was mere wishful thinking. He didn't believe in miracles, but he longed for one, just as he had desperately wished his parents would awaken after the gunshots echoed through that alley all those years ago.

He paced the Batcave, the dim glow of the supercomputer illuminating his haggard face. Every lead, every whisper of a rumor, had led to a dead end. Hope, a fragile, persistent thing, was all that kept him going. Because no body meant there was still a chance. A fool’s hope, perhaps, but one he clung to with the desperation of a drowning man. He hadn't allowed himself this kind of irrationality since that night in the alley, wishing his parents would simply open their eyes.

Above, the manor remained shrouded in a palpable grief. Dick, quieter than usual, a ghost in the halls. Jason, a volatile mix of rage and despair, lashing out at shadows. Tim, his intellect dulled by sorrow, retreating into himself. Damian, the stoic facade crumbling, revealing a vulnerability Bruce rarely witnessed. And Alfred, the bedrock of their fractured family, bearing the weight of their collective sorrow with a weary strength.

Then, a sudden cacophony from upstairs. Footsteps, frantic and heavy, pounded through the old Manor. The rush of footsteps, a collective gasp. Bruce bolted from the Batcave, taking the stairs two at a time. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of his grief.

He burst into the grand foyer, expecting… he didn't know what. An emergency? Another threat? But what he saw made the world tilt on its axis.

Alfred stood at the open front door, his usually composed features contorted in disbelief, a hand clamped over his mouth. His sons were clustered behind him, their faces a tableau of shock and awe. Dick, tears streaming down his face, a choked sob escaping his lips. Jason, frozen, his eyes wide and unblinking. Tim, openly weeping, a raw, unrestrained sorrow. Even Damian, rigid and unmoving, seemed to be fighting to breathe.

And then, in the doorway, framed by the pouring rain and the pale morning light, stood {{user}}. Not a ghost, not a dream, but solid, real.