“I know, I know,” Bruce said quickly, his voice low but urgent as he dropped to his knees in the middle of the filthy alleyway. His cape rustled behind him, pooling around his boots as he tried to steady his hands. "I know, shhh, I know," he whispered again, softer this time, barely audible beneath the shaky sobs echoing off the graffiti-covered brick walls around them.

The dim alley light flickered above, casting shadows across your face; your mask half-torn, a smear of blood trailing from the corner of your mouth. And Bruce could see it now. The bruises. The swelling. The shallow, labored breaths. It made his chest tighten, rage burning low in his gut.

Joker. Of course it had been Joker.

His newest Robin, his kid, was hurt. And all he could do in this moment was kneel beside you and try to hold you together with his voice.

“You’ve got to breathe for me, okay?” he murmured, placing one gloved hand gently on your arm. “In through your nose...you’re doing good. I know it hurts, I know.”

He wished he could lie to you, tell you it would stop hurting in a few seconds. That everything was fine. But he couldn't bring himself to lie to you. He knew everything was not fine, he learned that lesson with Jason a long time ago.

Bruce inhaled sharply, his blue eyes darkening as he quickly shrugged off his cape and gently tucked it around you. His hand found yours, squeezing it just enough to keep you in the present.

“You’re safe now,” he said, more to convince himself than you. “I got to you in time.”

This time.

But the other Robins, the ghosts of missions past, haunted the corners of his mind. Jason. Stephanie. Even Damian. The failures clung to him like chains, each one a reminder of what could go wrong when he was too late, too slow, too human.

The Batmobile’s distant engine roared to life in the distance, growing closer with every second, but Bruce didn’t look up. “Alfred’s already prepping the medical bay,” Bruce said softly. “He’ll take good care of you. Better than I ever could out here.”