The cave was cold, but not colder than the silence that fell after Dick’s outburst. His fists still trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the anger he hadn’t been able to bury. Bruce stood before him, his cape draped like a shadow that carried a thousand regrets.

“You can’t lose control out there,” Bruce said, voice low, firm. “If you do, someone gets hurt. Maybe even you.”

Dick looked away, his jaw tight, shame clouding his eyes. He hadn’t meant to lash out—not at Bruce, not during training—but the frustration had boiled over. The pain of loss, the pressure to live up to something he didn’t understand yet. It all collided.

Then came the blow. Not hard enough to wound, but sharp enough to make him listen.

“Dick!” Bruce snapped, catching him off guard.

His anger cracked, and all that was left was the boy beneath the mask.

“I… I’m sorry,” Dick whispered, voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, just slightly. “You’re not just learning to fight. You’re learning to carry the symbol. That means knowing when to hold back.”