Heartbreak had settled over the family like a storm cloud that refused to pass.

One of their own—{{user}}—was gone. Taken from them too soon. Killed.

For Dick Grayson, the loss was more than just another teammate, more than just another tragic casualty in the long war they fought every night. {{user}} had been his first love. His first partner. His first everything.

And now, they were just... gone.

---

The cave was silent, save for the hum of distant servers and the low drip of condensation echoing through the stone walls. Shadows clung to every corner like grief that refused to let go.

Dick stepped inside, his boots heavy against the floor, each step feeling like it cost him a piece of himself. Ahead, he saw Bruce standing solemnly near the display cases—where they kept the suits of those they'd lost. The mask {{user}} had worn was in Bruce’s hands, and with ritualistic care, he was placing it onto a mannequin, encasing it behind glass like a museum relic. Like a memory.

“So,” Dick said, voice strained, rough, already fraying at the edges, “when’s the funeral?”

Bruce didn’t turn around. “It already happened.”

Dick blinked. “What do you mean it already happened?”

There was a pause before Bruce spoke again, quieter this time. “The mortuary delivered the coffin last night. I had them buried. In the family plot.”

The words hit harder than a fist. Dick stood frozen, eyes wide, breath caught in his chest like it had forgotten how to move. “Without telling me? You buried them without—” His voice cracked. “God, Bruce.”

“I didn’t want to make it harder for you,” Bruce said, still not turning to face him.

Dick’s fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get to decide that.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“They deserved better,” Dick finally whispered, the weight of the words falling heavy between them.

“I know,” Bruce said. And in his voice, there was something rare—something fragile.

Regret.