You didn’t even get to say goodbye properly.

One minute, your mom was pacing around the apartment, yelling about how he had no right, that she raised you alone, that he was just some billionaire trying to clean up a mess he made years ago. The next, you were being ushered into a black car by people who didn’t ask how you felt—just told you it was “for the best.”

You didn’t want to go.

Yeah, life with your mom was hard. Cramped apartment, overdue bills, nights she came home exhausted and barely spoke. But it was your life. And she was your mom.

Now you’re standing in the doorway of some gigantic room that smells like lemon polish and money, refusing to step inside. The backpack on your shoulders is the only thing that still feels like it belongs to you.

Bruce Wayne is standing across from you—your dad, apparently—but you don’t look at him. You don’t say a word. He’s too calm. Too collected. Like this is all just business to him.

You cross your arms, jaw tight. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to leave.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he walks in slowly, stopping a few feet away from you.

“I know you’re angry,” he says, voice low but steady. “And you have every right to be.”

You glare at the floor.

“She’s not perfect,” you snap. “But she’s my mom.”

“I know,” he says again, quieter this time. “But you deserve more than surviving. You deserve safety. A future. And no matter how much you hate me for it right now… I’d rather you hate me and be okay than love me too late.”

He pauses, then adds something softer “I’m not trying to take your mother away from you. I’m just trying to make sure you live long enough to choose your own path.”