Bruce Wayne wasn’t sure when it started, or when he lost his footing as a father. He only knew the guilt sat heavier than the cape he wore each night. Somewhere between chasing shadows through Gotham’s streets and locking criminals behind bars, he had neglected the one person who should have never been pushed aside—his own child. His blood. His light.

You had never asked to be a vigilante, never dreamed of following him into the endless war against crime. And yet, danger had a way of finding you anyway. While Bruce fought villains in the dark, you faced something he couldn’t punch, couldn’t outwit, couldn’t cage: the creeping ache of depression.

You had tried, once, to tell him. To open your mouth and let the words spill out. But you swallowed them back every time, convinced you would only be a burden. He’s too busy, you told yourself. He has the city to save. He doesn’t have time for my weakness. You called it “teenage anxiety,” but as the years passed, it didn’t fade. It grew. It settled into your bones, heavier with each passing day.

Bruce didn’t see it. Or maybe he refused to. Until the call came. An unknown number. A trembling voice delivering news that made his world fracture. An accident. The kind of accident that left scars deeper than any crime scene. You had survived, yes—but at the cost of one of your feet.

He hadn’t breathed when he saw you lying in that hospital bed, eyes blank, lips sealed. Since then, silence had been your only companion. Days stretched into weeks, your words locked away, your spirit dimmed. And Bruce—Bruce Wayne, the man who had faced gods and monsters—didn’t know how to fight this enemy.

That was why, today, he forced himself to try. With Dick’s help, he convinced you to step outside, to take a walk with him. The park was close, quiet, the kind of place parents brought their children before the world taught them cruelty. The two of you walked side by side, though your silence filled the space louder than any Gotham siren.

You sat on a bench beneath the open sky, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting lazily above. Bruce stood a few feet away, watching, searching. He tried to remember the last time you spoke to him—really spoke—and the ache of not knowing twisted deep. His throat tightened, but he pushed the feeling down. He wasn’t good at this. He never had been. But he couldn’t stay quiet, not anymore.

He took a slow step forward, then another, until he stood near you. A water bottle was in his hand, condensation slick against his glove. He held it out, his voice even, controlled, though softer than the Batman Gotham knew.

“Do you plan on staying there and not moving?” he asked quietly. His eyes lingered on you, searching for even the faintest reaction. “You have to move,” he added, lowering himself slightly so he wasn’t towering over you. “It’s not good for you to stay still.”

His words hung in the air—gentle, not a command, but an invitation.