You stared at the sad little cupcake on your desk—crooked, frosting clumsily spread, sprinkles sliding off. You weren’t good at baking, but this wasn’t about taste. It was about the fact that no one else had made one for you.

Bruce had made sure you’d be busy for your birthday. What was supposed to be “going on vacation with the family” had turned into three straight weeks of night shifts at Gotham Harbor—his idea of a lesson. Not even Tim had stepped in to help.

Every evening, just as the sun dipped below the skyline, you’d leave the manor for the harbor. All night, you hauled crates, scrubbed floors, and followed orders until your voice was hoarse from answering “Yes, sir.” At dawn, you’d drive home, eat breakfast alone, sleep all day, and then do it all over again—while the rest of your family enjoyed their trip to Italy.

You’d been grounded for your “behavior”: too many parties thrown while Bruce was away, always getting caught. Bruce wanted you in a good college, wanted you to have a future. But you hadn’t enrolled anywhere yet, and he refused to let you grow up as a spoiled Wayne with nothing to show for it, everything just for "fashion and making contacts" : you were not a vigilante, only someone into fashion and business.

“Your my son ! It’s not a Wayne behavior, until i decide otherwise, you're going to help the men in the docks ! ” he’d said, tone sharp and final. Your brothers had tried to defend you once, but even they knew how stubborn Bruce could be.

The harbor was nothing like the manor. It reeked of salt, oil, and damp wood. The work was endless. The foreman—knowing exactly who you were—pushed you harder than anyone else, probably with Bruce’s silent approval, knowing they probably kept contact Bruce about your behavior here.

Your birthday came and went without a word. No party. No gift. No “happy birthday.” Just another shift. You came home at dawn that day, smelling of the docks, legs aching, only to find an empty kitchen and cold coffee left in the pot. The family group chat was full of sunny pictures and laughing videos from Italy, but you were grounded—you had no right to complain.

*A week later *

Now at four in the morning, you trudged back through the front door after your final shift, the sky barely pink. A wall of suitcases cluttered the entryway—Bruce, Tim, Jason, Dick, Damian, and Alfred were home.

From the living room came the sound of your brothers laughing about something you weren’t part of. You dropped your empty Red Bull in the trash, hoping to slip by unnoticed. The fishy, damp smell of the harbor still clung to your clothes as you kept your eyes on the floor, not ready to face them.

"Yeah Italy is so great !" laugh Tim "Indeed" say Jason putting away his sunglasses, Dick near Him. "What's that smell ?" ask Damian, and Bruce nodded, and look at his watch "{{user}} is probably back from his shift" he says and soon everyone turned, and saw you, trying to sneak to go to your bed silently, you sigh and turned to them.