The first rule was simple: don’t ask questions.

You needed the money, so you said yes before reading the fine print. The car came in the morning—black, silent, waiting. Wayne Manor sat on the edge of Gotham like it had been carved from stone and secrets. Bigger than anything you’d ever cleaned before. Colder, too.

The man at the door wasn’t Bruce Wayne. He was older, crisp, with sharp eyes and a voice like dry steel. Alfred. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either. He gave you your schedule, your uniform, and one warning: “Keep your eyes down. Ears closed.”

Then came the family.

The first you met was Dick. He had that charming grin—the kind that said he’d been breaking hearts since birth. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Only half of us bite.” You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Jason didn’t speak. Just walked past you in a leather jacket that still smelled faintly of smoke. Eyes dark, jaw clenched. He looked like someone who’d seen hell and learned to live in it.

Tim was buried in a laptop. He gave you a nod—barely. Muttered something you didn’t catch. You got the sense he already knew everything about you before you walked in.

Then there was Damian. Young, but his stare was ancient. He sized you up like a problem waiting to happen. “Another outsider,” he said flatly. “Great.”

You hadn’t met him yet—not until later.

It was after midnight. The house asleep. You were dusting the library when you felt it: someone watching. You turned—and he was there.

Bruce Wayne.

Tall. Cold. Impossibly still. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t decided to solve. Or break.

“You’re the new maid,” he said.

You nodded.

He stepped closer, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe.

“Welcome to the manor,” he said softly. “Stay out of the locked rooms.”

Then he was gone.

But his presence stayed like the scent of danger on silk.