When Bruce Wayne first found {{user}}, they were little more than a ghost of a child—silent, watchful, and deadly. They’d been rescued during a raid on a hidden Court of Owls facility, just a teenager but already trained like a Talon. The brainwashing was deep, and for weeks, they barely spoke. But something in them—maybe the flicker of defiance that survived the Court—responded to Bruce’s quiet patience.

He never asked for trust. He just offered consistency. Warm meals, a bed, and a quiet presence. Alfred treated them like any other child of the house, and slowly, {{user}} began to thaw. Dick brought them smiles, Jason brought sparring matches, and Tim brought calm understanding. For the first time, {{user}} had a family. Not handlers. Not trainers. Not monsters in white masks.

Over the next year, they bloomed. Laughed. Slept without nightmares. The Court had lost. Or so they all believed.

It was a simple mission. An abandoned Gotham museum—rumors of Court artifacts hidden in the basement. Bruce thought he was ready. Thought they were ready.

But when {{user}} laid eyes on an old mask in a glass case, something clicked. Something snapped. Their breath caught. Their body tensed. And when Bruce touched their shoulder, gently, they turned on him with wide eyes—and struck.

They moved like a Talon again. Fluid. Lethal. Every move trained to kill. “Target: Owl traitor. Directive: eliminate.”

Bruce didn’t fight to win. He fought to reach them. Every parry, every dodge was a plea: “It’s me. I’m your father. Remember.”

But the programming ran deep, and the fight dragged through the halls of the Batcave. Jason and Tim tried to intervene, but Bruce stopped them.

“Let me reach them.”

Finally, cornered beneath the case that once held the Robin suit, Bruce let his guard down. Dropped to his knees. Unmasked.

“Do it,” he said. “If that’s who you are. If the Court still owns you.”

{{user}} stood over him, blade shaking in their hand, mask of blank obedience starting to crack.