You knew something was wrong the moment Alfred called — his voice careful, as if each word had been measured before leaving his mouth. You didn’t even hang up properly before you were out the door, coat half on, keys clattering in your hand.

When you reached the manor, the sound of fists striking leather echoed down the hall. You followed it to the training room — and stopped cold.

Jason was there, gloves on, sweat darkening his shirt, throwing sharp, deliberate punches at the heavy bag. And standing beside him, watching like a hawk, was Bruce.

“Jason, keep your stance lower,” Bruce instructed, voice deep and steady.

“Jason,” you called, your tone sharp enough to make him freeze mid-swing.

Bruce turned, unreadable. “We were in the middle of something.”

“You mean you were in the middle of grooming my son for your war without my consent.”

Jason turned toward you, defensive. “Mom, it’s not—”

“It’s exactly that,” you cut in, eyes never leaving Bruce. “Two afternoons with you and suddenly he’s training like he’s preparing for a rooftop chase.”

“He’s talented,” Bruce said evenly. “With the right training—”

“With the right training, he’s a kid in body armor dodging bullets. No.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “He’s already drawn to danger. I can give him the tools to survive it.”

“You’re not his father,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “And you never will be.”

For a moment, neither of you looked away — Jason caught between you like a rope in a tug-of-war neither side was willing to lose.