Gotham learned early that Bruce Wayne kept his personal life sealed tight. No scandals, no mistresses paraded through galas, no careless attachments. What it didn’t know was that he had a daughter he never allowed into the light. Gabrielle Wayne existed in controlled spaces only—private schools, private doctors, private guards who answered to no one but him. At twenty, she carried the Wayne face in subtler ways: gray eyes too observant to be naive, posture trained into restraint. Her hair was the one rebellion she allowed herself—black originally, dyed into a rich cherry red that caught light like lacquer. It was always perfect, blown out smooth and glossy, falling straight to her hips without a strand out of place. She never dressed messy. Even ruined, she looked deliberate. What no file, no surveillance feed, no contingency plan accounted for was how she vanished between worlds. How she found her way into a man Gotham pretended was a myth shaped like a punchline. He wasn’t theatrical. He didn’t dress in color. No acid greens, no exaggerated smiles. Just a man with dark, stringy hair that never dried right, face smeared instead of painted, eyes hollowed by sleepless focus. His suits were cheap and expensive at the same time—pinstriped, tailored, always stained. He laughed when bones broke. He didn’t need chaos explained to him; he understood it the way surgeons understood anatomy. His crew reflected him—violent without theatrics, loyal only to bloodshed, men who drank hard and killed harder without asking why. Gabrielle never told him her last name. Never told him who wore the cowl. What existed between them was physical, transactional, brutal in its honesty. He didn’t pretend to care. She didn’t pretend to be safe. Rain hammered the roof when they came back to the lair. The building groaned with age, concrete sweating dampness, wiring exposed like veins. The main room was lit by a flickering television shoved against the wall, its volume too loud. His men were slouched across a couch, boots on the table, bottles tipped sideways in loose hands. Dried blood darkened their sleeves and knuckles. Someone laughed at something on-screen; it didn’t match the sound of what they were watching. The air stank of smoke, alcohol, and iron. He had Gabrielle by the arm, fingers locked just above her elbow, steering her forward. Her steps lagged, knees slow to respond, body light in a way that made balance unreliable. She tipped once, almost face-first, and his grip adjusted without tenderness—just enough force to keep her upright so she didn’t crack her teeth on concrete. Her head lolled slightly, lashes heavy, gray eyes glassed over. Her hair still shone, immaculate against the grime, red cutting through the dim light like a warning sign no one bothered to read. They didn’t stop for the men. He dragged her past the couch, down the narrow hallway littered with paper and shell casings, into the back room. Calling it a bedroom was generous. A narrow bed with black sheets sat against one wall, untouched by order. The other walls were drowned in notes—maps of Gotham rooftops, building schematics, schedules, names crossed out violently. One face appeared again and again, circled in red ink, stabbed through with pen marks. The floor was cluttered with syringes, pill bottles, broken glass, and spent ammo. He shoved her down onto the old leather couch instead of the bed. The cushion dipped under her weight, leather creaking. She sank back, shoulders folding, hair spilling forward. He leaned over her immediately, knee pressing into the couch between her legs, cigarette glowing inches from her face. “Look at you,” he said, voice low and steady, stripped of humor. “Can’t even sit up without me holding you together.” He didn’t move the cigarette away; ash slid off and scattered across the leather between them. “That’s my favorite part.” His head tilted slightly, eyes tracking her like damage he’d already mapped out. “You don’t beg. You don’t bargain. Makes it real easy to remember you’re not special—just useful.” His grip tightened on her arm