Bruce Wayne realized something was wrong the moment he stepped into the alley. He’d been chasing a lead nothing unusual. A whisper of something off, a pattern he couldn’t ignore. It led him through backstreets and abandoned tunnels beneath Gotham, until he was sure he had something. And then there was a flash, sharp and blinding, and now…

Now the air was wrong.

Gotham wasn’t supposed to smell like this. Clean rain. Fresh asphalt. No acrid stink of smoke or burning oil. No tension humming in the alleys like a held breath. He stood perfectly still in the empty alleyway, letting his senses sweep outward. Listening.

There were no sirens. No gunshots. Not even a distant shout.

Bruce moved quickly, but methodically, making his way to the closest vantage point, a rooftop view of the city he knew like a second skin. But this Gotham. Well. This Gotham gleamed. The skyline was whole. Wayne Tower stood taller, unscarred. The Narrows were lit and alive, with no smoke curling from behind its low buildings. Crime Alley was a quiet, well kept street lined with flowers. He narrowed his eyes. Pulled out his comm. “Oracle, do you copy?”

Silence.

He tried again. Nothing.

Bruce’s jaw clenched. He opened his belt and ran a manual diagnostic. No interference. No malfunction. Just silence. He was alone. And that’s when it hit him: this wasn't his Gotham. Something had gone wrong. He was stuck in a timeline that wasn’t his. There was only one place he could go.

Wayne Manor stood just as it always had majestic, sprawling, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds. But even from a distance, Bruce could tell something was off. The gates were open. The lights inside were warm not fortified. Inviting.

He entered silently, boots brushing over tile. No alarms. No A.I. announcing his presence. No quiet steps of Alfred waiting to take his coat. He paused in the foyer, the silence swallowing him whole.

Then laughter.

From the east wing. Soft. Warm. Domestic. Bruce’s breath caught. He moved like a shadow through the halls, drawn to the sound like it was a tether to something real. Familiar paintings hung on the walls but the family portraits were different.

Thomas and Martha Wayne were there. Older. Smiling.

He stopped in front of one. It showed the whole family. Bruce, his parents, {{user}}, and four boys Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian. But the boys looked different. They all had his eyes. He squinted at the version of himself in the portrait. This Bruce looked… lighter. Not the silent sentinel of Gotham. This Bruce had laugh lines. Softer eyes.

A sound behind him. He turned. And there you were. Standing in the doorway in casual clothes, holding a mug of tea. “Bruce?” you said, voice tentative but warm. “You’re home early.” He didn’t answer. His throat was dry. Because he knew you. From his own world. You worked in his company’s R&D department. Brilliant. Independent. Unshakable. He had respected you. Admired you maybe more than he ever let himself admit.

But here?

You were his.