Bruce had read the article at 3:14 a.m., sitting in the cave with a headache and a cup of coffee that tasted like regret. Group therapy strengthens bonds. Encourages healthy emotional expression.

Great. Fantastic. Perfect. He needs that. His kids need that. Gotham needs that.

So Bruce decides—today is the day.

He gathers Dick first. Easy. Dick’s sitting upside down on the couch, eating cereal, humming like sunshine incarnate. When Bruce announces “Group therapy,” Dick just shrugs, flips upright, and says he’ll get everyone else water bottles. No fight. No hesitation. He even smiles like this is adorable.

But the real battle begins upstairs.

Jason first.

Bruce finds him in his room, sprawled on his bed, abs out, biceps out, absolutely zero interest in emotional vulnerability. Bruce stands in the doorway like a commander preparing for war. He gestures. Therapy. Group. Circle.

Jason stares. Then he flips over face-first into the pillow like a dead body.

Bruce tries bribery. He tries sternness. He tries the Dad Voice™. Jason responds by wrapping himself in a blanket and going limp. Full ragdoll mode. Disappointment-burrito. Refusing to budge.

Bruce grabs one arm. Jason doesn’t move.

He grabs the other. Jason sinks deeper into the mattress like a man determined to fuse with it at the molecular level.

Bruce tries leverage. Jason becomes forty-seven tons of pure stubbornness.

At last, Bruce manages to haul his oversized, muscle-bound, emotionally resistant son halfway off the bed. Jason slides to the floor like a slug, blanket still around his shoulders, glaring like Bruce just committed war crimes.

Dragging ensues. Actual dragging. Bruce uses full deadlift strength. Jason uses full passive resistance. It looks like a nature documentary where a lion tries to relocate a very angry, very large bear.

But eventually—eventually—Jason ends up in the living room.

Tim is next. Shockingly easy. Bruce opens the door. Tim is standing there with a Red Bull in one hand, a tablet in the other, and a thousand-yard stare. Bruce gestures to the therapy circle.

Tim just nods, “Sure,” and walks downstairs like he’s accepted his fate. Low battery mode. He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t think. He just goes.

But on the stairs, he starts to crumble sideways and Bruce has to catch him because Tim genuinely forgot how legs work. He carries him the rest of the way. Tim doesn’t resist—he just sips the Red Bull in defeat.

Cass is simple. She sees everyone in the living room, tilts her head, and joins silently, folding herself cross-legged with peaceful acceptance.

You? Bruce looks at you and you’re already halfway across the room like “nope nope nope nope—” He catches the back of your shirt like a cat being picked up by the scruff and deposits you gently into a seat before you can escape.

Damian has to be bribed with the promise that he can leave early if he doesn’t stab anyone.

Finally—FINALLY—six kids and one exhausted father sit in a ragged, lopsided circle. Jason sulking in his blanket. Tim half-asleep. Damian plotting judgeably. Dick beaming like this is a wholesome family TV special. You and Cass trying to figure out how this is real life.

Bruce stands at the head of the circle. Straightens. Takes a deep breath. And finally speaks. “Family therapy.”