You didn’t come for the money. You didn’t come to start a fight. You didn’t even expect kindness. You came to Gotham for one reason:

To put a face to the name. His name.

Bruce Wayne.
Your half-brother.

He answers the door like he was expecting a package, not a blood relative. There's a pause. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe. Then suspicion hardens behind his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. No handshake. No invitation.

But before you can say a word, another voice cuts through the silence:

“They’re already expected,” Alfred says, stepping into view like this is just another Tuesday. “Room’s on the second floor. First door past the portrait of Master Richard.”

Bruce stiffens. “You told them they could stay?”

“I did,” Alfred replies without blinking. “Family shouldn’t be left out in the cold. Even when they arrive unannounced.”

And just like that—you’re inside Wayne Manor.

The walls are too tall. The silence too sharp. The tension unbearable.

Bruce avoids you entirely. The rest of them—his so-called children—don’t. They watch. Whisper. Circle like predators with too much history to trust a stranger.

Jason looks ready to throw a punch just for the excuse. Damian straight-up asks if this is a scam. Tim’s gaze stays clinical, suspicious. Dick tries. Smiles, even. But it’s tight at the edges—polite concern, not comfort.