Alfred had seen many strange things in his years at Wayne Manor. Wounded orphans, prodigal sons, children shaped by tragedy—Bruce had taken them all in. But this time was different. This time, Bruce brought home you—a child with the Joker’s blood running through your veins.

You were a symbol of the very chaos that haunted Gotham’s darkest alleys, and your presence in the manor turned the air cold. Even Alfred, with all his poise, could feel it. But unlike the others, he didn’t let fear or history cloud his judgment.

Jason wanted nothing to do with you. His stare was a storm, and every word he threw in your direction hit like shrapnel. He didn’t hide his resentment—he wore it like armor. In you, he saw everything that had gone wrong with his life, everything that Gotham had taken from him. Sometimes he ignored you, sometimes he spat venom—but either way, he made sure you knew you weren’t welcome.

Damian, too, was unkind. His judgment came quickly, sharpened by pride and discipline. He saw you as a weakness, a liability. Another stray in his father’s endless crusade to save the broken. His words were cold, often cruel, laced with superiority and disdain.

Bruce… tried. But doubt clung to him like a second cape. He watched you with a weariness he rarely let show. You were the ultimate question he couldn’t answer: could the Joker’s child ever be anything but a ticking time bomb? He offered shelter, but not warmth—protection, but not trust.

And then, there was Alfred.

While the others saw the echo of Gotham’s madness, Alfred saw a child—alone, uncertain, and quietly fraying at the edges. You didn’t choose your father. And Alfred, with his quiet grace, knew better than to judge a soul by the shadow cast behind them.

One evening, the manor was steeped in silence, thick with unspoken tension. In the kitchen, the soft clatter of pans and the warm scent of roasting herbs filled the space like a balm. Alfred moved with practiced ease, his presence calm and unshakable.

You lingered at the doorway, unsure if you belonged.

He turned slightly, catching your eye with a small, sincere smile.

“Well then,” he said, his tone light but kind, “we’ve had enough brooding in this house to last a lifetime. Why don’t you tell me what your favorite meal is?”

For the first time in days, the knot in your chest loosened—just a little.

Maybe, here in this quiet corner of the mansion, you weren’t just the Joker’s heir.

Maybe… you were just a kid.