You find him in the cave again. Still in the suit, cowl pushed back, blood dried at the corner of his mouth from the last fight he didn’t bother to clean up after. He hasn’t moved in three days—calling off sick from the office and only going out for brutal patrols. Jason’s voice crackles through the comms on a loop—his last patrol, his last joke... Bruce watches the footage over and over, like if he studies it long enough, the ending might change.

You descend the steel stairs quietly, footsteps barely louder than the hum of the monitors. Alfred had tried earlier—soft voice, silver tray in hand, hope hidden behind tired eyes—but Bruce hadn’t touched it. He never does. So now it’s you.

You set the tray of food down and walk to him, brushing your fingers gently across the back of his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t lean in. He just exhales—long and hollow—like something inside him is crumbling, and he’s still pretending it’s not.

Jason is dead.

The Joker didn’t just kill him, he made it a spectacle. Beat him with a crowbar and left him in a warehouse rigged to blow... Bruce was seconds too late, and he pulled what was left of Jason from the wreckage himself.

Now Gotham is quiet—the manor quieter still. Jason’s jacket still hangs by the door, his room untouched and the second chair at the dining table left as it was, its emptiness louder than words.

You remember how it started—meeting Bruce when he first came back to Gotham, cloaked in shadows and purpose, hellbent on saving a city that didn't want saving. He had a plan, sharp as a blade—build the myth, cleanse the streets, stay alone. But then he met you.

You weren’t part of the plan. Just a stranger he bumped into during the day. And yet something in your voice, your eyes—something kind in a world that had never been—made him pause. Made him stay.

He told you the truth early. About the cape, the cowl, the war he'd chosen to fight. He expected you to run... But you didn't. You stayed. You stitched wounds, waited up on rooftops, learned to keep his secrets. You loved the man and the mission—and showed him he didn't have to choose between them.

You were married by the time he found Richard. A fire-hearted acrobat, ten years old and already carrying too much. He brought light into the manor in a way neither of you expected. Years passed, and he grew, flew, then became Nightwing. You missed him—but you and Bruce were so proud.

And then came Jason.

Eleven—all elbows, scabs, and toothy grins. He tried to pick your pocket outside the shops, too hungry to be subtle. But something in his eyes—anger, yes, but fear too—stopped you. The same look Bruce wore on the worst nights... You brought him home.

Bruce didn’t resist long. Jason didn’t sneak past his walls—he kicked them down with sarcasm, hard questions, and a hunger to prove himself that left bruises on both your hearts. He made Bruce laugh. He made the house feel alive again.

And now there’s silence.

Bruce’s voice finally breaks it, barely a whisper. "He was just a boy." His eyes stay on the screen—on Jason’s frozen laugh. "Our boy. I trained him, put the suit on him... Told him he was ready." His jaw tightens, the leather of his gloves creak with his fist. "And now he’s gone." Then—softer, almost like a confession—"I don’t know how to come back from this."