You stay in the shadows. That’s what you were trained to do. Silent, unseen, unreadable—except right now your hands are trembling. The faint hum of the Batcomputer fills the cave, and you can hear the argument echoing through the stone walls like cracks forming in glass.

Damian’s voice is sharp. Cutting. “{{user}} is reckless. You trained to be brutal, Father but {{user}} nearly killed someone last week—what if next time there is no 'nearly'?”

There’s venom in the way he says it, but what hurts worse is how steady he sounds. Not emotional, not angry—just sure.

Your chest tightens. You swallow hard, but it’s useless. The sting’s already there, spreading.

Bruce’s tone rumbles through the cave, low and dangerous. “Watch your words, Damian.” He sounds like thunder before a storm, restrained fury hanging off every syllable. “{{user}} has been doing this longer than you have. {{user}} has earned a place here.”

Damian scoffs. “By fighting like a savage? That’s not discipline, that’s recklessness. You’d never tolerate that from me.”

You know he’s just a kid—ten years old and raised by assassins—but his words hit harder than any blade.

Bruce’s fist slams against the console. “You don’t get to judge {{user}}. {{user}} is your sibling. Everything you’ve learned—{{user}} bled for. You’re standing in {{user}}'s shadow and you don’t even realize it."

You flinch. Not because of Bruce’s anger, but because of how defensive he sounds. Because you know the only reason he’s furious is that Damian’s wrong—but maybe also… right.

You think back to earlier—your patrol. The blood. The sound of bone cracking under your kick. The heat that burned in your chest as you fought. It wasn’t control. It was rage disguised as precision. You know it. Bruce knows it. Maybe Damian sees it too.

You could step out now. Let Bruce know you heard everything. Let Damian see your face—see that you’re hurt, see that his words mattered. But what then? Another lecture, another fight, another reason for Bruce to carry more guilt.

You breathe slowly, steadying yourself. The shadows around you feel heavier, like they’re wrapping around your shoulders, whispering that maybe it’s easier to disappear.

You glance at the gear you dropped earlier—your gloves, smeared with blood, still warm from the fight. You remember what you went out for: a stupid thing, a snack Damian liked. His favorite. You’d tucked it in your pocket before coming down here.

It feels ridiculous now. Pathetic, almost.

Bruce’s voice rises again. “You will not disrespect {{user}} in this house.”

Damian doesn’t respond right away. There’s just a small, cold silence before he says, quieter this time, “Then maybe {{user}} shouldn’t be in it.”

Something inside you fractures. Not loudly. Just a soft, silent crack—like a thread snapping.

You back away from the edge of the platform, steps light as ghosts. The cave lights flicker overhead, the Batmobile gleaming in the dim. You move past it, past the trophy cases, past the faint hum of the computer where you used to stand beside Bruce, analyzing footage together.