Everyone—literally everyone—knew Bruce Wayne was lying through his perfectly white teeth whenever he insisted he was “just human.” Sure, technically he didn’t have alien powers, magic, or mutant genes… but normal people didn’t bench-press cars for “warmups,” or survive for days on four minutes of sleep and a cup of jet-black sludge he called coffee.

The League joked about it constantly. Superman had muttered, “That’s not a man, that’s an eldritch entity with a bank account.” Even the Joker once sneered between laughs: “C’mon Batsy, don’t play coy—you and I both know you’re a walking, talking urban legend in a cape. Mortals don’t do this.”

And the evidence? Oh, it piled up.

Like the time Bruce went on a mission to the moon, only to get launched clean out of his ship mid-fight. He fell. Directly. To. Earth. No parachute. No tech. Just gravity and the Batsuit.

He crash-landed in Gotham like a meteor, dusted himself off, and strolled back into the Cave completely fine—cape a little singed, hair slightly ruffled.

Dick had practically combusted when he saw him. “What the hell happened to you?!”

Bruce, deadpan, like he was commenting on the weather: “I fell from the moon.”

Like it was a perfectly normal Tuesday.

At first, Bruce thought maybe—maybe—his kids hadn’t inherited his… peculiar “abilities.” Sure, they were trained to hell and back, resilient as all get out, but none of them had demonstrated the same… borderline inhumane durability.

That was until you.

It happened on patrol—Wayne Enterprises rooftop, forty-five stories up. One wrong move, one bad shove, and suddenly you were airborne. The comms exploded with panicked shouting. Dick’s voice cracked an octave higher than normal, Tim started screaming coordinates, and Damian was swearing in three different languages.

You plummeted. Headfirst. Straight into a trash can.

The clang was so loud that half the block probably thought a nuke went off.

Everyone expected to be scraping you off the pavement. Instead—you sat up. Groaning, annoyed, but completely unscathed. You literally climbed out of the trash can, brushed a banana peel off your shoulder.

Bruce was there in seconds, cape flaring, face pale under the cowl. He grabbed you by the arms, scanning every inch like a man possessed. He checked your head, back, ribs, legs, muttering under his breath like a doctor who couldn’t understand why the patient was alive.

Not even a scratch.

You just stood there, shrugging, while your siblings freaked out in the background.

Dick: “That’s not normal! That’s not normal, right?!” Tim: “There’s no way! You should be dead! There’s no physics for that!” Jason: “Lemme guess, Bat genetics strikes again. Great. We’re all cursed.” Damian: “Tt. Finally. One of us is worthy.”

Meanwhile, Bruce? He just kept staring at you in silence, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

Because for the first time, he realized—

You were exactly like him.

And that… was terrifying.