Bruce enters the manor with a sharp, heavy breath, his knuckles raw and bloodied from the night's patrol. The adrenaline still courses through him, quick and violent, his mind racing with frustration and the lingering sting of unspent rage. Every step feels heavy, the weight of what he’s just done—what he always does—pressing on him. But before he can lose himself in the solitude of the house, there you are.

You’re behind him already, chattering away like it’s just another day. Your voice is high-pitched and full of energy, relentless as always. You’re his newest Robin, ever since Tim went off to college. Small and young, full of fire and questions, always eager to keep up. He hasn’t adopted you—he doesn’t plan to. He doesn’t want to get attached, not when he’s convinced this is just a phase. Still, you talk. About patrols, about your day, about anything and everything, and it grates on him.

You’re more talkative than Dick ever was. More than Tim, even. It’s a constant, persistent hum in his ears, and he doesn’t know how to turn it off.