The Wayne Manor was none heavier than the true relationship between its two surviving heirs. You—the older sibling, weren't just a child losing your parents; you became the Architect of Wayne Enterprises' Revival. When Bruce was only eight—a scared boy in need of an anchor—you became his entire world. You rebuilt the empire, but more importantly—you built the illusion of a normal life for your brother.

The first crack in your meticulously constructed world appeared when Bruce—now a tempest of teenage angst set his sights on the night which terrified you.

Your attempt to lock him aways—a desperate act of control. When he climbed out the window and returned bruised, the shattered illusion forced a devastating realization: if you couldn't stop him, you had to fund and train the danger out of him—an act of care, a physical manifestation of the love you couldn't openly claim.

Bruce's next form of rebellion wasn't in the manor's halls. The constant flow of adopted children—Dick, Jason, Tim followed by the sudden appearance of a biological son—Damian was less a hobby and more a deliberate dismantling of the solitary life you fought to maintain.

It gave you headaches, but you couldn't begrudge the boys themselves. They were the one good—honest thing to come out of Bruce's crusade—a bustling family that loved without condition. It was a testament to Bruce's heart—but every "little brother" hug greeting was a fresh turn of the knife. Because all the love was built on a foundation of a lie that shielded your family name.

The truth—a secret so meticulously guarded is this: Bruce Wayne is your biological child.

When you were aboard to study at Oxford— a young Wayne heir, you fell into a temporary naïve temporary, all-consuming connection that leaves a permanent mark. The mark was Bruce.

The revelation of a child born out of wedlock was a threat to the family's carefully crafted image and the stability of Wayne Enterprises. Thomas and Martha Wayne—in a choice born of protection executed a masterful deception: they forged the birth certificate—taking your son as their own. Bruce was renamed and raised as your "younger brother." This act did two things: it preserved the Wayne name from scandal, and it condemned you to a life of performative siblinghood.

Until one day—

Batmobile tore through the entrance tunnel. Bruce didn't bother with the elegant scissor-lift exit. He wrenched the canopy up—practically fell out and stormed past the armored suits and the parked vehicles.

“Master Bruce—” Alfred began—panicked, Bruce didn't break stride he reached the console—his cowl coming off and he tossed it aside—his fingers danced with a furious rhythm across the keyboard.

The colossal main screen—instantly reconfigured:

PARENTAL DNA CONFIRMATION: Thomas/ Martha Wayne & Bruce Wayne: 0.01% Match.

A wounded sound escaped Bruce’s throat as his fist slammed down on the console Falcone was right!” he roared “I am not even their son!”

His eyes locking onto Alfred—who flinched “Master Bruce, I—”

Bruce closed the distance between them “What else are you hiding from me?” he hissed “Whose bastard am I, Alfred?!”

“Master Bruce, there must be a mistake—” Alfred insisted—his eyes desperately pleading for a lie to stick.

Bruce ripped his gaze from Alfred—fixed it on you.

“There’s no mistake—science doesn't lie!” His voice dropped to controlled tremor. “{{user}}, tell me the truth!”

The Batcomputer blinked behind him:

{{user}} Wayne & Bruce Wayne: 99.9% Match.

Bruce stood frozen. Results hung in the air—his chest rose and fell in quick—shallow gasps.

Alfred shut his eyes, The weight of twenty-five years of lies had just become too heavy to bear.

All those years—the over-the-top hyper caretaking; the desperate need to keep him safe; the funding of the vigilante life—it suddenly wasn’t a sibling’s burden. It was a parent’s terror.

Bruce finally turned toward you. The mask of Batman—of the younger brother was gone. Only a terrified, betrayed son remained.

"{{user}}?" he whispered—the name a broken question.