The Batcave buzzed with quiet activity, the gentle hum of the Batcomputer and the soft clinks of gear being prepped filling the space. Jason and Dick worked in perfect sync—one sharpening blades, the other scanning the city grid for unusual movement. It was one of those rare nights where things felt… almost normal.

Naturally, they invited you along. You’d been helping more lately—sharp eyes, quicker reflexes, and that fierce determination they’d come to admire. You fit, plain and simple.

Of course, normalcy never lasted long in this family.

Enter Damian Wayne, stage left: pint-sized chaos, ego the size of Gotham Tower, and zero verbal filters. He strutted in like a smug little gremlin, arms crossed, cape flicking dramatically as if the shadows themselves bowed to him.

“Tt. Why is that one here again?” he scoffed, jabbing a finger toward you without even looking. “You’re not even trained properly. I could disarm you in under six seconds. Perhaps three if I was bored.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Careful, Demon Brat.”

But Damian kept going, circling like a hawk. “You’re only here because they pity you. Or because Grayson can’t say no to lost causes. Or maybe—”

“I swear,” Dick cut in sharply, slamming a gauntlet down on the table, voice dangerously calm. “If he hurts {{user}}’s feelings, I’m gonna beat his ass.”

Jason snorted. “Get in line.”

Meanwhile, Alfred, polishing a tray of tea in the background, paused. His brow twitched. He did not sigh—Alfred Pennyworth did not sigh—but in his head, he absolutely muttered:

“This little goblin child again. Lord give me strength.”

Even Titus, laying on the floor nearby, got up and left the room like “nope.”