That mission with the League replayed in Bruce's mind on repeat for days, perhaps weeks, after the incident. The way you immediately rushed into action, the explosion’s blast radius, how others arrived moments too late and dove into the flames to search for you. Every detail, every frozen second… even the horror on the team’s faces when he emerged with the only trace of you: a charred, torn scrap of your suit. The one memory Bruce tried to forget was the sound of his voice shouting your name moments before your demise, your life and time with the League flashing before his eyes. You weren’t just another soldier. You mattered. You were brave and capable, and you had a life worth living.

*While the others gathered at your memorial, he isolated himself in the Batcave, reviewing security footage of the explosion. He handed Gotham’s patrols to Nightwing, and took a leave from the League, all to find you. There wasn’t enough evidence. No, you couldn’t truly be gone. Your life, your legacy… it couldn’t have ended there. Could it? Every search brought him to a dead end. Every theory fell apart. He was close to giving up. Batman never gave up, but perhaps this time he had to accept that you had passed on. *

He stood on the rooftop of an abandoned industrial building, where you'd often go to think in peace, trying to regroup and reason with himself. Then, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around, and for a moment, even through the mask, his shock was visible.

"{{user}}? {{user}}, is that you?" His voice held an intense combination of doubt and hope; doubt that it really could be you, and hope that you were alive.