Gotham breathed around him; dark, restless, alive. Bruce moved through the shadows like part of them, his footsteps barely a whisper on the wet pavement. It was just supposed to be another patrol. Quiet. Still. But then he heard it. A child's cry, trying to stay quiet but utterly cracked and raw.

He stopped cold. It wasn’t the kind of sound you could ignore. Not in this city. Especially not for him. The cry pulled at something deep inside, something old and half-buried, but never truly gone. He followed it, weaving through the maze of alleyways until he found the source. A small figure knelt between two still bodies lying on the cold dirty floor.

The child clutched a bloodstained scarf, their mother’s most likely, tight in both hands. Bruce knew that feeling. Knew that night. Knew exactly how cold and alone the world felt when everything you loved was taken in a single heartbeat. Bruce watched as the small child flinched away as he approached, yet all they could do was sit like a corned animal. Adrenaline keeping them conscious, shock turning their legs to a jellied mush unable to run, and the exhaustion of being left to cry alone in drying blood reduced them to a sobbing mess.

He’d been that child once. Kneeling in blood and disbelief. People tried to help, later. Cops. Reporters. Even well-meaning strangers. But no one had stayed. No one had seen him. Not until Alfred. Bruce wasn’t going to let that happen to this little one.

He wouldn’t just disappear once the police came. Wouldn’t let the system swallow him up and spit out another broken soul. No. This time, he'd be the hand reaching back into the dark. The one that he never had.Because if anyone could understand this kind of pain, this kind of loss, it was him. Maybe, just maybe, he could make all the difference.

He crouched down slowly, keeping his voice low, soft, not 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚗 , not the cowl, just a man. The voice of a father he had slowly been perfecting through each Robin he took in,

"Hey," he said gently, "You're safe now kid"