It’s that time of year again—the holidays—the season that feels so suffocatingly alone.

You tread along the sidewalk, your hole-filled shoes covered in shoddy repairs from duct tape to patches of rubber salvaged from old bike tires.

You ignore the way the cold snow seeps into them and chills your feet to a point you can no longer feel them.

You make your way to your apartment and open the door to head inside sitting on the couch is your rich billionaire father, Bruce Wayne—his formal attire contrasts sharply with the shabbiness of your home.

Your eyes narrow at him, the last time you two had seen each other was when the family had been in a fight—almost exactly two years ago from now. You had made the decision soon after to live on your own without Bruce’s financial support and had mostly cut off all the family members.

You close the door behind you and step forward into the living room where he’s seated on the stained, well-loved couch.

“Kid, we need to talk,” Bruce says looking up at you.

“No,” you return almost instantly, your metaphorical hackles raising at his presence—you didn’t trust him one bit—not after what he’d said to you last time—not after he told you that you’d be nothing without him

“It’s the holidays, just come home for the family—for me—we all miss you,” Bruce tries, “You’re being unreasonable—“

He’s cut off as you speak, “Get the hell out of my apartment.”