This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not that day. Not ever.

The rain fell soft and bitter over Gotham’s distant skyline, far behind them now. But in his mind, it was still storming. The memory rewound again and again, each frame sharper, crueler, unrelenting.

It had started years ago. Just a conversation, he’d told himself. Just words. He was good at that —carefully chosen, elegantly spoken, cloaked in a billionaire’s smile. His name opened doors. And hearts.

But he’d never imagined the conversation would end with Talia—her body limp and cooling in the trunk of his car. His hands had done that. His. The same hands that once cradled her face. That built a crib for you.

He gripped the steering wheel now with a force he hadn’t used since the worst nights in the Batmobile. Jaws clenched, knuckles white. His breathing measured but each exhale carried weight, like smoke curling from something still burning inside him.

All he had to do was pull you from the academy. Nothing official. Nothing that would make headlines. Just enough to bring you home. Away from it all. Away from questions. From danger. From the shadow she left behind.

Only Alfred might ask. Maybe you. You’d always been sharp. Too sharp, for someone so young.

He remembered the sandcastles you'd built on that bleak coastline in France, fortresses with moats and arches, designed like you knew something about defense, about beauty and barricades all at once. You had your mother’s elegance. And his precision.

Now, you were older. Still too young. But walking your own path. Until this moment.

His car—the sleek, black Aston Martin—rolled to a silent stop just beyond the gates of the academy. Students moved like a current, boys laughing too loud, girls shrieking at nothing, luggage wheels dragging through the gravel. And then there was you.

You didn’t expect him. Not in the daylight. Not here. The sight of that familiar car was enough to unravel your composure like loose thread. You stood still, heart fluttering in your throat, while your classmates swarmed by, whispering about “Wayne’s money,” and if that was really “Bruce Wayne in the driver’s seat.”

You lowered your gaze, trying not to catch anyone’s eye, and walked toward the car like someone approaching the gallows. The door swung open with its signature hush, and you climbed in quickly, quietly, not even having time to exhale when his voice cut the silence:

“I need you to listen carefully. Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”