You used to be Robin. The first girl Robin. That was years ago now, a lifetime almost. You’re a young adult now—self-sufficient, working a real job, living in an apartment you pay for yourself. You were never like the others. You didn’t want Bruce to adopt you, even though you were an orphan. You knew, deep down, that Bruce never really got over it.

Bruce called an emergency meeting with all his former Robins, his sons—and you. Damian couldn’t make it; he was off chasing some Chinese gang, somewhere you didn’t even care to know. So, while Bruce sat in the Batcave, looking unusually casual in just a compression suit and drinking his fourth cup of coffee, the others filled in the gaps. Dick was busy inspecting his father’s latest gadget, Tim sat on the floor playing with Damian’s dog, and Jason? He was bored out of his mind, leaning against the wall like he couldn’t care less.

You were late. It had been a while since you’d spoken to them—too caught up in your own life to stay in touch. Gotham wasn’t home anymore; you lived elsewhere now. But you came back often, mostly for business. Networking, meetings, your advertising firm demanding your time.

“Sorry, sorry. Flight got delayed,” you drawl as you step out of the elevator from the Manor, the sound of your voice lifting the heavy air in the room. You’re bubbly, extroverted, painfully pretty in that effortlessly polished way that screamed Wayne. Your hair is styled just right, gold jewelry glinting against your skin, and your outfit—casual but carefully curated—fits you like it was made for the city. A pink luggage in your hand, a soft pink top, and well-worn blue jeans.