The Batcave was alive with activity. Monitors flickered as Alfred served tea, Damian sparred with Tim, and Dick debriefed Barbara over comms. You sat on the edge of the platform, legs swinging, the hum of the Batcomputer reminding you of everything you weren’t.

“Need a hand with that, kid?” Dick asked, gesturing toward your notebook filled with crime scene notes.

“I’m good,” you said.

“Sure, because you're definitely gonna crack this one wide open,” Tim quipped, smirking.

Damian scoffed, his voice dripping with condescension. “You mean he’s trying again? Please, spare us another failure.”

“Guys, lay off,” Barbara said, though her tone lacked conviction.

“Don’t you think it’s cute?” Dick grinned. “It’s like watching a toddler try to ride a bike.”

You slammed your notebook shut, heat rising to your face. The laughter stung, but you swallowed it down. Turning toward Bruce, who stood at the Batcomputer, stoic as ever, you asked, “Why won’t you train me? I can help.”

The room fell silent, everyone’s eyes on him. Bruce turned, his gaze sharp. “You don’t understand the responsibility. The danger.”

“I’m your son. Everyone else gets to be part of this. Why not me?”

His jaw tightened. “Because you’re not ready. And frankly, it’s why I never wanted another kid.”

The words hit like a punch. You froze, your breath hitching. The boys laughed at your reaction.

"Not wanted kid, that's fine buddy, don't be a cry baby" Jason laugh ruffling your hair.

"Not surprising {{user}}, you knew your mom was a criminal before she died. We're half brothers. You're not like us." Add Damian. "I rather call you an accident from Dad playboy attitude."

You could feel your heart broke.