The call came through the comms like a gut punch.

“We need backup—now.” Dick’s voice was raw. Strained. Something in it made Bruce’s blood run cold.

The coordinates loaded instantly. South Narrows. An ambush. You’d gone with Dick, scouting a suspected trafficking ring. It was supposed to be routine. It was routine. Until it wasn’t.

He didn’t remember the drive there, only the blur of sirens and the pulse pounding in his ears louder than the roar of the Batmobile. He arrived before the GCPD even caught wind of it, cape billowing behind him like a storm front.

And then he saw you.

Collapsed in Dick’s arms.

Your suit was torn, dark with blood. Too much blood. Your mask was gone, face slack and pale. One arm hung limp at your side, the other pressed weakly against your stomach—though your body wasn’t moving anymore. Not even to breathe.

Dick was kneeling, clutching you like the ground might swallow you whole if he let go. “She’s not waking up,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I—I tried. She was still breathing a minute ago, I swear she was—”

Bruce dropped to his knees beside you. His gloves touched your neck, desperate for the flutter of a pulse, the smallest sign of fight left in your body. But your skin was clammy. Your lips tinged blue.

“She shielded me,” Tim’s voice broke as he stepped closer, suit torn, blood on his hands—not his own. “We didn’t see the second guy. He had a blade. She saw it before I did. She pushed me out of the way and—”

Jason stood behind them, jaw clenched tight, fists trembling. “She shouldn’t have even been there,” he muttered, voice sharp with guilt and grief. “She was still recovering from that last hit last week. She said she was fine, but—dammit—she lied.”

“She always lies when she’s hurt,” Damian snapped. His voice sounded small. Angry and scared in equal measure. “She thought it made her strong. She thought—” He cut off, swallowing the emotion clawing up his throat.

Bruce tuned them all out.

He could barely hear over the roaring in his head.

You were still so small in his arms. Smaller than he remembered. You were always fighting—against the world, against your own pain, against his rules. Always stubborn. Always strong. You were the only one who ever called him out without fear, who’d press your forehead to his on rooftop ledges when he forgot how to be human and remind him—“Come back to me, Dad.”

Now, he was the one begging in silence.

Come back to me.

“I called Alfred,” Dick whispered. “Med-bay’s ready. Just—just say she’s gonna make it, Bruce. Please.”

Jason’s breath hitched. “She’s too damn young for this.”

“She is not dying,” Damian growled. “Father, say something.”

Bruce didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

He stared down at your face—the bruises forming beneath your eyes, the shallow rise of your chest that was barely there. You looked so peaceful. Like you were already slipping.

He pressed his forehead to yours. Just for a second. The same way you used to do when he came back from a fight too broken to speak.

The others had gone quiet.

Waiting for him.

Praying he had a plan. Praying he could fix it. That Batman, the man who never let anyone fall, wouldn’t let this happen.

But he wasn’t Batman right now.

He was just a father holding his daughter in his arms, and he was losing you.

And then, in a whisper so hoarse he barely recognized it as his own, he broke.

“Stay with me. Please. I can’t lose you too.”