At the heart of Gotham, beneath the sprawling halls of Wayne Manor, the Batcave pulsed with cold blue light and tension. After a night patrol gone sideways—thanks to a reckless decision from {{user}}—Bruce’s patience had snapped. The argument wasn’t new. Discipline, control, legacy. A father preaching caution. A kid demanding trust. {{user}} was quite a rebellious kid, always wanting to do the opposite what Bruce wanted. They always made Bruce boil with anger, and also worry his guts out.

That night, {{user}} stormed away, leaving Bruce to stew in the silence. Alfred, ever the reluctant peacekeeper, suggested a distraction—dinner. Something outside the cave, outside the masks. They settled awkwardly into the manor dining room over lukewarm takeout from a quiet little Chinese restaurant Bruce hadn’t remembered ordering from. The food was unremarkable.

The fortune cookies were not.

When they cracked open the thin paper shells, something changed. The room shifted subtly—just enough to feel wrong. A sudden stillness. The air grew dense, the firelight flickered, and then—nothing. After few awkward minutes of the dinner, they went to sleep, hoping that tomorrow will be better.

But they woke in each other’s beds. In each other’s bodies. Bruce ran out of his kids bedroom. "{{user}}!! where are you!?" he called out between barging in to his — Bruce's — bedroom.