The Batcave clocks over to 12:03 AM by the time the comms finally crackle back to life.

One hour and four minutes since the line went dead.

One hour and four minutes since your voice — shaky, terrified — had whispered:

“There’s something following me. It looks like me… but it’s not me.”

Then static.

Then silence.

No heartbeat monitor. No tracker. No response to emergency override channels.

Even Jason had stopped pacing after the first thirty minutes. Dick was pretending to check surveillance feeds, but he kept glancing at the clock every few seconds. Tim had already rerun every nearby camera in Gotham three times.

Damian stood perfectly still near the Batcomputer, arms crossed tightly.

Waiting.

Then—

The cave elevator opens.

And you walk out.

Alive.

Every head snaps toward you instantly.

At first, relief hits hard enough to almost hurt.

You’re covered in grime and torn fabric, your gear scratched up badly, boots leaving faint wet footprints across the cave floor. But physically, you seem fine.

Too fine.

“Hey,” you say flatly. “I’m back.”

No smile.

No exhaustion.

No trembling.

Nothing.

You don’t even look at them.

You just walk past the family toward the equipment table, calmly removing your gloves like you’d only gone out for groceries.

Dick’s grin fades first.

Jason’s brows pull together.

Tim slowly straightens from his chair.

Because this isn’t right.

Normally, after a rough mission, you’d be emotional before you even made it down the elevator. Angry, overwhelmed, apologizing for worrying everyone — maybe all three at once. Bruce had seen you cry because your favorite mug broke once.

But now?

Nothing.

No eye contact. No relief. No fear.

No you.

Bruce watches quietly as you unclip your utility belt.

His expression never changes, but Damian notices immediately when Bruce subtly turns back instead of continuing forward.

That tiny pause.

That tiny calculation.

Bruce’s voice stays calm.

Gentle.

“Mission report.”

You don’t look up. “Target neutralized.”

Short answer.

Too short.

Bruce studies you for another second before speaking again.

“When you were thirteen,” he says casually, “you broke into the kitchen at three in the morning after patrol.”

You finally stop moving.

Everyone else looks confused.

Bruce continues evenly.

“You said Alfred’s emergency brownies were ‘medically necessary.’”

A beat.

Then:

“What ingredient did you accidentally replace the sugar with?”

Silence.

Jason blinks once.

Tim slowly looks toward Bruce.

Damian’s hand inches toward his sword.

Because that question matters.

The real you would know instantly.

You had complained about it for years.

Your shoulders stiffen almost invisibly.

Then you answer:

“…Salt.”

Wrong.

Dick inhales sharply.

Because the real answer was cinnamon.

You’d mixed up the containers and made the most horrifying brownies in human history. Jason still called them “chemical weapons.”

Bruce moves first.

Fast.

“Down.”

The cave lights slam red.

Damian’s blade is already drawn.

And you finally look at them.

Not confused.

Not hurt.

Just… calculating.

Like something trying to imitate being human a second too late.