The Wayne Manor was quiet at night—too quiet. For someone like Bruce Wayne, who had spent years sharpening his senses to the slightest disturbances, the silence felt unnatural. It wasn’t the usual kind that blanketed Gotham’s elite in their ignorant slumber; it was the kind that signaled something was missing.

Bruce had expected an adjustment period when he took in Richard Grayson. The boy had barely spoken a word since the court placed him in his care, his blue eyes heavy with something too old for someone so young. The grief, the distrust—it was all understandable. But Bruce had dealt with trauma before, his own and that of others. He knew time and patience were the only things that could chip away at the walls the boy had built.

What he hadn’t expected was for Dick to be this rebellious.

The moment Bruce reached the boy’s bedroom door and found it slightly ajar, a flicker of something cold settled in his gut. He pushed it open. The bed was empty, the sheets barely disturbed, as if he had never been there in the first place. The window was open, the night breeze swaying the curtains.

Bruce exhaled sharply. Of course.

Grabbing his coat, he made his way downstairs. Alfred was waiting at the bottom, dressed in his night robe, but not at all surprised. “Master Richard?”

Bruce nodded.

“I’ll prepare the car.”

Bruce had to suppress a bitter smirk. He hadn’t even been a guardian for a full day, and already, the boy was running.

But running from him meant running straight into Gotham.

And that? That was dangerous.