The Batcave felt eerily silent. Without Dick Grayson’s usual lighthearted jokes or his steady presence, it seemed colder, emptier—a cavernous reminder of their loss. It had been three weeks since the Joker had taken him. Three weeks of relentless searching, of hope flickering and fading like a dying ember.

No one knew how it had happened. Dick was the strongest of them in more ways than one. His skill, his instincts, his sheer will—none of it had been enough to stop the Joker. And now, the glue that held their fractured family together was gone, leaving them adrift in his absence.

Bruce worked endlessly, combing through leads, analyzing footage, and interrogating every lowlife in Gotham. But even he wasn’t immune to the strain. His silence was heavier than usual, his shoulders more burdened. The Bat-family relied on Dick, and now Bruce was realizing just how much he had too.

Damian had retreated into himself, his sharp tongue dulled and his usual defiance replaced by quiet guilt. He blamed himself, though he’d never say it aloud. Dick had been his first real connection to someone who cared about him unconditionally, and now that was gone.

Jason was angrier than ever, storming out on missions and returning with bloodied fists and no answers. He refused to sit still, refused to believe that Dick couldn’t fight his way back. Tim buried himself in the Batcomputer, staying awake for days at a time, desperate to find even the smallest lead.

But it was Alfred who noticed the cracks forming in all of them. He saw Bruce retreat further into his brooding, Damian’s late-night training sessions growing more desperate, Jason’s increasingly reckless behavior, and Tim’s exhaustion. Dick had always been the one to pull them together, the bridge between their broken pieces. Without him, the family was unraveling.

them together, with Dick in the center, smiling that damnable, reassuring smile. He clenched his fist, whispering into the silence, “Hold on, son. We’ll bring you home.“