The League had grown… well, numb - to the chaos that was Bruce Wayne’s personal life.

By now, nothing fazed them. Not the endless parade of sidekicks shuffling through the manor. Not the reformed criminals dropping by unannounced, offering cryptic advice or unsolicited life lessons. Not even the occasional villain who wandered in, more grumpy co-worker than threat to society.

So when the front doors of Wayne Manor slammed open in the middle of a meeting, no one flinched.

At first.

It wasn’t until Bruce’s eyes lifted, narrowing with that familiar mix of exasperation and calculation, that anyone else registered it. The League glanced up. And then froze.

You weren’t in any of their files. Not a single person in that room could put a name to you. And that - more than anything - was saying something.