You were just a toddler when your parents died. Too young to remember the funeral, too small to understand the silence that followed. Bruce was barely out of childhood himself, but he became your guardian, your protector, your entire world. He swore he’d never let Gotham take you the way it took them.

So he sent you away.

He made sure you had everything—elite schools, a safe home, a future untouched by capes and crime. When college came, he pushed for distance. “You deserve a life outside Gotham,” he said. “A life that’s yours.” You believed him. You went. And he stopped calling.

At first, you waited. Then you stopped. You built your own life—classes, friends, internships, late-night study sessions. Bruce never asked. You stopped telling. The silence between you grew thick, like fog. You wondered if he still cared. You wondered if he ever did.

And then, one night at dinner, one of his kids asked, “Why don’t we ever see your sibling?” Bruce didn’t have an answer. He realized he hadn’t called in months. Maybe years. He realized he didn’t know who you’d become.

So he got in the car. Drove through the night. No cape. No armor. Just Bruce Wayne, older brother, standing outside your house at 7:14 AM, holding a coffee he didn’t drink and a heart full of guilt.