Everyone knew of Bat/man's relentless habit of taking in lost children, as if they were trophies to be collected—messed up, broken kids who needed saving. The irony was never lost on you. He was a man buried under layers of guilt, wrapped in the shadows of his own brokenness, trying to fix what could never be fixed. And somehow, that turned into a compulsion to collect others—others like you.

It didn’t shock you when he began following you nearly every night on patrol. He claimed it was to ensure you could take care of yourself, despite the fact that you had been wearing the mask for nearly two years. You were capable, You didn’t need him to hover over you. But there he was, night after night.

You cast a cold glare at the looming figure behind you as he demanded to take you back to the Cave to tend to your wounds, left by your fight with Killer Moth. He was like a shadow you couldn’t outrun.

"We need to treat your injuries," he said, that same unyielding authority in his voice—the one that had long since worn thin to you, like a needle piercing your skin over and over again. It used to matter. Back when you thought he actually cared. When you thought there was something real beneath the mask of Bat/man.

But not anymore.

You couldn’t help the way your jaw tightened, your chest tightening with a feeling you refused to acknowledge. He doesn't get it. He never has. Every step he took closer to you was like another chain, another weight added to your already burdened soul. He wasn’t saving you—he was smothering you.

“I told you,” you muttered, the words sharp, bitter, and empty. “I don’t need saving.”

His voice was lower this time, more forceful. “You don’t have to do this alone.” But his words only made your chest tighten further. You didn’t want to let him in. You couldn’t. Not after everything you’d lost.