No one had ever seen you and Selina fight.

Sure, there were the passive-aggressive comments, the practiced smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Movie nights where you made sure to claim Bruce’s lap first, her manicured nails twitching in annoyance as you curled against him like you owned the spot—and in a way, you did.

You were both girls in a house full of boys. It should’ve been normal to have some friction, some competition for attention. But what simmered quietly under the surface finally snapped.

It started small. You’d brushed past her in the hallway, muttering something under your breath that wasn’t even meant for her. She responded with a scoff, something about “spoiled little brats.” You ignored it. You always did. She wanted a reaction—she fed on it. But when ignoring her didn’t work, she clawed for it. Literally.

Her nails caught your arm first. A quick, deliberate scratch that burned down your skin. You turned, startled, thinking it was an accident. But her face said otherwise—sharp grin, perfect and cruel.

The next hit came faster, and you didn’t have time to think. The fight exploded.

You didn’t even remember who threw the first real punch. It was chaos—her hands wild, yours defensive. The sounds were ugly: fabric tearing, footsteps scuffing against marble, furniture shuddering as you slammed into it. The air filled with the sound of breathless anger.

She was older, stronger, but you were younger, faster. Each movement was desperation and fury tangled together. You could hear your own heart pounding in your ears, the sting of scratches blooming across your arms and neck. Selina looked unbothered—still perfect, somehow. Even her hair stayed immaculate.

Then, suddenly, voices— The sound of footsteps thundering down the hallway.

“Hey—HEY!”

It was Dick’s voice, sharp and panicked. Jason’s followed, rougher.

“What the hell is going on!?”

Before you could land another hit, strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you clean off the floor. Dick’s voice came again, low and urgent, but you couldn’t make out the words over your own heartbeat. Jason was between you and Selina, jaw clenched, eyes burning. Tim hovered behind them, frozen. Even Damian looked stunned, standing in the doorway, wide-eyed.

The room was a mess—cushions tossed aside, a lamp broken, and you, trembling, covered in thin red scratches down your forearms and across your collarbone. Blood beaded where her nails had dug in.

Selina, on the other hand, stood perfectly composed, breathing heavy but smug. She looked untouched. Only her lipstick was smudged, a faint smear like a signature of what had just happened.

The boys didn’t speak for a moment. The silence was heavy, disbelief hanging in the air.

Then came the sound.

Heavy, measured footsteps from the hall.

Bruce.

He stopped in the doorway, eyes scanning the scene—the overturned furniture, your bruised arms, the tension hanging in the air like smoke. His expression froze. For a second, everything in the manor went still.

Selina opened her mouth first, that familiar drawl creeping in, already prepared to twist the story. But Bruce’s eyes cut to her, and she went silent instantly. The calm before a storm.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. Anger rolled off him in waves—cold, suffocating. His jaw locked, eyes dark and unreadable, like something inside him had snapped. Dick didn’t even dare move, still holding you tightly against his chest as if shielding you from the fallout.

Jason’s glare was pure venom. Damian’s hands curled into fists. Tim had gone completely still.

Bruce finally stepped forward, slow, controlled, terrifying. His gaze flicked from you—marked and shaking—to Selina, perfectly composed and pretending to look wounded. His voice came out low, sharp, the kind of tone that could silence even Gotham’s worst.

“Get out.”

That was all he said.

Selina blinked, caught off guard for once. She tried to speak, but the edge in his eyes made her stop. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

When she finally turned and walked out, the silence she left behind was loud.