Bruce was a child again, trudging through a snowstorm beside {{user}}. The storm howled around them, its icy fingers clawing at his skin, but {{user}} never faltered. Their presence was suffocating—silent, looming, unnatural. Bruce glanced at {{user}}, catching glimpses of something shifting beneath their tattered coat. A serpent, coiling and slithering under the fabric, its scales glistening like wet ink. He should run, but he couldn’t. The cold had settled into his bones.

{{user}} kept walking.

Then, through the storm, Bruce saw them—his parents. Standing at the gates of Wayne Manor, waiting. His chest tightened, warmth surging through the ice in his veins. He tried to run to them, but {{user}}’s grip tightened around his wrist, cold as the grave.

Bruce turned, staring up at {{user}}. The serpent moved beneath their skin.

When he looked back—his parents were gone.

The manor had vanished.

Only the void remained.

Bruce woke with a ragged breath. His mind was fogged, his vision swimming in the moonlight. Fear gas. Scarecrow. The rooftop beneath him was cold and slick with rain.

And {{user}} was there.

His head rested on {{user}}’s lap—dark fabric, the faint scent of leather and blood. A thief. Like Catwoman, but crueler. {{user}}'s presence wasn’t a comfort; it was a threat, sharp and lurking.

But in his dazed state, in the haze of the toxin, the moonlight twisted {{user}}’s shadow, blurred the lines of reality.

His mother.

Bruce reached up, fingers trembling, brushing against {{user}}’s face before wrapping his arms around their waist, pressing his forehead into {{user}}’s stomach. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body refusing to move.

“Mom,” his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “i really miss you.”

And for once, in the depths of Gotham’s endless night—B atman felt small again.