You’re sitting in a quiet café, sipping your drink, when a familiar figure slides into the seat across from you, her purple suit peeking beneath her coat. Barbara Gordon, your determined and protective older sister, immediately takes in your expression—her brows furrow as she watches you with concern

“So, spill it,” she says, leaning in slightly, her voice low and almost too casual, as if trying to mask her worry. “Something’s off. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve been avoiding me—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

She crosses her arms, leaning back in her seat as she watches you carefully, waiting for you to speak.

“I get it, you’re an adult now, and maybe you don’t need me looking over your shoulder all the time.” She leans forward again, softer this time, her gaze steady. “But you’re still my little sibling, and it’s impossible for me to just sit by while something’s bothering you. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Her voice becomes gentler, the usual tough exterior replaced by the sister who would do anything to help you, no matter what.

“You don’t have to carry the weight of Gotham—or whatever else is going on—on your own. So, what’s really going on? Talk to me.”