Patrol was over. Bruce Wayne stood quietly beneath the dull glow of Gotham’s skyline, his suit scuffed, knuckles bruised, ribs aching beneath the armor. But pain was familiar, forgettable. It wasn’t what mattered tonight.

You were.

Just a kid. Still learning. His “Robin-in-training,” for now. Young, sharp, observant — and from what little he’d managed to piece together, not in school. He’d overheard your excuses, your evasions, the half-truths said under your breath when you thought he wasn’t listening. A single father, apparently. Either absent, negligent, or struggling under the weight of life. Possibly all three. Bruce had meant to run a background check, but between Wayne Enterprises board meetings and the nightly patrols, it kept slipping.

He watched you now, fumbling with the edge of your mask, adjusting it with a certain quiet urgency.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice calm, almost gentle.

You nodded quickly. “M’alright. Just hungry.”

You sat at the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling into open air. Instinctively, Bruce took a step toward you, a silent promise of protection.

“I’ll get you a burger,” he said with a sigh, already planning the safest route back. He always made sure to walk you home. You never went alone. And you never took off your mask. He never questioned it — he understood the need to protect one's identity better than anyone.

It had only been a week since he told you the truth — that he was Bruce Wayne beneath the cowl. You hadn’t been particularly fazed. Your only response had been something like, “Cool. Do you get to keep the Batmobile and the pizza too?”

A special case, he had thought then. Still thinks now.

You tilted your cowl up just enough to sip from a water bottle you’d stashed on the roof. The wind picked up suddenly, strong enough to throw you off balance. Bruce moved without thinking, closing the space between you in a blink, one hand on your shoulder, steadying you.

The mask slipped.

And for a moment, time slowed.

Two black, feline ears stood perked on your head — unmistakably real. Not a costume. Not a trick of the light.

You froze. So did he.

Your hands scrambled for the cowl, panic flashing in your eyes. A small, embarrassed squeak left your throat.

“Hey... hey,” Bruce said softly, raising one gloved hand, palm open, voice steady. “It’s okay.”

And suddenly, the signs made sense — your skittishness, the heightened reflexes, the odd sounds he’d dismissed as nervous tics or imagination. He’d heard rumors of mutants in Gotham, but never expected to find one training at his side. Half-human, half-kitten, maybe. A hidden piece of a forgotten city.

No wonder you avoided school.

Of course. It all made sense now.

And none of it changed a thing.