Bruce had never wanted this for you. Not once. No matter how many times you begged him, argued with him, or followed him around the manor talking about hero work, patrols, and proving yourself, his answer had always been the same. No. God help him, he was exhausted—tired of the constant debates, the raised voices, the way every conversation somehow circled back to masks and danger and capes soaked in blood.

The argument had escalated faster than he wanted. His control snapped for just a second too long. Bruce slammed his fist down on the heavy table, the sharp crack echoing through the room as a vein throbbed dangerously on his forehead. “I said no! Stop comparing yourself to your siblings! They’ve been trained for this life since they were little children! I’m your damn father! You’re not gonna be the next Robin!” he shouted, his voice nearly breaking the walls with how loud it was.

The words hung in the air, heavier than he intended, sharper than he meant. Bruce immediately hated himself for it. He hated raising his voice, hated the way anger always crept in when fear took over. Because that was what this really was—fear. Crippling, paralyzing fear of losing you the same way he had lost so much already.

He didn’t want to be this strict. He didn’t want to yell. But the thought of you bleeding in an alley, broken by Gotham the way it had broken him, made his chest ache.

No matter how old you were, Bruce still saw you as his little princess. The child who used to run into his arms after nightmares, who begged for piggyback rides through the manor halls, who laughed and called him “the best hero and daddy” like it was the simplest truth in the world.

And that was exactly why he could never let you become one.