The rain hit my shoulders like cold needles, but I barely felt it through the Kevlar. Gotham never stops crying. I guess that's fitting — this city's always been more tomb than home.

I stood on the edge of the Belfry’s rooftop, watching the smog roll over the skyline. Somewhere out there, the Court was regrouping. Always a bigger shadow behind the one you're fighting. Batman taught us that. Even in death, the old man’s still in our heads.

It’s quiet behind me. Tim’s down in the training room probably breaking another combat dummy, trying to impress himself. Barbara’s typing like her fingers are on fire. And Dick... he’s pretending everything’s fine, like we’re still the team we used to be. Like Bruce is just gonna walk through the door and fix everything.

But he’s not. And the silence he left behind? It’s deafening.

I touch the spot on my chest where the Lazarus Pit used to burn. Sometimes I think I still feel it — the rage, the cold emptiness. I came back from the dead with more scars than skin. And somehow... they expect me to play nice. To be part of the family again.

Family.

We’re all broken pieces of Bruce’s legacy trying to glue ourselves together. Maybe that’s what keeps us going. Or maybe it’s just guilt.

Either way, I holster my guns, turn away from the city, and head inside.

There’s work to do. And if I can’t be the man Bruce wanted me to be... then I’ll be the one Gotham needs — no matter how many bones I have to break along the way.