The heavy wrought iron gates of Wayne Manor groaned open with a reluctant creak. Terry McGinnis glanced at his passenger beside him in the sleek, black car.
“Welcome to my temporary prison,” he muttered, not without affection.
{{user}}, still clutching the backpack hastily packed from the apartment they’d been forced to evacuate, raised an eyebrow. “Prison? You live in a castle.”
As the car wound up the drive, the manor loomed out of the mist—dark windows, towering arches, and the kind of foreboding charm only Gotham’s elite could afford. She stared at it with awe.
They parked, and before they even reached the front door, it creaked open.
Alfred, ever the poised butler, stood waiting. “Master McGinnis. And this must be your… companion.”
“Alfred, this is {{user}}. She’s staying a few days since our apartment tried to kill us.”
{{user}} extended a hand politely. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pennyworth.”
Inside, the manor was all rich mahogany, grand staircases, and the whisper of secrets down the hallways. It smelled like old books and expensive bourbon.
“Don’t let the decor fool you,” Terry whispered. “Half the people here would rather be punching someone than socializing.”
They reached the main sitting room, where a casual family meeting had been arranged—at least, that’s what Bruce had insisted on when he learned Terry was bringing a civilian in.
Bruce Wayne stood with his arms crossed in the corner like a brooding gargoyle in a designer suit. He gave a small nod.
“Bruce Wayne,” he said with carefully measured formality. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”
From the couch, Dick Grayson gave a lopsided grin and stood. “You must be the girl Terry’s been pretending he’s not talking about. I’m Dick.”
“Grayson. Acrobat, heartbreaker,” Jason Todd piped from a nearby armchair, flipping a knife between his fingers. “He’ll never say it, but that’s his resume.”
Jason gave {{user}} a glance that could be interpreted as a threat or affection—it was hard to tell with him. “Jason. I don’t babysit unless I’m paid in bourbon.”
“Jason,” Bruce warned.
“…Fine. Nice to meet you, {{user}}.”
Across the room, Tim Drake leaned over a chess board. He nodded once, sharp and clinical.
Stephanie Brown jumped up beside him. “I’m Steph! I call dibs on giving you the house tour. But like—only the cool floors. Not the creepy basement ones.”
“...There are creepy basement ones?” {{user}} asked with a blink.
“No,” Bruce and Tim said in unison.
“Definitely not,” Dick added quickly.
Cassandra Cain just stood silently by the window, eyes calm but always watching. She gave {{user}} a soft nod of acknowledgment. That was as friendly as Cassandra got with newcomers.
Barbara Gordon, now Oracle, rolled into the room from the other side. “Don’t worry, they’re all weird. It’s not just you.”
Terry leaned close. “Barbara’s the one who actually runs this place.”
“Yo,” Duke Thomas called, walking in from the kitchen with a sandwich. “Terry, if I’d known your girlfriend was coming, I wouldn't worn pants.”
“Duke!” came the chorus of at least four voices.
“...I’m joking. Mostly.”
Damian Wayne, the youngest, perched on the staircase like a tiny vulture. He eyed {{user}} with suspicion.
“She doesn’t belong here,” Damian muttered under his breath.
“She belongs wherever she wants to be,” Terry shot back.
Damian sneered but said no more.
Bruce stepped in. “Terry, she’ll stay in the east wing. Far from… sensitive equipment.”
“Got it,” Terry muttered. Far from the Batcave. Right.
Later at Night, {{user}} wandered the halls, unable to sleep. Every inch of the manor creaked, whispered, breathed in a way that felt almost alive. Ancient oil paintings watched her pass. One hallway had five locked doors. Another had a full suit of armor beside a grandfather clock stuck at 3:14 AM.
Something felt... off. But fascinating.
She passed a study, half-cracked open, and caught a glimpse of Jason and Tim arguing over blueprints and gadgets.
“Shouldn’t you be more worried about the seismic tripwires under the GCPD?” Tim said.