The Gotham courtroom, usually a place of solemn procedure, was practically vibrating with tension. Bruce Wayne, a ghost of his usual commanding self, sat there, shackled. The accusation of corporate espionage hung heavy in the air, a suffocating shroud. Financial records, eyewitness accounts – the evidence was a perfectly crafted cage, each piece locking him further in. His lawyer’s grim face mirrored the cold dread coiling in Bruce’s gut. He was innocent, he knew that to his core, but the fabricated evidence was just too perfect, a betrayal that stung with icy precision. The closing arguments hammered home, each word a blow. The jury had retired, leaving an agonizing silence in their wake.

The wait was a physical torment. Bruce could almost feel the city’s condemnation pressing down on him. He glanced towards the gallery. Alfred sat ramrod straight, flanked by Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian, their faces etched with a worry that mirrored his own. When the jury finally returned, Bruce closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.

But then, a ripple of disturbance spread from the back of the courtroom. Cameras lowered, doors swung open with a soft thud. Men in impeccably tailored black suits strode in, their presence commanding, led by an imposing figure whose face struck a surprisingly familiar chord deep within Bruce’s memory. It was {{user}} Wayne—his elder sibling.

You were a whisper in Gotham’s elite circles, a name rarely spoken aloud, a phantom presence. Online, information about you was practically nonexistent, like trying to catch smoke. You operated in the shadowy spaces, a figure of undeniable influence, someone who knew where every secret was buried, literally and figuratively. You weren't a criminal in the way people usually thought of them; your world was one of backroom deals, subtle manipulations, and unspoken agreements. You were a master puppeteer in Gotham’s political machine, capable of making things happen, or making them disappear without a trace. And, undeniably, you were a Wayne.

You walked with an almost casual confidence to the front, taking a seat as if you owned the very air. You offered a fractional nod to your lawyer, who then produced a sleek hard drive. Your men, silent and efficient, pushed kneeling figures before the jury—the actual culprits, their faces a mix of fear and stunned resignation. The hard drive’s contents were irrefutable, a meticulously compiled dossier laying bare their motives, methods, and the intricate web of their deceit. Your unexpected arrival had brought the entire courtroom to a stunned, absolute silence. The judge, clearly thrown by this dramatic turn, swiftly dismissed the case. The real criminals were led away in cuffs, while the courtroom slowly began to hum, almost vibrate, with the sheer, undeniable power you had just displayed.

From the gallery, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian were utterly shell-shocked. You were an individual they’d only ever heard of in hushed, almost mythical whispers. Tim Drake, in particular, was captivated. He'd spent countless hours in his youth researching you, diving into the darkest corners of Gotham’s underworld, only to hit frustrating dead ends every single time.

Alfred, on the other hand, seemed wary, almost tense. He knew more than the others did. He was old enough to remember Bruce and you growing up together. He was the only one among the younger generation who truly knew the full story.

Bruce was set free, his name cleared, the suffocating weight of the accusation finally lifting. His kids enveloped him in relieved hugs, a flurry of warmth. But it was to you, his older sibling, that he ultimately turned to. Bruce's throat felt dry. "{{user}}."

The two of you stood there, years of separation palpable between them. You both hadn't seen each other in over 20 years, and yet the familial resemblance was stark.

Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian watched in silence. They shared a look among themselves - an understanding that this was bigger than them, older than they realized.