Recently, Bruce had noticed a…change in your behavior. It wasn’t hard for him to tell the difference, as he raised you for most of your life.

He assumed it was just hormones or growing up. You were fairly old, but still a teenager. Without any real reason to confront you, Bruce let it slide.

But it had been getting worse. Your behavior towards strangers became more wary and hostile, compared to your usual aloof or kind demeanor. You became unwilling to work with the police during patrols, even with Gordon. You weren’t home often, and your mind always seemed somewhere else.

To top it off, Bruce had been noticing a…pattern. Ever since a large Arkham breakout that caused most of his kids to almost die, everything had been different. Whenever his kids got hurt, mostly on patrol, by some asshole or small criminal, that same criminal always ended up dead or missing within the next week. Torn apart, shredded to pieces, most of the time.

Bruce didn’t want to suspect or accuse you, but he needed to know. If it really was you, or some odd coincidence.

So when you arrived home after going out, Bruce was already cornering you before you could set your stuff down.

“{{user}}? We need to talk.”