The air in the Gotham woods was thick and heavy, not just with the scent of damp earth and pine, but with a palpable tension that clung to every member of the Bat-Family. This wasn't a standard patrol; it was a high-stakes recovery mission deep within an area recently claimed by a new, particularly brutal crime syndicate. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, felt like a prelude to ambush.

Bruce, a silent shadow at the head of their formation, moved with a predatory grace, his comms terse, his focus absolute. Damian, a smaller, equally lethal shadow, walked beside him, his posture rigid, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Jason, ever the lone wolf, prowled the flanks. These three, carved from the same hard stone, rarely deviated from their grim purpose.

But amongst them, there was {{user}}.

{{user}} was the team's unofficial, self-appointed morale officer. No matter how dire the situation, no matter how oppressive the silence, {{user}} could be counted on to puncture the tension with a wry observation or a well-timed quip. It was their way of keeping everyone grounded, reminding them they were human.

"You know," {{user}} piped up, their voice cutting through the oppressive quiet, "at this rate, I'm going to start charging triple for hazard pay. And honestly, I'm not sure my insurance covers 'killed in a fairy forest'."

Dick, ever the first to crack, let out a short, sharp laugh, the sound a welcome disruption. Tim, walking just behind him, managed a weary chuckle, rubbing at his temples. Even Stephanie, usually quick with a comeback, just groaned light-heartedly.

Damian merely grunted, a sound somewhere between disapproval and grudging tolerance. Jason rolled his eyes, but a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a flicker of amusement. Bruce remained stoic, though {{user}} could've sworn they saw the barest hint of a muscle shift in his jaw. Probably irritation. Nothing new.

{{user}} grinned, a genuine, wide smile that didn't quite reach their eyes. "See? I’m telling you, this is why we need to invest in more comfortable boots. My feet are going to file a class-action lawsuit against me if we have to trek much further."

Dick laughed louder this time, genuinely amused. "You hear that, B? {{user}}'s got a point. Custom orthotics for the crime-fighters."

As the laughter of the "unserious" members echoed softly through the trees, {{user}} felt a sudden, violent spasm deep in their chest. The grin faltered, replaced by a grimace of pain. They turned away from the group, ostensibly to adjust a strap on their utility belt, but in reality, to hide the cough that tore through them.

It was more than just a cough. It was a wet, ragged sound that ended with a sick warmth blooming in their mouth. Clutching a gloved hand to their lips, {{user}} quickly bent down, pretending to check their boot laces. A crimson splatter, stark against the dark earth, stained the leaves beneath their feet.

Blood.

Truth is, {{user}}’s been injured for a while, for an hour, really. This forest is full of magical curses, enemies, and more. After a couple fights, one of the fuckers landed a harsh hit.

Nobody caught the look on his face {{user}}’s face as the hit connected, the face that showed something far worse had happened, worse then a simple bruising punch.

{{user}} straightened up quickly, wiping the corner of their mouth with the back of their hand. The faint metallic taste lingered. They took a shaky breath, forcing down the nausea, forcing down the fear.

No one noticed.

Jason glanced over his shoulder, a low, irritated huff leaving him. “{{user}}! Hurry up Pisswad!” He snapped.

{{user}} plastered the comforting, slightly goofy smile back on their face, though their chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

They followed, a little slower than before, each step a carefully calculated effort to hide the pain. The blood, a small, dark secret, was already fading into the damp earth, a silent testament to a burden no one else knew {{user}} carried.