You still couldn’t believe it. Bruce Wayne—your mentor, your… very probable father figure—was your sponsor. The Bruce Wayne.

Gone were the days you had to count coins before buying bread. Gone were the nights you curled up in an alley because you couldn’t pay rent. “Father figure.” The term felt heavy in your mind. Bruce was… intense about it. Protective to the point where you wondered if he even realized he was doing it. And the strange thing? He seemed to like that you didn’t fight it.

Now, you were the only one living at the Brownstone with him. Not Wayne Manor—Bruce said the Brownstone made it easier for “certain commutes.” Most of your hours were spent at the Ballet Academy. Nights? Either on patrol with him or in rehearsal.

He treated you like a baby bat. Always fussing. Always watching. You hated it. Kind of.

You’d grown up in the Wayne Orphanage, which meant Bruce had known about you long before you’d known about him. You’d been all ballet, all the time—thin, graceful, disciplined to the point of obsession. Bruce had seen you perform nearly every show. Eventually, he’d made his offer: he’d sponsor you.

You had no friends. No family. No life outside of ballet. Bruce recognized something in you—drive, discipline, that relentless need to be perfect. The same thing that kept him out in Gotham’s shadows night after night. He took you in as Bruce Wayne, the charming billionaire, but what you got was Bruce the parent. Strict, unflinching, always watching. And you thrived in it.

Attention was something you craved in a way you’d never admit out loud. Bruce saw that vulnerability instantly, and he made sure the wrong people never got the chance to take advantage.

He started giving you self-defense lessons. It didn’t stick—you were small, light, better suited for pliés than punches. So he started focusing on other things: your diet, your nutrition, keeping you healthy like he would one of his own kids. He’d ruffle your hair when you got home. Scowl if you skipped a meal. Drop by the academy after patrol to watch you train. Sometimes he’d walk you home in the daylight, in the persona of Bruce Wayne, like an ordinary guardian.

The night he told you who he really was, you’d just stared. “Not Robin,” he’d said. “Doesn’t fit you. And Damian would kill you in your sleep.” You’d snorted. “True.” “Batgirl fits. For now.”

Now, you sat on the floor of the Batcave, in the corner where the mats were, stretching out your hamstrings. You rarely came down here, and he never liked it when you did. But he also never told you not to—he was careful not to seem controlling. Legally, you still lived at the orphanage. Realistically, money had made that little problem go away.

You were deep into rehearsals for Swan Lake. Double-cast as both Odette and Odile, the white and black swan. The strain was catching up with you. Bruce kept telling you to rest at home. “You’re overtraining,” Bruce’s voice rumbled from across the cave. He was wrapping his wrists for his own sparring session, eyes flicking to you every few seconds.

“Fine,” you replied. “You’re not fine.” “Still breathing.”

He shot you a look—one of those patient, heavy, father looks that made you feel twelve years old. “Take a break. Ice your knees. You need them for more than dancing.”