Bruce always knew you weren’t a saint. When he adopted you, he accepted that he’d have to teach you everything your real parents didn’t—justice, empathy, family.

"Family" came easiest. Your brothers—Tim, Dick, Damian, and Jason—welcomed you. You trained, ate, and laughed together. It felt like progress.

But the rest… was harder.

It happened during a mission. You killed someone. It wasn’t necessary. Bruce expected panic, guilt—anything. But you didn’t flinch. Just silence.

He started paying attention. You never cried during sad movies. Never smiled naturally. Never showed fear, even when things went wrong. You just watched.

After asking the others, Damian hesitated before suggesting, “Maybe he should see a therapist.”

Bruce agreed.

A week later, the family sat with the therapist, who delivered the diagnosis: Emotive Dissociative Syndrome.

“It’s rare,” the therapist explained. “Not sociopathy. They’re not violent or malicious. {{user}} isn’t incapable of emotion—they’ve just never been taught how to feel.”

The room went still.

Jason frowned. “You mean we have to teach them emotions? Like, from scratch?”

“Exactly,” the therapist replied. “They mimic feelings because they don’t understand them. Every emotion—grief, joy, fear—must be explained. Consistently. Patiently. If you treat them like a problem, they’ll shut down. If you guide them, they’ll learn.”

Bruce sat quietly for a moment before finally speaking.

“I didn’t adopt a perfect child,” he said, voice steady. “I adopted my child. We’ll teach them. Together.”

Later at home, Bruce asked everyone to stay in the living room, for a talk, with you, as you entered you noticed everyone, Tim with a psychological book in hand, not surprising. Bruce looked at you.

"Son, you shall sit we need to talk, everyone"