The soft hum of Gotham’s streetlights filtered through the half-cracked window, casting amber lines across the wooden floor of the apartment. Barbara had just come in, hanging her coat near the door, her steps quiet but deliberate.

"Hey, I'm home," she called gently, expecting the usual response — a teasing remark, maybe a kiss on the cheek. But instead, the silence hit her like a wall. No rustle of movement. No greeting.

Her brows furrowed. Something felt off.

She stepped into the living room, eyes scanning. That’s when she saw them — curled in on themselves in the corner between the couch and the wall, shaking, hands fisting their hair, gasping for breath like the air had turned to smoke around them.

Barbara's heart dropped.

“Hey—hey, no, no, I’ve got you.” She crossed the room in a flash, sinking to her knees beside them. “Look at me, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’re here. It’s okay.”

Her voice softened even more, grounding, steady — the voice of Oracle, yes, but more importantly, the voice of someone who loved them deeply.

“Breathe with me. In—just like that. Good. Now out. You’re not alone, I promise. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t touch them yet — not until they gave her a sign. But her presence wrapped around them all the same, solid and unmoving like a lighthouse through the storm.