It was unusually sunny for Gotham. The marble courtyard of Gotham Academy gleamed in the light, buzzing with the sound of laughter, chatter, and dozens of students ranging in age from first grade to college seniors. Despite the normal bustle, there was a visible shift in the energy as the Bat Boys—Wayne legacy, adopted sons of Bruce Wayne, and Gotham’s most infamous siblings—stepped into view.

They didn’t walk together. Not really. But they arrived as a unit—like gravity tethered them together, even when their energy couldn’t be more different.

Dick Grayson, dressed in a sleek fitted navy blazer with his college badge stitched on the breast pocket, gave a charming wink to a group of swooning girls at the fountain. He ran a hand through his thick black hair and leaned casually against the stone edge like a model posing for a photoshoot.

“Ladies,” he said with a grin that could melt diamonds. “Who’s taking notes in Human Anatomy? I might need someone to study with—strictly for science, of course.”

Giggling erupted like an orchestra, and someone dropped their notebook.

On the far end of the courtyard, Jason Todd’s expression was one of pure, exhausted indifference. His leather jacket slung over his shoulder, he walked through the crowd with purpose. A cluster of older girls and even a few bold guys followed him like a cloud of perfume.

“Jason! Wait—Jason, can I get your number?!” “Hey, you left your pen in Lit yesterday. Want it back or is that just your thing now?” “You read Wuthering Heights—are you like...deep?”

Jason didn’t break stride.

“No.” “No.” And with a glance over his shoulder: “It’s called being forced to take literature, not a personality trait.”

He disappeared behind the old stone archway toward the vending machines, cracking open a bottle of black coffee like it was a beer and freedom was carbonated.

Meanwhile, Tim Drake sat cross-legged beneath a pergola, surrounded by four wide-eyed freshmen and a whiteboard on wheels he had commandeered from the library. He wore glasses today—real ones, not his smart lenses—and clicked a marker in one hand while sipping his energy drink with the other.

“Okay, so mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, but what’s actually being converted?” he asked, pointing to a diagram.

“Uh…energy?” one of the kids tried.

“Closer. ATP. Remember that. It comes up in almost every bio test.”

One freshman scribbled like her life depended on it while another just stared at him with something like awe and a bit of a crush.

“Is it true you hacked your own report card system to prove the security was bad?” a younger boy whispered.

Tim smirked without looking up. “I improved it. You're welcome.”

Up above them, unnoticed by most, Damian Wayne perched silently on a wide oak branch halfway up a sprawling tree. His arms were crossed, book balanced on one knee, and he glared down at the crowds like a brooding gargoyle guarding a castle.

Two sophomores beneath the tree whispered nervously.

“Do you think he’s gonna jump down and beat someone up?” “Why is he even up there?” “He’s like…a crow. A scary, knife-wielding crow.”

Damian scoffed from above and flipped a page of The Art of War. “I can hear you, idiots.”

Both sophomores scrambled away without a word, while Damian leaned back into the shade, unreadable. A small black cat—a campus stray affectionately called Duchess—leapt into his lap a moment later, curling up like it belonged there.

“Tt. At least someone on this campus has manners,” Damian muttered, petting her absently.