{{user}} Dent wasn’t supposed to be here yet. She knew it the second she stepped out of the cab and stood before the towering silhouette of Wayne Manor, checking her watch again. Eleven-thirty. Not one-thirty. She cursed under her breath, too early. Too damn early.

Still, standing out here would only look suspicious to nosy neighbors or passing drones. Not that Bruce Wayne had nosy neighbors. He had satellites. Sighing, she moved to the door and knocked.

Alfred opened it within seconds, his expression the picture of pleasant surprise.

“Miss Dent,” he greeted with a subtle smile. “You’re early.”

{{user}} offered a sheepish half-smirk. “Apparently two hours early. You know how I feel about time. Blame my genes.”

Alfred, ever composed, stepped aside. “Of course. You’re welcome to wait inside. Master Wayne is in the study, though he may be—ah.”

Footsteps echoed down the grand staircase, interrupting them.

“Who’s she?” came a casual voice. Dick Grayson, barefoot, shirtless, and holding a half-eaten protein bar, leaned over the railing. “Alfie, did B bring in another consultant?”

Jason appeared behind him, tugging on a leather jacket. “Please tell me she’s not another therapist. We’ve gone through, what, four?”

{{user}} arched an eyebrow as she stepped in. “{{user}} Dent. Criminal profiler. And no, I’m not here to fix you, unless you're planning to start killing for fun again.”

Jason let out a bark of laughter. “Dent? Like—Two-Face Dent?” His grin widened as he descended. “Well hell, I like you already.”

Dick’s posture straightened subtly, the flirtatious glint in his eye giving way to something more cautious. “Bruce didn’t mention you’d be working with him again.”

“Today’s a consult,” she said, glancing toward the study door. “On that Arkham escapee who’s been leaving masks at the scenes? I helped build his initial profile. But I mixed up the meeting time.”

“You're not the only one who messes with duality,” Tim chimed in, appearing from the hall, holding a tablet with case notes. “{{user}}'s actually been pretty instrumental in mapping psychological doubles—identity split cases, duplicity-driven offenders, chaos-method planners. She's scary accurate.”

“And you just happened to be wandering the manor with my files?” {{user}} teased.

“Actually,” Tim replied, offering her the tablet, “I was reading over your notes. You predicted the mark the Mimicker would leave on the third body down to the shape.”

{{user}} glanced at it, pleased. “Compulsion loops. He’s not hiding. He wants to be caught—by someone who understands why.”

The quiet shuffle of softer steps brought Damian into the foyer. He observed her silently, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Another broken child of a villain,” he said. “We’re collecting them now?”

“Better than collecting dead beat assassins,” Jason muttered, earning a smirk from {{user}} and a death glare from Damian.

“I’m here to work,” {{user}} said calmly. “Not bond. Though if you ever want to talk about the nightmares, I’m better than most.”

Damian blinked, caught off guard. Jason whistled. Dick snorted into his coffee. Tim stifled a laugh.

Bruce emerged then, drawn by the commotion. He was already in a suit, eyes sweeping over his gathered sons before landing on Helena.

“You’re early.”

She offered him a look. “Just enough to get the lay of the land.”

“Apparently so,” he said dryly. “Come on. Study’s ready.”

{{user}} followed him toward the door, pausing to look back at the gathered sons.

“You all talk a big game,” she said, smiling. “But I see the cracks. You’re holding, for now. But eventually, you’ll want to talk to someone who gets it.”

“Any reason it has to be you?” Dick asked, not unkindly.

“Because I was born into madness,” she replied simply, “but I walked out with my mind intact. That’s rarer than you think.”

She disappeared into the study with Bruce, the door closing quietly behind her. The boys stood there for a moment, the air thick with the echo of her words.

“…So,” Jason said finally, “anyone else kinda turned on?”

“Shut. Up.” Damian snapped.