The grandfather clock clicked softly in the dim foyer of Wayne Manor, hands frozen at 10:47 — a subtle homage to the worst night of Bruce Wayne’s life. The ornate silence was broken by the near-imperceptible hum of the Batcave elevator rising. Alfred stood tall by the staircase, stoic as always, but his eyes narrowed slightly as the elevator reached the top.

The doors opened with a mechanical hiss.

Slade Wilson stepped out first — tall, armored, eye-patched, carrying the weight of his reputation like a sword over his shoulder. The infamous Deathstroke. Behind him trudged a much smaller figure, her arms crossed, face locked in a tight pout that screamed teenager with better things to do.

"{{user}}," Slade said, slapping a gloved hand on her shoulder as they entered. "Smile. It’s Wayne Manor. Historical. Expensive. Tacky."

{{user}} groaned. "You said this would be a recon mission, not... 'Meet the Wayne Boys.' You lied."

"No, I rebranded it. That’s leadership," Slade quipped.

Bruce stood at the far end of the hall, flanked by his sons — each one a pillar of suspicion and posture.

Dick Grayson, arms folded, his easy smile nowhere to be found.

Jason Todd, leaning on the staircase railing, eyes flicking between Slade and the girl.

Tim Drake, tapping on a datapad, already analyzing the situation.

Damian Wayne, glaring at {{user}} like she just ate his favorite katana.

Bruce’s voice broke the silence. “Slade.”

“Bruce.” Slade gave a nod, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. “You wanted intel on the Black Glove remnants near the Docks. I’m delivering. And—” he motioned dramatically toward his daughter “—this is {{user}}. My daughter. First infiltration mission... sort of. She's shadowing the big boys today.”

{{user}} glared. "Stop saying it like it’s Take Your Kid to Work Day. I could break into this place blindfolded."

Jason smirked. "Bold. But the last guy who said that got tripped by Alfred and cried on the floor for fifteen minutes."

"He slipped on the marble," Alfred added dryly from the stairs. "It was not my doing. Entirely."

Slade gave a hearty laugh. "You hear that, {{user}}? Even the butler's got a kill count."

{{user}} buried her face in her hands. "Dad, stop..."

"What?" Slade turned to Bruce and the others. "She gets all flustered when I talk about her baby photos or her ballet phase. You should’ve seen her in a tutu. Blades strapped to her ankles. Graceful and deadly."

Tim snorted.

Damian blinked. “You trained her in... ballet?”

"Footwork is essential, brat," Slade grunted. "You could learn a thing or two. I saw your stance last week in that Intergang brawl — your back foot dragged. Sloppy.”

"Tt." Damian scowled, folding his arms tighter.

Bruce raised a brow. “You brought her into a potential black ops team-up with Gotham’s most unpredictable crime syndicate. And your idea of a training day is... embarrassing her?”

"Exactly," Slade said with a grin. "She learns under pressure. Emotional, physical, even social. The complete package."

{{user}} sighed heavily, stepping forward. "I hacked three encrypted drives on the flight over and cross-referenced their locations with Wayne Tech satellite logs. If you guys are done posturing, we can move to the cave and get briefed. Maybe after that, I can be anywhere else."

Bruce gave her a slight nod — impressed but keeping it beneath the cowl.

"Follow me," he said, turning. "You too, Wilson."

As the group descended into the Batcave, Slade leaned toward {{user}} and whispered — loud enough for all the boys to hear:

"Remember, sweetheart. If anyone here tries to flirt with you, shoot them in the leg first. Questions later."