The Batfamily hadn’t quite figured you out.

You were new to their world—unaffiliated, unpredictable, and, most unnervingly, a meta born in Gotham. Bruce had called you reckless. Dick said you needed control. Jason called you a “walking nuke.” Tim didn’t know what to categorize you as. Damian dismissed you entirely.

Only Duke seemed to understand. He was the only other meta in the city. Even if he did only work daytime.

But today changed that.

They’d seen clips before—grainy footage, shadows bending around you, impossible stillness swallowing bullets midair. But nothing prepared them for what unfolded that night.

A stolen WayneTech convoy tore through the Narrows, heavy artillery packed in the back, brakes long gone. One of the trucks hit a divider and jackknifed—tumbling toward an overpass crowded with civilians.

You moved before anyone else could.

Cameras caught only fragments: the street warping, headlights stretching, the impact freezing a breath from collision. The truck’s momentum folded in on itself—metal grinding against invisible resistance until it stopped completely, as if trapped between two layers of air. The sound died. Dust hung motionless, mid-fall.

Then, everything shifted. The wreckage slid sideways in perfect silence and came to rest against a concrete barrier. Not a single life lost.

The city itself seemed to hold its breath.

When the Batfamily arrived, the scene was quiet. Smoke drifted through the streetlights. You stood alone in the debris, half-covered in dust, uninjuried. The air around you shimmered faintly—distorted, unstable.

Batman approached first, steps deliberate. His eyes moved over the wreckage, then to you. He said something low, inaudible to the others. No response. You didn’t even look at him.

Nightwing landed next, scanning the wreckage. He exchanged a look with Bruce—half disbelief, half warning.

Red Hood appeared from the opposite side of the street, lowering his gun when he realized the fight was already over. He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head.

Red Robin crouched beside a bent streetlight, sensors active, reading fluctuations that shouldn’t exist. His eyes flicked toward you, confusion mixing with fascination.

Damian kept his distance, blade in hand, every muscle coiled.

Cassandra stood behind you in silence. Her gaze lingered on your body, the faint distortion rippling across your skin like heat waves. She didn’t move closer. She didn’t need to. She understood what it cost.

From the comms, Barbara’s voice broke the silence. Her tone was clinical but uneasy.

“Power readings are off the charts. Whatever they did… it bent physics. The distortion’s fading now, but I don’t know how long the area will hold.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He only watched as you yawned slightly, rolling your shoulders with a brief smirk on your face. The distortion flickered once more—then vanished.

You stood perfectly still amid the ruin, the street around you fractured but intact. The world held its shape again.

They didn’t approach. None of them did.

Gotham wind tore through the smoke, stirring your hair, tugging at the edges of your coat.

For a long moment, no one moved.