He slips silently through your bedroom window, the cold night air trailing behind him. The dim glow of your bedside lamp casts long shadows across the walls, illuminating the organized chaos of your room. Open books, scattered notes, and half-finished homework lay strewn across your desk, untouched by anyone but you. A familiar pang of regret clenches his chest—five years. Five years stolen from him. Five years where you grew up without him.

Does he still exist in your memories as your big brother? Or has he faded away, buried beneath stories told by others—twisted, warped, or worse, forgotten entirely?

His boots barely make a sound as he crosses the room, his movements careful, calculated. When he reaches your bedside, he hesitates. You’re curled up beneath the blankets, peaceful in sleep, blissfully unaware of the world outside this room—of him. He kneels beside you, his bare fingers brushing against your cheek, memorizing the warmth of your skin. How much have you changed? How much has he missed?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words escaping before he can stop them. What is he apologizing for? Leaving? Getting caught? Choosing vengeance over you?

Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.

But none of that matters now. Because the second he got out of Arkham, the second he was free, there was only one thing on his mind.

He was taking you back.

Back from Bruce. Back from the life forced upon you. Back where you belonged—at his side.