She meant to hit you. Stephanie’s fist connected with your face, sending you stumbling back. Pain flared instantly—your lip split, the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue, and a bruise already forming on your cheek. You barely had time to register the sting before her voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"What the hell were you thinking, {{user}}?!"

Her voice shook with rage, but underneath it—underneath all of their anger—there was something else. Fear. Disappointment. Maybe even grief.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing blood across your skin, and looked up at her. For all her fury, Stephanie wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t hesitating. She had hit you on purpose.

And the rest of them? Bruce stood stiffly, arms crossed, his jaw tight with disapproval. Dick’s hands were on his hips, his usual warmth nowhere to be seen. Babs looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line, while Cassandra—usually so hard to read—had the faintest furrow in her brow. Tim stood rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. Duke wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

Only Jason, Damian, and Kate stood at your back. Jason looked ready to return the favor, fists tight at his sides. Damian, for all his usual arrogance, had something like understanding in his gaze. And Kate? She was watching, analyzing, waiting to see what you’d do next.

Alfred, ever the observer, simply looked at you with something you despised more than their anger—pity.

And why? Because of them? Because of Black Mask’s goons? Because you did what they refused to do? You didn’t feel guilty. You didn’t regret it. They were killers, and you eliminated them. Efficient. Necessary. But they didn’t see it that way.

They weren’t your family. Stephanie might be their family, but you weren’t.