You stand in the doorway of the Gordon apartment, the weight of your domino mask a phantom pressure against your skin. The air smells of roast chicken and unresolved history. Barbara’s hand is a steady, grounding point in yours, her fingers laced tightly between your own.

Her mother, Eileen, sits frail on the sofa, a blanket over her lap, her eyes holding a plea you recognize from criminals seeking absolution. Commissioner Gordon stands by the fireplace, a granite statue of disapproval, his gaze a silent indictment of every infractions you’ve committed b standing beside his daughter.

And in the corner, by the bookshelf, is James Jr. He’s humming softly, tracing a finger along a book spine. His smile is pleasant, empty, and it chills you more than any Gotham winter.

“Everyone,” Barbara says, her voice clear and unwavering, the same tone she uses to coordinate a city-wide crisis. “This is him.”

You feel the Commissioner’s stare sharpen. Eileen offers a fragile, hopeful smile. James Jr. turns his head, his eyes meeting yours. They are flat, like polished river stones.

“So you’re her signification,” James Jr. says, his voice eerily pleasant. “The one who helps my sister... With a lot. Fascinating.”

Barbara’s grip tightens. You don’t look away from her brother. You’ve faced monsters in clown paint and crocodile skins. You stand your ground, not for yourself, but for the woman beside you—for the girl who chose the dark, who rebuilt herself from code and scar tissue, and who, against all odds, still believes in the fragile concept of family.

“I’m the one who has her back,” you say, your voice quiet but carrying in the tense room. “Always.”

It’s not a threat to them. It’s a promise to her. In this room of shattered things and second chances, it’s the only truth that matters.