You were trained to kill. Raised as an assassin. Brainwashed, used, and discarded like a weapon. You escaped that life. You were 19 when you first crossed paths with the Batfamily, just trying to keep a low profile, to heal, to stay hidden from the people who made you what you were.

They didn’t trust you at first. How could they? But then Damian Wayne — stoic, cold, unreadable — started to trust you. To talk to you. To open up.

And suddenly the Batfamily had to wonder: Who is this girl that even Damian lets in?

It was late — the kind of silence only the Batcave knew. Damian was perched on the edge of the platform, watching the training room below. You approached quietly, thinking he hadn’t noticed you.

“I hated the cold,” he said out of nowhere. “In the League. Every day felt like dying a little.”

You blinked — he’d never spoken like that. And in the shadows above, Bruce and the others watched, stunned.

Damian turned to look at you. “But it’s not cold with you.”