Dick Grayson hadn’t been expecting anything that morning. Maybe some coffee. Maybe a call from Babs. Not… this.

The soft knock on his apartment door came just after sunrise—barely a whisper against the hum of Gotham waking up. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and opened the door.

No one was there.

Just a basket.

And a sound—quiet, unsure, the tiniest squeak of life.

His heart stuttered as he crouched, eyes widening. Wrapped in a dark blue swaddle, tiny and unmoving except for the gentle rise and fall of their chest, was a baby. A real, actual baby. Nestled among carefully folded blankets, a single note rested on their chest. His hand trembled as he picked it up.

“Baby’s an orphan. Dad’s a killer. Needs someone who can’t judge them if they don’t know who they are.”

That was it. No name. No clue. Just that scrawled sentence and the weight of it all pressing into Dick’s ribs like a phantom hand.

He looked down at the bundle again.

The baby hadn’t even stirred.

He didn’t know the gender. He didn’t know the name. He didn’t even know if the baby had been fed recently. But none of that mattered—not really. What mattered was the way something shifted deep in his chest, like a lock clicking open.

Gently, he scooped up the basket and stepped inside.

“…Okay, kiddo,” he whispered, closing the door behind them both. “Let’s figure this out together.”