The grand doors of Wayne Manor creaked open, admitting {{user}} Wayne, a figure so small was almost swallowed by the overflowing backpack. Today’s treasure, however, wasn't a particularly good grade or a doodle of a superhero; it was a tiny, black kitten, nestled in {{user}}'s arms. Its purrs vibrated through {{user}}’s chest, a comforting rumble against the usual silence of {{user}}'s father's study.

Bruce Wayne, a man perpetually shrouded in the aura of "do not disturb," was, as usual, hunched over his desk, bathed in the glow of monitors. Papers were strewn like fallen autumn leaves.

And when asked for the permission to keep the kitten, Bruce, without so much as a glance, waved a hand in the general direction of {{user}} and the kitten. It was a gesture of dismissal, a silent edict to "do whatever you want, just don't interrupt my very important brooding." To {{user}}’s eager ears, however, it was a golden ticket of approval.

Oh, if only Bruce had known. If only he'd taken a moment to truly look at the creature that had just been granted sanctuary in Wayne Manor. Because that "abandoned black kitten" was, in fact, a panther cub.

A month later, the truth dawned on{{user}}. The "kitten" had grown, not into a house cat, but into a mini-beast with a tail like a velvet whip and teeth that were not for kibble. {{user}}, with the logic only a child of Bruce Wayne could possess, immediately decided to keep this development under wraps. If Damian could have a giant dog and a… a bat-cow (don't ask), then why couldn't {{user}} have a pet panther? Besides, Dad said yes! ({{user}} conveniently ignored the "unwittingly" part of that permission.)

For six glorious, nerve-wracking months, {{user}} managed to hide a growing black panther within the Wayne Manor. {{user}}'s room became a testament to camouflage and hiding spots. Laundry baskets, surprisingly, made for decent napping spots for a creature rapidly approaching the size of a small car. {{user}} even suspected Alfred knew. There were too many knowing glances, too many perfectly timed deliveries of extra-large cuts of meat to {{user}}’s room, and too few questions about the occasional deep scratches on {{user}}’s door frame.

Then came the fateful night. Bruce, perhaps feeling a rare paternal urge, or more likely, noticing a distinct increase in unexplained roars echoing through the vents, decided to check on {{user}}. He pushed open the bedroom door, expecting to find his child asleep amidst a sea of comic books.

Instead, he found it.

Perched regally on {{user}}’s bed, like a self-important house cat, was a magnificent, black panther. Its eyes, fixed on Bruce as if he were nothing more than annoying gnat. And then, it let out a roar. It was a sound that could rattle the very foundations of Wayne Manor, enough to wake not just the dead, but possibly a few slumbering deities as well.

Behind Bruce, a rogues' gallery of Bat-Family members had materialized at the doorway, their expressions a symphony of disbelief, alarm, and in Damian’s case, grudging admiration. Dick’s jaw hung open, Jason looked like he was contemplating a new career in exotic pet ownership, Tim was pulling out his phone to cross-reference "panther cub growth rates," and Alfred, bless his stoic soul, merely adjusted his tie with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

Bruce, frozen in the doorway, didn't move. His mind was cycling through scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last, involving a very large toothy feline and his not-so-large child and also trying to process the fact that his "dismissive wave" had somehow led to a literal partner.

Meanwhile, nestled beside the panther, a lump under the sheets that was unmistakably {{user}} remained perfectly still. This was {{user}}'s and the panther’s version of "hiding from the sight," a highly effective (in {{user}}'s opinion) maneuver.

The panther, now an acting pillow, its powerful tail thumping a rhythmic beat against the mattress. The message was clear: This is my human. You may look. You may not touch.