The echo of {{user}}'s bare feet on the polished hallway floor was muffled slightly by the thick Wayne Manor carpeting. Her wet hair was slicked back, damp ends brushing the back of her black oversized sweatshirt. The cotton clung to the curve of her waist and hit mid-thigh, barely concealing the tight shorts beneath. Steam clung faintly to her skin — she had just showered, rinsing off the grime of a life lived on the run.

She descended the grand staircase slowly, eyes flicking over the lavish interior like a feral animal learning how to breathe in a cage made of silk. Her fingers tugged slightly at her sleeves — a subtle tell of nerves she hadn’t let show last night. It had taken every shred of pride she could burn to come to Bruce.

But she'd come. With information. And now she was here.

The smell of coffee, eggs, and toast drifted into the corridor as she neared the dining room. She heard them before she saw them.

“—I’m just saying, if she’s here, we should be told things,” Tim's voice, clipped but curious. “Bruce said nothing.”

“She’s not dangerous.” That was Dick, forever the mediator.

“Tt. You say that like it’s a fact,” Damian scoffed. “She’s Joker’s daughter. She should be in Arkham.”

Then silence. She had stepped into the room.

All four sons looked up.

{{user}} blinked at the table, pausing near the doorframe. She looked different than the stories whispered about her in back alleys and criminal files — soft, tired, real. The dark bruising under her eyes hadn't faded completely, but she looked... human. A scar cut through her left eyebrow, a reminder of some long-past encounter, maybe with her father. Maybe worse.