The storm had followed you out into the city, drenching Gotham in sheets of cold rain. Patrol usually meant energy—shouts over comms, bickering across rooftops, the thrill of adrenaline snapping between you all like electricity. Tonight, though, there was a strange undertone.

Bruce was quiet. Too quiet.

Normally, the man was a shadow made of iron—razor-sharp orders, eyes always three steps ahead, movements precise no matter the weather. But as you vaulted over slick rooftops, you couldn’t ignore it: his cape dragged just a little heavier than usual, his landings weren’t as sharp. His replies over comms were clipped, a beat too slow, like the storm had crawled into his bones.

“Batman, you good?” Nightwing asked finally, voice casual but laced with that subtle older-brother worry he always tried to hide.

“I’m fine.” Bruce’s voice came low, gravelly as ever—but flat, almost mechanical.

“Uh-huh.” Jason muttered from a nearby fire escape, twirling his pistol before holstering it. “Because you totally sound like fine incarnate.”

Damian narrowed his eyes from Bruce’s flank, sharp enough to cut through the rain. “Father, you are pale. Paler than usual.” He scowled, though his grip on his sword tightened. “You should return home.”

“I said I’m fine,” Bruce repeated, this time sharper—but the edge didn’t convince anyone.

The night pressed on, the Batfamily sweeping across alleys and rooftops, catching glimpses of their leader stumbling on details he never missed. A grapnel shot too close to the wall. A second of hesitation before throwing a batarang. Barbara’s typing faltered in her comms chair back at the Clocktower. Something was wrong.

Then it happened.

Bruce landed hard on a rooftop, cape billowing, but when he straightened, his body swayed—like a building about to crumble. His eyes, usually piercing and unshakable, glazed over. For a terrifying moment, it looked like he was staring straight through you. Then his pupils rolled back, his massive frame collapsing.

“Bruce!” Dick’s voice cracked as he lunged forward, catching him just before his head could slam against the soaked concrete. The weight of him nearly drove them both down.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Jason cursed, rushing over, boots splashing in puddles. “This isn’t fine! This is the opposite of fine!”

“Father!” Damian’s shout tore through the comms, sharp and panicked in a way he’d never allow under normal circumstances. He dropped to his knees beside Bruce, small hands tugging desperately at the man’s cowl.

“He’s burning up,” Dick muttered, feeling Bruce’s forehead with a shaking hand. “He’s been sick this whole time—”

“And didn’t say a word, of course,” Barbara cut in, voice tight through the comms. “Bring him back. Now.”

Alfred’s voice followed immediately, calmer but no less urgent. “Do not waste a second. Master Bruce needs medical attention.”

Rain hammered down harder, Gotham’s chaos raging below, but on that rooftop the family’s world had tilted. For once, the Dark Knight wasn’t the immovable pillar holding them together. He was human. He was fragile. And that terrified them more than anything the city could throw their way.