Jason wasn’t sure what he expected when he hacked into the registry.

Maybe just another “Wayne”—like the others. A tiny footprint scanned onto some legal document, a neat birthdate, maybe a photo Bruce paid a publicist to keep quiet. Just enough for him to put a face to a name. Just enough to know if they ever ended up on the other side of his gun in a burning building, he’d recognize the kid and choose right.

But the name stopped him cold.

Todd.

First name redacted for privacy. No middle name listed. Just… Todd.

Jason stared at the screen, blood running colder than a Gotham alley in February.

This wasn’t Bruce’s charity case. This wasn’t another orphan pulled in by guilt and Bat-signals. This wasn’t another broken-winged stray the old man tried to shape into a soldier.

This was blood.

His blood.

He leaned back from the terminal like it burned him, hands braced on his knees, heart pounding out of sync.

His parents had another kid.

After all this.

After letting Jason grow up hungry. After the alleys. After the crowbar. After the grave. After everything, they had another baby—and abandoned them, too.

And Bruce took them in?

Jason’s throat felt dry, like ash in his mouth. His stomach twisted, heavy with something too tangled to name. Rage, maybe. Guilt. Protectiveness. Grief.

This wasn’t just a name anymore. This wasn’t theoretical.

This was a baby with his last name sleeping under Bruce Wayne’s roof.

Jason stood slowly. No more hesitation. No more logic. Screw it.

He had to see them. Had to look them in the eye. Had to know who they were, what they looked like, what they sounded like when they cried—so that when the world burned again, he wouldn’t wonder.

He’d know.