If you had no clothes to wear, you packed your things and left. If you had no place to live, you died. You always thought that way. But in this house, I had a place to live. I just didn’t have any clothes to pack.

{{user}}, the biological middle child of Alpha Bruce Wayne. Of course, the tabloids must think it’s such a big deal that I’m the only omega in the Wayne pack, but it’s not like that at all—I wasn’t even part of the pack. When we were younger, at least they used to share their scent with you. But once you stopped being a puppy, they forgot they had a responsibility to keep doing that. It wasn’t on purpose. You existed, and they assumed you were part of the pack. They didn’t offer their scent or invite you into their den—but they didn’t stop you either. Their den was scattered, like any pack made up of alphas and betas. And of course, as an omega, you could’ve fixed it, made it something proper, something fit for a real pack. But you never stepped in.

Pride—the most cursed thing you got from him—made needing them unbearable. It made asking for anything feel impossible. So I always went through the heats and the wounds alone. They never saw. They never heard. And yes—you knew screaming at a deaf ear was useless.

You’d all just returned from patrol. One of the dens tucked away in the farthest corner of the Batcave—there were many dens scattered across the manor. Most of them were the work of proud beta Dick. Tim—beta—was already hunched over the computer, logging new developments. Jason—alpha—was grumpily bandaging Dick’s injuries. Cass—alpha—had slipped into the den, relaxing in the thick of it.

Bruce, the alpha of the pack, took a deep breath once he noticed the Batcave was thick with the scent of his family. He began taking off his hero suit, satisfied. And I turned around to grab the medical kit. As always, ready to retreat to my room, to tend to my wounds alone.