The wind howled against the city’s oldest orphanage on Kane Avenue, the windows frosted, lights dim, slipping through cracks in the stone like fingers looking for warmth. Inside, the rooms were dressed in mismatched decorations and handmade paper snowflakes, the kind children make with blunt scissors and hope. There were no presents this year—at least, not until a last-minute donation came through, forcing Bruce Wayne into another carefully planned public appearance.

He arrived late, as expected, draped in quiet luxury and a practiced smile. Cameras clicked. Thank-yous were exchanged. He nodded through introductions, offered a few words about the spirit of giving. It was all part of the script.

Then he saw the boy.

Not clinging to a caretaker. Not reaching for a toy. Just… still and quiet. Apart from the noise, the sugar, the chaos of the evening. Watching, learning.

Something about him made Bruce pause. Not pity. Not curiosity. Something sharper. Something old.

He had come to deliver charity. What he found instead was a question. One that stared back at him, waiting.