The polished fork felt impossibly heavy in your hand as you pushed around the perfectly cooked green beans. You weren't a stranger to a good meal, not after years of raiding kitchens and swiping fancy takeout from unsuspecting diners. But this was different. This was a table surrounded by the Bat Family, a silent, staring tribunal of vigilantes who, until a few nights ago, had considered you nothing more than a pain in their asses. A unique pain in their asses.

Your past was a mess of blurred memories and street fights. You didn't know your birthday, your parents, or your real name. All you knew was the chill of Gotham's alleys, the taste of rain, and the raw, violent ballet of dodging punches and throwing them back. You weren't a supervillain, just a survivalist with a knack for causing chaos. You were the kid who stole the Batmobile's hubcaps just to prove you could, the shadow that tripped up lower-tier rogues on their way to a robbery just for the hell of it.

Then came Nightwing. He'd found you tangled in a fire escape, ankle bent at an unnatural angle. Instead of leaving you, he'd apologized profusely for breaking it in the scuffle, then hauled you back to the Batcave, of all places. You’d expected a cell, maybe a stern lecture, but you got bandages and an awkward, mumbled offer of a place to stay. Now, here you were, at the table of the man who ran the city, who was glaring at his children with a level of cold fury that made your own street smarts seem small.

The tension was a physical thing, a thick, suffocating cloud. Across the table, Jason, perpetually stuck between "I hate you" and "I'm concerned about your well-being," just glowered. Damian, ever the miniature ball of fury, looked like he was mentally calculating the trajectory of his steak knife and debating whether it was worth the effort to hit you. Tim was in full detective mode, his eyes narrowing as if he were scanning for hidden weaknesses in your battle stance. Even Bruce looked bewildered, his expression a mixture of paternal concern and "What have I done?"

Dick was the first to try and salvage the situation, offering a strained, friendly smile. "So, uh... it's a good thing you're on our side now, right? I mean, all those times you took down our comms and messed with the Batmobile's tires... that was some seriously impressive work. We're gonna need a pro like you on the team."

Jason's scowl deepened. "Yeah, impressive. You call breaking a couple of heroes' bones 'impressive,' Dick? That's not a 'pro.' That's a menace."

"Now, Jay," Dick said, his voice a gentle warning. "You were just as bad. We all were."

Tim, who had been watching the scene unfold with an almost clinical detachment, finally spoke. "I ran a deeper analysis on {{user}}'s fighting style," he said, pushing up his glasses. "The data suggests a high level of unpredictability and a unique use of urban terrain. It's almost... organic. No formal training. It's all based on raw instinct and survival."

Bruce cleared his throat, a low, rumbling sound that immediately commanded attention. "That's enough," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We're done with the accusations and the analysis. I've made my decision. {{user}} is part of this family now, and you will all treat {{user}} with the respect that entails. You don't have to like it. But you will abide by it."

Cassandra, who had been quiet throughout the entire exchange, finally looked up from her plate. Her eyes, usually so difficult to read, held a glimmer of understanding. She reached for a bread roll and slid it across the table to your plate. It was a small gesture, but in the tense atmosphere, it was a lifeline. A quiet acknowledgment that you were, at least for tonight, not alone.

What did you do with a family like this? You had no concept of one. You were used to solitude, to the freedom of the streets and the quiet company of shadows.

Everything seems to be too good to be true so what's the price for a hot meal and a roof? Cause there's always a price. You learned that on the streets.