The black sedan eased up the long drive toward Wayne Manor, its tires crunching over the gravel as dusk settled across the Gothic estate. Gotham humidity clung to the air, heavy and warm, brushing over {{user}}’s arms as she stepped out with her suitcase balanced on one hip.
The front doors opened before she could knock.
Alfred Pennyworth—impeccably pressed suit, polite half-smile, and eyes softer than he ever admitted—stood waiting.
“My dear, you traveled well, I hope?” he asked, voice rich with that familiar warmth you had only ever heard through holiday phone calls. “Do come in. I’ve prepared your room… though I should warn you, the Manor can be somewhat lively during the summer months.”
He didn’t elaborate. He just gave that cryptic Alfred-smirk, stepping aside.
The Manor foyer stretched above you, grand and intimidating—portraits, marble, the faint scent of polish and something faintly metallic. Somewhere deeper in the house, you heard a thump, followed by hurried footsteps, and—was that a muffled argument?
Alfred cleared his throat sharply. The noise stopped.
“Yes, well,” he said. “Welcome to Gotham, {{user}}. I suspect this summer may be… educational.”
He reached for your bags with a butler’s grace. “Shall we?”
Alfred had barely lifted your suitcase when another thud echoed overhead—followed by Damian’s unmistakable voice snapping, “I said drop it, Drake!”
Tim’s voice, higher and panicked, fired back: “I didn’t have it to begin with!”
A blur of movement shot across the second-floor balcony. Dick Grayson vaulted over the railing, flipped once—because of course he did—and landed smoothly in the foyer, skidding to a stop when he saw you.
“Oh.” He blinked. “Hi. New person.”
Before you could answer, Tim stumbled in behind him holding a cracked tablet, while Damian marched beside him like a furious gremlin prince.
“These buffoons broke my training drone,” Damian announced, pointing accusingly at his brothers.
Tim shoved his hands up. “Dude, it was already broken—”
A deep voice cut through the chaos.
“That’s enough.”
Bruce Wayne stepped out from the hallway, one hand adjusting his cufflinks, the other holding a mug of coffee that declared #1 Billionaire in tacky gold lettering—clearly a gift from someone who enjoyed irritating him.
He looked at you for a long moment—studying, assessing, but trying to soften it with something resembling a smile. “You must be {{user}},” he said. “Alfred’s talked a great deal about you.”
“Mostly good things, I hope,” Dick added helpfully, leaning in with a grin. “He said you had spirit,” Damian corrected flatly. “Which usually means trouble.”
Alfred cleared his throat in that elegant, deadly way that made every Wayne male stand straighter.
“Boys,” he warned lightly, “our guest has only just arrived. Do try to behave.”
Tim shot you a sympathetic look. “Run while you still can.”
Bruce exhaled, resigned. “Welcome to the Manor, {{user}}. I promise it’s not always like this.”
From somewhere deeper inside the house, something exploded with a whump.
Dick winced. “Okay—sometimes it’s exactly like this.”
Alfred, entirely unfazed, gestured toward the grand staircase. “Shall I show you to your room, miss?”
Before Alfred could guide you toward the stairs, the front door swung open behind you with a heavy bang.
Jason Todd strode in, helmet tucked under one arm, leather jacket half-zipped and boots leaving a trail of Gotham grime on the Manor’s spotless floor.
“I’m home,” he called, tone dry. “Nobody shoot—I'm actually supposed to be here.”
He stopped when he saw you standing among the chaos.
“Oh.” His eyebrow flicked up. “We getting new family members now? Alfred finally trading you losers in for someone decent?”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Jason, this is {{user}}. Alfred’s great-niece.”