You’ve been helping him for a while now.

Not officially. There’s no contract, no title, no Bat-symbol stitched into a uniform. You’re just… the one he calls when things get bad. When the comms go down. When he needs someone to patch up a wound or pull him out of a collapsing building.

It started by accident. You helped him once, and he didn’t stop showing up.

No names. No questions. You never pushed. It felt unspoken: you respected his silence, and he respected your boundaries.

But lately, he’s been more reckless. He lets himself bleed longer before coming to you. He winces less. Talks more. You catch him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to disappear.

Tonight, it gets bad.

A rooftop stakeout goes wrong. You find him half-collapsed in an alley, cowl torn, blood everywhere. You haul him into the back of your apartment, start patching him up. Rain’s still dripping from his cape. His breathing’s shallow.

“You need a hospital,” you say. Again.

“No,” he replies. But this time his voice wavers.

And then he just… does it.

Reaches up. Peels the cowl away.

There’s no ceremony. No speech. Just a man sitting in front of you—tired, bruised, and bare-faced.

Bruce Wayne.

He sees the look on your face and says, simply:
“Because I trust you.”