The Gotham Museum’s annual winter gala was one of those events Bruce could never quite escape.

The guest list was a carefully curated mixture of old Gotham families, corporate executives, politicians, celebrities, and philanthropists, all dressed in expensive clothing and pretending they had come exclusively for the museum’s newest exhibition. Bruce knew better. Half the room was here to be seen, and the other half was here to make sure they were seen talking to the right people.

Still, it was a good cause. That was usually enough reason for him to attend.

Bruce stood beside {{user}} near one of the tall windows overlooking the city, listening as Edward Whitmore, one of the Wayne Foundation’s senior trustees, went over the latest figures for the foundation’s upcoming grants. Edward had known Bruce since childhood and had worked closely with Thomas Wayne before his death.

“The pediatric wing is still the priority,” Bruce said, glancing over the figures Edward had brought him. “If the board approves the revised allocation, we can have the first phase funded before the end of the quarter.”

Edward nodded. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Your father would have been proud of you, you know.”

Bruce gave a small, restrained smile. “I’m sure he’d have found something to criticize.”

Edward laughed. “Probably. He was your father.”

The comment earned the faintest shift in Bruce’s expression, but before he could answer, a familiar woman’s voice joined them.

“Bruce?”

Camille Laurent approached with the effortless confidence of a woman who had spent her entire life in rooms like this. Her family owned one of Gotham’s most prestigious hotel groups, and Camille herself was a familiar face at nearly every major social event in the city. She was elegant without appearing to try, her emerald gown perfectly chosen, her smile warm enough to disarm anyone who didn’t know her.

Her eyes went to Bruce first, lingering with easy familiarity before moving to {{user}}. They traveled briefly from her face to her dress and back again.

“And you must be {{user}}. I’ve heard so much about you.” Camille offered her hand with a gracious smile. “It’s lovely to finally meet you properly. Bruce was never one to chatter on about his personal life. He’s always been terribly secretive, hasn’t he?”

Edward shifted his glass slightly as Bruce gave Camille a polite greeting. She seemed perfectly comfortable slipping into the conversation, asking about the foundation before gradually bringing if back to Bruce.

Her gaze shifted briefly toward {{user}}. “Does he still fall asleep the moment he finally gets home? He used to insist he wasn’t tired, then I’d find him half-asleep on the sofa with a book still open in his hand.”

She laughed softly. “I used to tease him about it. He’d get so stubborn about pretending he was fine.”

Camille’s expression softened, almost concerned. “He doesn’t still do that, does he? I always worried about him when he pushed himself too hard.”

Before the question could become too personal, Camille gave a small smile, almost brushing it aside. “But I suppose you’d know that better than I would now.”

She continued chatting about the gala while occasionally slipping in another small detail about Bruce. He hated crowded rooms. He became quiet when he was tired. He tended to lose track of time when he was working. Each one was delivered casually, almost helpfully, with Camille repeatedly turning toward {{user}} as though they were sharing harmless marital advice.

“Does he still forget about dinner when he gets caught up in work?” Camille asked, almost fondly. “I used to make him eat whenever he got like that. There was this recipe I’d make for him, and he liked it so much he’d finish the whole thing without realizing.”

She laughed under her breath and gave Bruce’s shoulder a light, familiar pat. “I could make it again sometime. I’m sure {{user}} would like it too.”

Bruce didn’t answer her. His attention had already shifted back to {{user}}, and he glanced toward the quieter corridor leading away from the main hall. “Do you want some air?”

Edward glanced between Camille and Bruce, then cleared his throat. “I should probably check on the auction committee before they come looking for me.”

Bruce gave him a small nod. “Of course.”

Edward offered {{user}} a polite smile before disappearing into the crowd, leaving the three of them behind.

Camille didn’t seem to notice that she was making everybody feel uncomfortable, or perhaps she simply didn’t care. She leaned slightly closer to Bruce again, her eyes briefly dropping to his tie before she smiled.

“You really haven’t changed much.”

Bruce glanced at her, then toward {{user}}. “We should get some air.”

“But, I’m still talking with {{user}}, Bruce.”Camille turned to {{user}} with an innocent smile, as though she hadn’t said anything unusual.

“Camille.” His voice was calm, but the warning underneath it was unmistakable.

Camille ignored him. “Bruce was never particularly good at leaving when I asked him to stay. He had a habit of making very long nights out of very short visits.” Her eyes returned to {{user}}, sweet and almost sympathetic.

Then Camille seemed to register what she had just said. Her eyes widened slightly, and she gave a small, embarrassed laugh, as though the remark had slipped out by accident.

She tilted her head slightly.

“Oh, you don’t mind, right?” she asked sweetly. “That was in the past, after all.”

The call came in the middle of the afternoon.

It was the school.

By the time {{user}} arrived, the incident had already caused enough of a stir that several students were being kept away from the hallway outside the principal’s office. Teachers stood nearby, quietly redirecting curious students back toward their classrooms while the receptionist gave {{user}} a quick, uneasy glance before pointing her toward the office.

Inside, the atmosphere was considerably worse.

Damian sat in a chair against the wall, his uniform still perfectly arranged despite the fight. There was a faint bruise beginning to darken along his cheek, but otherwise he looked remarkably composed for a ten year old who had just punched another student.

The other boy was sitting beside his mother, crying hard enough that his shoulders shook. A tissue was pressed against his nose, and his mother looked furious enough to have forgotten that there was a principal sitting across from her.

“This is absolutely ridiculous!” she snapped, slamming her hand against the arm of her chair. “My son was punched in the face, and everyone is acting as though this is some little misunderstanding!”

“Mrs. Harris, I understand that you’re angry,” the principal said, keeping his voice even. “But we are still trying to establish what happened before the situation escalated.”

“What happened?” She pointed sharply toward Damian. “That boy attacked my son!”

Her son immediately nodded through his tears. “He just hit me,” he said, his voice breaking. “I didn’t even do anything.”

Damian’s eyes moved toward him.

The look was brief, but it was enough to make the boy lower his gaze.

“Damian, you’ve already told us there was an argument before you struck him.”

“I said he deserved it.” His answer came without hesitation.

Mrs. Harris stared at him in disbelief. “You hear that? He isn’t even sorry!”

Damian looked at her as though he found the question itself rather strange.

“I didn’t say I was.”

“Damian,” the principal warned.

The boy turned his attention toward him, completely unimpressed. “What?”

Damian’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “I answered your question.”

The principal paused, clearly reconsidering how best to approach this child.

The problem was that Damian was not behaving like a frightened student who had been caught misbehaving. He wasn’t nervous, wasn’t looking for an excuse, and certainly wasn’t interested in earning the principal’s approval. He seemed to regard the entire meeting as an unnecessary interruption to his afternoon.

And there was a reason for it.

Earlier that day, the other boy had cornered Damian with a few classmates nearby. It had started with comments about his adopted brothers, mocking Dick, Jason, and Tim for not sharing his surname or blood. When Damian told him to stop, the boy had gone further, making cruel remarks about Damian himself, saying that he didn’t have a mother like the other children.

Damian had said nothing and simply punched him. It’s clear that, he had no intention of repeating those words now, either.

To Damian, explaining the insult would only make it sound as though he needed someone to coddle him with sympathy.

Mrs. Harris pushed herself forward in her chair, her voice rising again.

“My son told me exactly what happened. Damian Wayne walked up to him and hit him. That’s assault!”

“Your son has history of bullying another student, Mrs. Harris,” the principal said.

“That does not give him the right to put his hands on my son!”

“No,” the principal agreed. “But it does mean we need to understand the circumstances before assigning blame.”

“Blame?” Mrs. Harris repeated, almost laughing from frustration. “My child is the one sitting here crying!”

Her son sniffed loudly and leaned against her.

She immediately put an arm around him. “Look at him!”

Damian glanced at the boy once more. “He’ll live.”

Mrs. Harris shot to her feet. “You little—!”

The principal stood as well, his voice firmer now. “Mrs. Harris, please sit down. We are not going to make this situation worse.”

She remained standing for another moment, visibly seething, before dropping back into her chair.

Then she pointed at Damian. “This is what happens when children are raised without consequences. Just because his father is Bruce Wayne doesn’t mean he can do whatever he wants.”

The principal immediately stepped in before the boy could respond.

“We have contacted his parents, and the matter will be handled appropriately.”

Damian leaned back against the chair, folding his arms across his chest. He looked away, apparently deciding that the conversation had become too tiresome to deserve his attention.

The principal glanced toward him.

“Damian, I want you to understand that we cannot allow students to settle conflicts with violence.”

Damian’s eyes returned to him. “I understand.”

“Then why did you do it?”

A short silence followed before he looked toward the boy beside his mother, then back at the principal.

“He deserved it.”

Nothing more.

The principal seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get anything else.

Before he could continue, the office door opened.

The principal turned toward the doorway, his expression shifting with visible relief.

“Mrs. Wayne. Thank you for coming.”

Damian looked over.

For the first time since the meeting began, his posture changed slightly. He sat a little straighter, watching {{user}} enter the room as Mrs. Harris immediately turned toward her, still visibly furious.

The boy beside her continued crying.

The principal stepped aside, leaving the situation open for {{user}} to take in for herself.

The Wayne Manor’s luxurious garage was usually a silent temple dedicated to multi-million dollar sports cars, polished concrete, and spotless glass. At four o'clock in the morning, however, it smelled overwhelmingly of alfalfa and fresh manure.

Jason Todd stood stiff as a board, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at the floor. Right there, next to a pristine electric sports car, lay his absolute favorite brown leather jacket. It was completely flattened, ruined, and buried under a steaming pile of Bat-Cow fertilizer.

Two feet away, Bat-Cow casually chewed on a stray phone charging cable, completely unbothered.

"Bat-Cow?" Jason whispered, his voice a terrifyingly quiet promise of violence. "Give that cow to me and I’ll turn it into steak."

Instantly, Damian Wayne threw himself between Jason and the cow. In his hands, he defensively brandished a highly polished, decorative antique katana—an expensive piece of historical display armor he had clearly ripped off the wall in the mansion’s main hallway.

"Stand down, Todd!" Damian snapped, dark eyes flashing. "She is a creature of nature! She does not understand the concept of your juvenile 'street fashion'!"

"That was genuine Italian calfskin, you demon brat!" Jason screamed, the veins in his neck bulging as his explosive temper finally detonated. "She pooped on her own cousin! It’s a hate crime!"

From his perch on top of a heavy-duty rolling tool chest, Tim Drake held up his phone, his thumb tapping the screen to record the unfolding disaster. A delirious, sleep-deprived smirk stretched across his face.

"Actually, scientifically speaking, it’s a territorial claim," Tim chimed in. "Technically, the cow owns your jacket now, Jay. It’s maritime law."

Jason snapped his head toward him, eyes narrowed to slits. "You shut your mouth, nerd, or you're next." He whipped his attention back to the youngest Wayne. "Drop the display sword and move out of the way, Damian. I’m getting the industrial grill from the pool house. We’re having burgers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next six months."

"If you lay a single finger on her bovine majesty, Todd, I will personally dismantle your precious motorcycle piece by piece and scatter the components across the estate!" Damian countered, refusing to lower the decorative sword. "She was merely startled by the grotesque, pungent odor of your cheap motorcycle oil!"

The heavy double doors of the garage burst open, and Dick Grayson came jogging in. As the eldest, he looked the part of a deeply exhausted parent, wearing a plush silk bathrobe and aggressively holding a wooden baseball bat like he was looking for a burglar. "Guys! Guys, stop!" Dick panted, rubbing his eyes. "I heard screaming all the way from the kitchen. What happened—"

Dick stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at the jacket, winced, and sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Oh. Oh wow. Yeah, that’s... that’s a write-off."

"Dickie-boy," Jason said, his voice dropping into a dangerous rattle. "Tell me you’re going to let me punch this cow. Just a little bit. In the shoulder."

"No! No punching the family livestock!" Dick ordered, stepping into the fray and resting the baseball bat against his shoulder. "Damian, why was Bat-Cow even in the garage? She’s supposed to be in the East paddock with the horses!"

"The paddock was drafty!" Damian defended fiercely. "She required a climate-controlled environment to properly digest her midnight alfalfa!"

Tim zoomed in closer with his phone camera, letting out a soft chuckle. "Hey Jason, look on the bright side. The heat from the manure might actually help condition the leather. You should try it on for your next ride."

Jason lifted his heavy motorcycle boot. "I am going to condition my boot directly up your—"

"Enough!" Dick yelled, holding the baseball bat horizontally between them to push them apart.

"Jason, Dad will buy you a new jacket. Tim, stop recording, or I’m telling Bruce you’re the one who crashed his golf cart into the rose bushes last week."

Tim’s smug look vanished, and he slowly lowered his phone.

Dick turned a stern glare onto the youngest. "Damian... put the sword back in the hallway, and clean this up."

Damian’s jaw dropped in absolute outrage. "I am a Wayne! I am the biological heir to this estate! I do not shovel fecal matter!"

"Your cow, your compost, little brother," Dick said flatly. "Grab a bucket."

Right on cue, Bat-Cow let out a loud, triumphant MOOOO right into Jason's face. Jason just stood there, glaring at the animal with pure, unadulterated spite. "Enjoy your breath while you can, milk-factory. Tomorrow night, I’m firing up the grill right out here on the driveway."

The early morning air in the Maldives was thick with tropical heat, but the peaceful vibe on the villa's private deck was completely ruined by the grating hum of the boys already fighting.

Damian stood by the edge of the prime poolside daybed, glaring down at Jason with absolute, unblinking intensity. Jason was fully sprawled out across the entire lounge area, intentionally blocking the only spot on the deck that actually caught the morning breeze. Worse, Jason had hijacked the outdoor speakers, drowning out the ocean waves with a grinding, heavy metal and rock playlist that he had on a continuous, spiteful loop.

"Move, Jason," Damian snapped, his voice tight, sharp, and flatly aggressive. "You’ve been hogging this couch since dawn. Some of us actually want to use the shade."

Jason didn't even open his eyes. He just pulled a linen throw pillow over his face to block out the light, tapping his foot rhythmically to the music. "The world doesn't revolve around you, kid. Go lie on the grass with your cow. First come, first served. Beat it.

"You are intentionally taking up three times the space you need just to be annoying," Damian said, stepping closer and kicking the solid wooden base of the daybed with a heavy thud. "Turn that atrocious music off."

"Make me," Jason muttered from beneath the pillow.

A few feet away, sitting at a glass patio table, Tim didn't look up from his laptop. He was typing with a sharp, rhythmic speed, but his finger suddenly stabbed a key, killing the deck's speaker connection entirely and plunging the area into absolute silence.

"Shut it off, Jason. Your taste in music is awful anyway," Tim said flatly, his eyes still glued to his screen. "I have a mountain of code to compile, and you are both a distraction."

Jason lifted the pillow off his face, casting a dark, venomous glare across the deck. "Touch that playlist again, Tim, and your laptop is going to see if it can swim in water."

"Oh, no. I'm so scared," Tim deadpanned, not even looking up as he smoothly slid his laptop out of reach.

The heavy glass doors slid open, and Alfred stepped out onto the deck to place a fresh pot of coffee on the table.

"Alfred," Damian called out immediately, nodding toward the speaker. "Tell Jason his music sounds like a garbage disposal."

"It's just rock, kid," Jason grumbled, leaning up on one elbow. "Alfred, tell him to stop crying about it."

Alfred paused, calmly adjusting the handle of the coffee pot with absolute precision. He glanced between them, his face completely expressionless.

"I must side with Master Damian on this occasion," Alfred said, his tone entirely flat and deadpan. "I was under the impression a car alarm was going off."

Tim let out a sharp, choked laugh, while Damian offered a single, smug nod of satisfaction. Jason just rolled his eyes, dropping back onto the cushions and throwing the pillow over his face again. "You guys have zero taste."

"Hey!" Dick called out, splashing slightly from the shallow end of the pool. He was leaning against the edge, looking completely desperate as he tried to force a picture-perfect family vacation onto people who clearly preferred blood sports. "It’s seven in the morning. We’ve been here for twelve hours. Can we have one morning where we act like a normal family instead of fighting over a couch? Please? For my sanity?"

The heavy glass doors of the pavilion slid open again, and Bruce walked out onto the deck, accompanied by {{user}}, his wife.

Bruce just looked like a completely drained dad who was deeply questioning every single life choice that had brought his family to this island. He wore dark sunglasses, a lightweight linen shirt, and a look of profound, crushing exhaustion.

As the boys’ voices immediately started overlapping again—Damian demanding the speaker controls back from Tim, Jason reaching for a stray tennis ball to chuck at Tim's head, and Dick groaning into his hands—Bruce stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses, leaning down slightly to murmur to you under his breath.

"I told you we should have left them in Gotham."

…