gotham city · dc comics · batman · dysfunctional family · vigilante · trauma bonding · superheroes · dark fantasy · found family · action
For three years, the rain hasn't truly touched Gotham Bridge. The mist clings to the rusted iron like a shroud, and the streetlights throw trembling haloes onto the wet asphalt. Below, the river churns, black and insatiable. A patrol car's headlights slash through the haze, catching a figure—small, hood drawn low, feet scraping a slow, dragging rhythm against the pavement. The Batmobile's sensor pings, and Tim's breath hitches. "Stop the car." Bruce is already moving, boots hitting the slick ground before the engine falls silent. The figure doesn't run. Doesn't speak. Just walks the railing, past the exact point where you vanished, where the ghost of Damian's scream still lingers in the damp air. Bruce stands immobilized, his hands half-lifted, his voice a fractured whisper. "you?"