Chapter Text
Father had said I was not to harm his “family.”
A rule he chose to mention after I stabbed Drake.
Drake had startled me he touched my shoulder and my body moved it was a reflex I didn’t think I just pulled out my knife and hit him with it. The injury was minor. Superficial. I knew precisely where to strike so it would hurt, not damage. But apparently, in this house, calculated precision was not a comfort.
Father had looked down at Drake—groaning, clutching his side—and then up at me with something cold in his eyes . He looked at me with fury and disappointment.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t draw a blade. He didn’t so much as raise a hand.
Instead, he told me I was grounded.
As if I were a misbehaving house pet.
I was ordered to go to my room. “We’ll talk later,” he said, voice low, too even. In the league when mother or grandfather said we’ll talk later it meant that they were going to hurt him.
I walked up the stairs slowly. Mechanical. I tried to act like I didn’t care, but I could feel the skin between my shoulder blades twitching, waiting for the inevitable snap of a punishment.
In the League, disobedience had consequences. You did not wound your own and walk away. You were corrected. You bled for it. Sometimes you bled for less.
But Father hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t even shouted.
That was worse.
So I didn’t go to my room.
I couldn’t.
I waited until the hallway was empty, then climbed out the window. The ledge outside was narrow, but I knew how to move silently, how to vanish. The city opened before me like a familiar old scar.
I ran until Wayne Manor was far behind me.
⸻
Now I sit, knees to my chest, hidden behind a dumpster in one of Gotham’s alleyways . The sky above dim with smog and cloud. It smells like rot, oil, old food but the discomfort is grounding. Familiar. Real.
I press my back against the wall and try to keep my breathing quiet.
I know I shouldn’t have run. Running makes punishments worse. Running is weakness. Cowardice. Grandfather would have said I deserve tenfold retribution for fleeing correction.
But I didn’t run because I was defiant.
I ran because I was afraid.
Afraid of the silence in Father’s voice.
Afraid of what he might do.
Afraid that he would hurt me.
I hurt his son.
And now I wait for him to find me.
Because I know he will.
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