Chapter Text
There was a spider in the dream. Not a man. Just a spider, small enough to crush.
It dangled from a web that stretched across a city skyline. Gotham below flickered in sick yellow light, sirens painting the roofs red and blue.
The spider crawled toward a figure lying on its back, limbs splayed like wings. His eyes stared straight up, unblinking. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t belong to the living.
Cards spilled around him like fallen feathers—a whole deck, scattered by the wind. Diamonds reflected like shards of glass. Clubs cracked against the pavement. Hearts bled ink.
At the center was the Joker’s card.
When the spider touched him, the figure dissolved into ash with an ugly laughing.
The city cheered. Then booed. Then whispered.
“Hero.”
“Monster.”
“Child.”
The spider did not understand any of the words. It only built its web and waited. Lightning split the sky. For a second, he saw his own reflection in one glowing pane of glass—mask cracked, eyes wide, dry blood covering his face.
“Which one are you?” whispered the reflection, and web disappeared.
He was falling.
He was falling.
He was falling.
He didn’t want to fall!
“TATA!”
He couldn’t breathe.
There was nothing but darkness before his eyes. He felt his chest constrict, felt the air rush in through his nose yet never reach his lungs. The sensation of falling still clung to him, relentless, until, through the edge of the curtains, he caught sight of the rising sun.
His body shuddered as if jolted by electricity. Every muscle ached with tension, his heart hammering against his ribs like a bird desperate to escape. His fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled, searching for something solid to anchor him.
He swallowed hard, taste metallic and sharp, and tried to pull in a deep breath, but it came in jagged, shallow gasps, leaving him dizzy.
He was home.
Peter forced himself to sit up, trembling. The air was cool against his damp skin, sending goosebumps racing down his arms. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady the frantic beat of his heart, but the memory of the nightmare clung like ice in his veins, refusing to release him.
“A dream. Just a dream,” he whispered. It sounded almost like a plea. As if he tried to convince himself.
Once his senses returned, Peter squeezed his eyes shut, a dull headache pulsing at his temples. It felt as though the nightmare had drained every ounce of strength from him, yet he knew sleep would not come again.
He pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the floor. A faint shiver ran through him as the morning chill crept up his skin. Grabbing Nightwing’s sweater from the chair, he pulled it on as he left the room.
The manor was silent. During his time here, Peter had noticed that everyone, except Alfred, and Damian, who followed a schedule only he seemed to understand, rose late. And Peter understood why. He remembered those early mornings after patrols, when May would practically drag him out of bed, setting half-burnt breakfast on the table.
He could almost feel the weight of her gentle scoldings, the soft clatter of pans, the faint hiss of the stove, and the stubborn persistence in her eyes that never let him skip breakfast.
A faint smile touched his lips, and he murmured softly to himself, tasting a bittersweet mix of longing and gratitude.
“I miss your breakfasts, May.”
Peter swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat down along with the tears threatening to surface. May had never liked seeing him sad. She had done everything in her power to make sure Peter never lacked anything. The least he could do now was preserve her memory.
Suddenly, a familiar melody reached his ears and Peter froze mid-step, his eyes widening as a jolt like electricity ran down his spine, raising goosebumps along his skin and making the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. He knew that music. He had heard it hundreds of times.
The Dying Swan.
He had watched Natasha train to that melody countless times in the gym—how every movement of her body had been steeped in pain and loss, how grief seemed to shape each step. And yet, behind it all, there had always been that stillness in her eyes, a quiet, frozen melancholy.
She was sinking into the past, surrendering herself completely to the dance, and Peter watched her with quiet awe, only noticing her smirk at the very end, when she looked straight at him.
“Care to dance?” a soft, gentle voice asked.
Peter blinked sleepily, looking at Cass, who tilted her head slightly, returning his gaze with a faint smile. The music faded away, and the manor once again filled with silence.
Peter hadn’t even realized when his feet had carried him to the studio.
The wall opposite him was lined with mirrors, a ballet barre running along its length. Awakening rays of sunlight slipped through the window, illuminating the part of the room where Cass stood. Her dark hair seemed to catch the light, shimmering softly, and her eyes glowed with a warm, honeyed hue. She watched Peter expectantly, and he felt the lingering, sticky fear left behind by the nightmare begin to loosen its grip.
“Of course,” he gestured, smiling as he stepped into the studio, a little awkwardly. Cass looked him over from head to toe, and Peter could only guess what exactly she was searching for.
Just like Natasha, he thought.
“You’ve trained before,” Cass signed. She no longer used words, speaking to him instead through small, precise gestures.
Peter nodded, slipping his slightly trembling fingers deeper into the sleeves of his sweater, as if the fabric might hide what he couldn’t control.
After a moment’s consideration, Cass tipped her chin toward the barre. “Follow me.”
Peter stepped beside her, turning to face the mirror. For a heartbeat, his pulse surged, hot and erratic, and the reflection seemed to ripple, threatening to twist into the same shadowy illusion that had hunted him through his nightmare.
“Monster.”
The word accusingly hung in the air like ice. Every nerve in his body screamed, his chest tightening as if the letters themselves pressed against his ribs. The glass wavered before him, not quite real, not quite imagination, and he felt that familiar vertigo of falling.
Then a gentle hand settled on his shoulder. He turned to face Cass. She studied him with an unreadable expression, as though she sensed more than he was willing to show. Perhaps he was lucky, or perhaps she understood that he didn’t want to talk. Either way, she said nothing. She simply turned on the music and looked back at him, signing.
“Ready?”
Peter nodded, offering a faint smile, hiding his fear beneath it. Cass began with simple movements of hands and feet. She moved with an effortless grace, the kind that came only from long, disciplined practice. And Peter kept up, muscle memory stirring as Natasha’s lessons resurfaced in his mind.
As he sank into the rhythm of the music and the flow of motion, Peter didn’t notice Cass’s attentive gaze resting on him. Only when she transitioned into plié did he seem to come back to himself, adjusting the position of his arms and bending his knees, mirroring her movements.
“Warming up is important, spiderling. It prepares not just the muscles, but the mind too.”
He didn’t know how much time passed. At some point, Cass stepped closer, helping him with his coordination. Peter focused with careful determination, trying to keep his balance on one leg as he rose onto the ball of his foot. He was stronger than most people, and his heightened awareness allowed him to sense danger before it struck, but even for him, there were things his abilities couldn’t solve. Coordination was one of them.
That was why Peter had loved dancing with Natasha.
Ballet allowed him, sometimes, to feel like an ordinary person. In the same way it had allowed Natasha to feel that not everything had been taken from her.
At some point, they moved into adagio, and Peter did his best to follow Cass. But his mind refused to focus; thoughts of the nightmare had sunk deep into his subconscious, clamping down like iron jaws, refusing to let go. During one of the turns, his coordination slipped. Peter lost his balance and went down, hitting the floor and throwing his hands out just in time to keep himself from breaking his nose.
For a few seconds, he simply lay there, blinking in disorientation.
A soft laugh sounded behind him. Peter pushed himself up onto his knees and turned his head toward Cass. She was smiling openly now, her entire face lit up as she held a hand out to him. The music had faded, leaving the room wrapped in quiet.
Cass’s heartbeat, by contrast, was calm. Steady. She didn’t look tired in the slightest. If anything, she seemed as though she could keep dancing for hours more.
Peter took her hand, feeling warmth bloom at the point of contact. He hadn’t even realized how cold his own hands were.
Cass helped him back to his feet. Tilting her head, she looked him over, then lifted her chin and made a small, decisive gesture.
“Breakfast.”
Peter nodded, tucking his hands deeper into the sleeves of his sweater. His body burned with lingering heat, damp strands of hair clinging to his neck and forehead, yet his limbs felt icy, as though they existed separately from the rest of him.
Moving quietly, Peter headed toward the kitchen, feeling Cass following him. Voices and the soft clatter of dishes were already drifting from that direction, and he focused on them, grounding himself in the familiar sounds of his family.
“Master Dick, I assure you, there is quite enough sugar,” he could hear Alfred’s calm voice, but there was no mistaking the finality in his tone. He clearly had no intention of giving in to manipulation.
Peter frowned slightly. If his father was already awake, just how long had he been in the studio with Cass?
“But Alfred! They’re pancakes,” Dick protested. “There’s no such thing as too much sugar.”
“Big Wing, you’re out of your mind if you think Alfred will let you add more sugar,” Jason remarked evenly.
Peter paused quietly at the doorway, watching as Alfred flipped another batch of pancakes in the pan. Dick hovered nearby, unable to stay still: picking up a fork only to set it back down, reaching for the sugar bowl as if to sprinkle some into the batter, then abandoning that idea to grab a jar of jam, turning it over in his hands.
Jason sat at the table with a book in one hand, sipping his tea slowly, occasionally casting Dick an flat look. Mischief rested on his lap, sleepily twitching an ear.
Damian sat across from him, arms crossed, glaring critically straight at Dick.
“Tt. Richard, if my nephew gets diabetes because of you, I will stab you.”
Peter was certain he caught Alfred’s heavy sigh just before a quiet voice sounded behind him.
“Well? Why are we standing around?”
Peter turned his head and met Duke’s attentive gaze. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, suspended in a kind of silent expectation. Duke’s expression was calm and patient. He wasn’t rushing Peter. He wasn’t pushing him toward something he wasn’t ready to step into.
Peter opened his mouth, trying to say something, but the words lodged in his throat, unmoving. A flicker of panic tightened his chest. He glanced over Duke’s shoulder, searching for Cass. He was sure she had been walking behind him, but she was nowhere to be seen.
And in that instant, Peter felt it.
Helplessness.
“Hey, Peter. It’s okay,” the voice pulled Peter out of the panic that had begun to close in around him. He shifted nervously in place, then looked back at Duke, uncertain of what to expect, but there was understanding in Duke’s eyes. “Want to go in together?”
The tension drained from his shoulders as he finally released a trembling breath, nodding with quiet acknowledgment. Duke moved slowly, as if giving Peter time to process, then placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly before guiding him toward the kitchen.
“Master Dick! Please sit down and wait until I finish breakfast!” Alfred wasn’t shouting, but to Peter it felt like the first time he had ever heard Alfred raise his voice.
Dick immediately pulled his hands away from the stove and dropped into the chair beside Jason, who responded with a pleased smirk. When Alfred’s gaze caught on Peter, however, his voice softened at once.
“Good morning, my dear lad. Sit down. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
Peter nodded and pulled out the chair beside Damian. A flicker of smug satisfaction crossed Damian’s face as he glanced toward Jason, who merely rolled his eyes before looking back at Peter.
“So,” Jason started, “how’d you sleep, Baby Wing?”
In an instant, the spark of life seemed to vanish from Peter’s face. His expression went blank, eyes unfocused, staring past Jason as if the room itself had dissolved. His body felt heavy, disconnected from his mind, as though he was floating just out of reach of himself.
A cold shiver ran down his spine, and his fingers twitched involuntarily, brushing against his knees without purpose. His breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. Inside, his voice screamed—Wake up!—but it didn’t reach his lips. No matter how violently he willed it, he couldn’t move, couldn’t call out. To anyone watching, he was still there, a still figure on the couch, but to himself, he was nowhere at all.
“Peter?” A warm hand settled at the back of his neck, pressing gently before sliding down along his spine in slow, steady circles. “Peter, can you look at me?”
His tongue wouldn’t obey him. Gathering what little will he had left, Peter moved like a puppet pulled by strings, turning his face toward Dick, who was crouched in front of him, worry written openly across his features.
“You’re safe,” Dick promised softly. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Here—can you squeeze my hand?”
Dick extended his other hand toward Peter’s. Only after several seconds did Peter look down, trying to understand what was being asked of him. Dick remained where he was, patient and still.
From somewhere nearby came the quiet clink of kitchen utensils. Alfred continued making pancakes, and Peter anchored his hearing to the familiar rhythm of his movements. He picked up the spatula, slowly turning the pancakes over. The sound of oil sizzling spread through the kitchen in a gentle hiss.
Peter didn’t know how much time had passed, but the hand on his back continued to trace slow, steady circles without stopping. With trembling fingers, Peter grasped the hand resting on his knee, squeezing gently. A relieved breath left his father’s chest in response.
When Peter lifted his gaze, he was met with an encouraging smile.
“Alfred’s almost finished with the pancakes,” Dick said softly. “How about some jam with them?”
Grateful that he didn’t have to answer with words, Peter simply nodded. The smile on Dick’s face brightened instantly.
“Great! Strawberry or peach?”
The question made Peter flinch involuntarily. Panic flickered through him as he looked up into the blue eyes in front of him, pleading. For the briefest moment, sadness crossed Dick’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a warm light.
“Squeeze my hand once if it’s strawberry. Twice if it’s peach.”
Peter hated peaches. Peter knew that.
He squeezed Dick’s hand once, watching as Dick’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Hey, Alfred! Strawberry jam for Peter.”
“Of course, Master Dick,” came Alfred’s gentle reply.
Peter blinked a few times, managing to pull his gaze away from his father’s face and fix it instead on Alfred’s back. Nearby, a chair creaked softly as Dick sat down beside him, his hand still resting reassuringly against Peter’s spine. Duke took the seat next to Jason, whose sharp and watchful gaze remained trained on Peter, but Peter didn’t acknowledge it. He stayed focused on the precise, practiced movements of Alfred’s hands.
Something soft jumped onto his lap. Instinctively, Peter ran his free hand through warm fur. Mischief.
“Well, I’m curious,” Jason began, suspicion clear in his voice. “What exactly are the qualifications for cats becoming gods?”
“Jay…” Dick exhaled quietly over Peter’s head.
“No, seriously. What are the odds that this—” Jason gestured vaguely toward the cat on Peter’s lap, “—isn’t just another god from a different universe?”
To Peter’s surprise, no one answered.
He could have explained that gods didn’t work like that, but instead, he withdrew deeper into himself, anchoring to the present moment, to the weight of the cat, the sound of Alfred moving in the kitchen. He wanted to stay invisible.
He was afraid to see disgust on his family’s faces. Afraid they would turn away from him after what he had done.
Spider-Man had become a killer.
And it didn’t matter that the thing he had killed was a monster.
After all, only a monster can kill another monster.
“Breakfast is ready,” Alfred announced, setting the pancakes on the table.
Damian was the first to grab a plate. He filled it generously and placed it in front of Peter, then handed him a fork. There was understanding in Damian’s gaze, but none of the pity or sorrow that twisted Peter’s stomach into knots.
And so Peter managed a small smile. Weak, but genuine, saying the first words this morning.
“Thank you, Uncle Damian.”
Dick had woken up in a good mood.
Jason had stayed the night at the manor—at Dick’s request. Alfred was making breakfast. And Dick was waiting for Peter to wake up. He had a few ideas for how he wanted to spend Saturday with his son.
But the moment Peter stepped into the kitchen, all of Dick’s plans faded into the background.
His son could barely manage a few words, chewing Alfred’s pancakes slowly and in silence under everyone’s watchful eye.
Dick noticed everything—Peter’s quietness, his reluctance to draw attention to himself, the way his shoulders curled inward as if he were trying to blend into his surroundings, to disappear.
Dick’s heart ached at the sight of his son looking so lost. There was nothing he could do about it—nothing except offer support. And Dick hated that feeling of helplessness.
After breakfast, Peter still looked unsettled, instinctively pulling away from everyone. Jason noticed it too, and latched onto the idea immediately.
“I’m exhausted after yesterday’s patrol,” Jason informed, stretching his arms overhead and putting on an exaggeratedly tired expression. “How about a movie?”
Normally, Dick would have scoffed at the theatrics. This time, he nodded, mirroring a yawn.
“Not a bad idea, Little Wing. My bones aren’t what they used to be.”
“Tt. That’s because you don’t train enough, Richard,” Damian lifted his chin. “Your discipline is atrocious.”
But even as he spoke, Damian grabbed Peter by the hand and steered him toward the living room with the television.
Dick barely managed to suppress a full grin, pride swelling in his chest at the sight of his younger brother.
Jason and Dick followed after them.
“He’s not okay,” his brother whispered quietly. Dick pressed his lips together, fully aware of what Jason meant. A week had passed since the events with the Joker, and no matter how hard Dick tried, every time he opened his mouth, Peter found a way to shut down the conversation. And how Dick hated that trait. That painfully familiar trait. “He’s just like you,” Jason continued. “He’ll deny his own feelings until they erupt into aggression—”
“Or depression,” Dick cut in, exhaling with raw pain. He couldn’t shake the image of Peter in the bathroom, wrists cut. The thought that something like that might happen again clawed at him. That this time, Peter might choose it consciously, without being under the fear toxin.
But what could Dick do?
If he could, he would take all of Peter’s pain onto himself. But he couldn’t. And he blamed himself for it. Because if only he were stronger…faster…if only he…
“Don’t you dare, Dickwing,” Jason hissed sharply, his voice laced with unmistakable aggression.
Dick turned to meet the full force of those green eyes, blazing with that familiar Lazarus madness. Before he could take another step, Jason’s hand shot out and clamped around his elbow, grip painfully tight, like iron wrapped around bone.
Dick flinched at the sudden pressure, a jolt running up his arm, his muscles instinctively tensing. He could feel the heat of Jason’s skin, the controlled strength in the grasp, and the unyielding weight of his gaze pinned him in place
“You cannot blame yourself for what is not your fault. You cannot fall down that rabbit hole when you have a son.”
Dick swallowed the lump of bitterness in his throat, feeling the weight of having failed Peter, and now Jason too, who had always stood by him. He felt like a terrible father. So many times he had criticized Bruce for his mistakes, and now he was making them himself, clueless as to how to fix them.
“If you don’t hurry, we’ll start the movie without you!” Duke’s voice called out.
Dick exhaled in relief, stepping away from Jason, who let go of his arm, and headed toward the living room, smirking over his shoulder.
“Let’s go. I don’t want to hear your complaints about missing the whole point of the movie.”
But Jason didn’t smile back. He kept his sharp eyes on Dick, and a shiver ran down Dick’s spine. Finally, Jason nodded and walked past him with quick, decisive steps, but when their eyes met, he leaned in and whispered, dead serious.
“Don’t think I’m going to let this go easily, Big Wing.”
Dick rolled his eyes, hiding his own feelings behind a practiced smile and casual confidence, showing a bright, easy grin.
“As you say, Little Wing.”
Dick settled onto the sofa next to Peter, with a contented Mischief perched on his lap, quietly purring. Damian sat on the other side, holding remote in hand. Jason flopped onto the other couch beside Duke, scowling at the half-empty living room.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Master Bruce and Master Tim are still sleeping. Considering they worked on the case until four this morning, I expect we’ll see them closer to lunchtime,” Alfred replied, as measured as ever, bringing over mugs of tea.
Dick noticed Jason’s jaw tighten at the mention of Bruce, but he said nothing. Instead, he asked,
“And the girls?”
“Miss Stephanie returned home this morning. She said she wanted to visit her mother,” Alfred said nothing about Cass, and a familiar spike of worry stirred in Dick’s chest. He gripped his mug of tea, the warmth seeping into his palms, and let out a small hum of his own amusement at the drink.
“The last time her return home ended with her mother’s boyfriend's house on fire.”
“Then let’s hope her mother’s new suitor has good insurance,” Alfred answered evenly, departing the living room with that same impeccable stride, leaving everyone exchanging uncertain glances as the opening credits began to roll on the screen.
All the while, Dick kept an occasional glance on Peter out of the corner of his eye, listening to Jason’s biting comments and Damian’s sharp observations, feeling a mix of amusement and concern as his son stayed quietly tucked into his own world.
“Tt. How could parents forget their own child at home? They should be sentenced to death,” Damian frowned, his small frame stiff with indignation.
Jason waved a lazy hand, dripping sarcasm. “Sure, let’s sentence every other parent to death. That definitely doesn’t scream genocide.”
Dick blinked several times, unsure what they were talking about, until it clicked—they were watching Home Alone.
“Tata,” Peter called softly.
Dick straightened immediately, every muscle taut as his attention snapped to his son. But when Peter’s brown eyes locked onto him with that familiar determination, that stubborn resolve Dick knew so well, unease knotted his stomach.
“I want to go on patrol with you today.”
Dick’s heart plummeted into his stomach, his blood turning to ice in his veins. Every instinct screamed to say ‘no’, filled with worry and desperation, but he knew this wouldn’t work.
“I… I can’t—”
Dick trailed off, unsure what he could even say. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Peter home. He knew it. But oh, how he wished he could shield his son from this life behind the mask. How he hoped.
Peter, interpreting his hesitation as refusal, crossed his arms stubbornly, dead eyes locking onto Dick’s. Now his tone carried a challenge.
“You can’t stop me.”
The room went silent; all eyes fixed on father and son.
Dick ignored the sharp edge in Peter’s gaze and rubbed his face wearily, brushing his hair back with the heel of his hand. He wasn’t naive. He knew the best way to keep Peter safe was to stay close, even if he hated it.
“Only if you promise to stay within my sight,” he said firmly, every word stripped of playfulness. If Peter disobeyed, Dick would find a way to keep him home. Even if it meant asking Constantine to babysit him.
The frown faded from Peter’s face. He smiled up at Dick and pressed closer to him.
“Of course, tata. I promise.”
“New promises?” Bruce’s voice cut in suddenly, and Dick snapped his head toward him, hearing the familiar crack of his own spine. “What have I missed?”
Bruce was still in pajamas, holding a newspaper in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He tilted his head slightly, a faint smile on his face, watching Peter expectantly.
At that moment, Jason rose from the couch. All his usual sarcasm had vanished; his movements were stiff, almost mechanical, as if he were forcing himself to move. He scanned everyone in the room, but deliberately avoided looking at Bruce, as if keeping some boundary between them. His hands curled slightly at his sides, fingers flexing with suppressed tension. But then he flatly declared.
“Well, I’ve got things to do. See you tonight.”
“Jaylad…” Bruce tried to stop him, but Jason brushed past, completely ignoring his sorrowful gaze.
Dick exhaled heavily. Over the past week, he had barely managed to convince Jason to stay at the manor. His brother had been doing everything he could to avoid Bruce, while Bruce, in turn, was doing everything he could to reach him.
It was a vicious cycle, and they were all drowning in it.
“Grandpa! I’m going on patrol with you today!”
Peter declared it with a grin, looking far livelier than he had at breakfast. For Dick, that was enough. Enough to make his chest loosen, to quiet the knot of fear that had been coiling there all morning.
Bruce, however, didn’t share his excitement. Dick noticed the crease deepening on his father’s forehead, the way his eyes flickered with calculations, and the faint tension in his jaw. He could see Bruce wrestling with the Dark Knight persona he carried like armor.
When his gaze slid to Dick, Dick was looking back at him with a mixture of pleading and warning. He was ready to tear Bruce apart with his bare hands if he dared to say a single word, but to his surprise, Bruce’s lips lifted in a faint, relaxed smile, softening his features.
“Really? Well, in that case, I’d be happy to give a lesson in Batmobile driving.”
“Bruce!” Dick exclaimed, horror rising in his chest, unable to even imagine Peter behind the wheel.
“Father, you still don’t allow me to drive,” Damian frowned, earning a raised eyebrow in response.
“I didn’t say I’d allow it. I only said I’d give the lesson,” Bruce replied, and noticing Dick’s tense glare, he added carefully, “In case of an emergency, he should have the skill.”
“They say grandfathers are always softer on their grandchildren than they are on their children,” Duke remarked in mild astonishment.
Peter, ignoring everyone, suddenly leapt off the couch, forgetting entirely about the movie. Mischief followed, landing lightly on the floor, tail flicking nervously sensing the disruption.
“Mr. Stark once tried to teach me, but it ended with a wrecked car. He said…” but just as quickly as it had appeared, the spark of excitement drained from Peter. His face elongated, eyes hollowing out, and his shoulders stiffened into rigid lines. The sentence hung unfinished in the air, as if swallowed by the sudden weight pressing down from within him.
Dick rose instinctively, confusion etched across his face, watching his son step back sharply from Bruce. Peter’s voice was calm—eerily calm—as he spoke, almost detached.
“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. I’ll go to my room.”
It was like a switch had flipped. Dick barely had time to say anything before Peter vanished from the living room, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
“What…?” Dick stammered, staring at his son’s retreating back, torn between giving him space and rushing after him to make sure he was okay.
“Damn it,” Duke muttered.
Dick turned to look at him, frowning, and when Duke silently pointed toward the newspaper in Bruce’s hand, Dick’s gaze fell on it. He felt a chill crawl down his spine staring at the headline of the Gotham Gazette.
“Is Spider Gotham’s New Monster? Citizens Fear the Joker’s Legacy Lives On.”
Hugo lounged in the shadows of his office, the blinds cutting thin lines of light across his desk. The newspaper lay in front of him, and he picked it up with long, deliberate fingers. The headline leapt out at him.
“Is Spider Gotham’s New Monster? Citizens Fear the Joker’s Legacy Lives On.”
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. His eyes behind the glasses glinted with amusement, almost predatory.
“Spider…” he murmured in a low and rough voice, savoring the syllables. “How deliciously…convenient.”
He tapped a finger against the paper, tracing the letters as if testing their weight. He didn’t know this Spider, didn’t care about his face or his name, but the idea of the boy behind the mask fascinated him. A young, powerful creature, feared by the city—an experiment practically begging to happen.
Hugo leaned back, letting the shadows swallow him. “Oh, you’ll be far more interesting up close,” he whispered, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see just how far I can push you. How much fear…how much control…”
He found his new masterpiece.