#**Enigma | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

echo-exco · 2 months ago

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❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | next.

There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.

Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.

And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.

A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.

From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.

You clung to that.

To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.

The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt. If every healing left another scar on you. If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.

As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”

Your existence and your power meant something.

Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.

Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.

That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.

Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you.

A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.

Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.

It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.

They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.

For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.

And now? Now you live among strangers.

An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.

Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.

It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.

Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.

You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.

These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.

No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.

Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.

He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.

He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.

But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.

What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.

Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.

But he doesn’t understand.

When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.

Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.

At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.

You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.

You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.

And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.

That’s what hurt the most.

So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.

But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?

Why do you still need him to see you?

Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.

Because with you, it was always different.

From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.

“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”

“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”

“Next time, I promise.”

He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.

You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.

And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?

So you did the same.

You avoided them. One by one.

You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.

It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.

But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.

Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.

Jason, Tim, Damian…

Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.

The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.

It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.

But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.

You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.

Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.

So, you avoid him.

Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.

Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.

Almost clinical.

You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.

Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.

The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.

Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.

Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.

Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.

It’s not affection between you.

It’s a sort of tacit alliance.

Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.

You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.

You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.

You don’t want that for yourself.

You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...

You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.

They can’t give you purpose.

They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.

You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.

Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.

The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.

You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."

No one found it funny.

Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.

Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.

The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.

They weren’t. Not yet.

You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.

Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.

Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?

That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.

It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.

The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.

That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.

Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.

She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.

And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.

People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.

Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.

Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.

Not once.

It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.

Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.

Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.

Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?

It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.

Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.

What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.

It was the mask.

It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.

The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.

You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.

And yet, you prefer them this way.

Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.

Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.

Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.

Until you found him.

The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:

A miracle.

He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.

He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:

A weapon.

A tool.

A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."

Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.

Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.

It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.

The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.

But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.

But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.

Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...

Not even that belongs to you.

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echo-exco · 27 days ago

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❝OH DOCTOR, THAT’S TOO HONEST! THEN PRETEND YOU DON’T HEAR ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | prev. | next.

Gotham was a charming city.

Not for its architecture, nor its people, never its people, but for what it represented: a machine of constant pain, unpredictable, volatile. A city where you could do something truly filthy and, if you did it with the right smile, you didn’t just walk away unscathed, you walked away applauded. Gotham was charming because it suffered.

And suffering was the only honest thing humanity had left.

Masashi leaned back in the chair of his suite, one leg crossed over the other as he observed the city through the window of the building where he had temporarily settled, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. Sirens, screams, flashing lights, helicopters flying overhead.

"Like an infected wound." He thought, with something that resembled a smile.

Gotham was a city screaming for help in every language possible, but its so-called heroes didn’t know how to do anything but slap band-aids over a gaping throat.

What a waste of time.

What annoyed him were the parasites who wanted to cleanse it. Vigilantes, justice seekers, heroes. That obsession with fixing, restoring, healing. Such absurd arrogance. Gotham was beautiful precisely because it couldn’t be fixed. Trying only deepened its fractures.

The vigilantes were a plague. Not because of what they represented—morality, hope, the rigidity of what's “right”—but because of how useless they were to those who truly wanted to build something. Their existence forced Masashi to look over his shoulder more than he liked.

It wasn’t that he feared them.

They bored him.

They interfered with his research, his work. And to him, that translated into contempt.

They almost discovered him once. Just once. And that was enough to make important decisions.

That was how he sent you away.

Y/N.

His dear one. His.

The first time he saw you, he didn’t think you were special. Just another child. Small, quiet, with that broken, lost look in your eyes that made others uncomfortable. But not him.

Masashi was fascinated by it.

You were a broken child, empty, but useful. Obedient, starving for purpose. Masashi liked that about you. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t disobey, and you looked at him as if he held all the answers. For someone like Masashi, it was almost perfect.

Then he knew. The child he had been molding all this time wasn’t just any child, you were Bruce Wayne’s daughter.

Disgust hit instantly.

Not toward you. Never toward you.

His emotions turned to annoyance. Then anger. Then a dense silence that lasted for weeks. How could someone like him have a daughter without knowing it? A part of Masashi laughed. Another part seethed. Not because of the revelation itself, but because it meant he would have to send you away.

The very existence of Bruce Wayne made him sick. And now he had to send you —his little girl, his—to that man, to someone else.

That thing he had so carefully shaped.

You weren’t Bruce’s.

You belonged to Masashi. You were his.

Masashi had wanted to laugh. Maybe hit something. Maybe both.

But in the end, he only looked at you. At that little broken thing that clung to her threads and needles as if they were her only identity. So calm. So eager to serve. So hungry for purpose. And so absolutely his.

That was when he saw it clearly.

Masashi traced a finger along the rim of his porcelain teacup. Still warm—white tea with mint. Gotham didn’t know how to appreciate subtle flavors, but he did. Just like he appreciated you.

You left because he told you to. Because you trusted him. Because you still believed he wanted what was best for you.

And he did.

But what was best for you was to return to your place, by his side.

Masashi turned his wrist and opened a folder on the table. Matte-printed photographs, hacked reports, camera captures: you entered and exited the least-used wing of the mansion, avoiding contact. Slipping through like a ghost.

No one suspected. Not even your own father.

What a fascinating family. So powerful, yet so blind. So full of justice and so incapable of seeing the rot in their own actions.

Masashi gently touched one of the photos. You had just left a pharmacy with a bag in hand. Your face was partially covered by a scarf, but he recognized the stiffness in your shoulders. That restrained expression of someone hurting from the inside out.

You were desperate.

And he knew it perfectly. His poor, sweet Y/N, suffocating and hopeless from not being able to use your powers. Not being able to feel alive must be horrible, right?

Because no one but Masashi could understand you, no one else could interpret your powers. Especially not your family of heroes.

Sending you to Gotham was risky, yes, but brilliant. If Batman discovered something, he’d be distracted. If not, you’d collapse on your own. You’d be forgotten, left aside, just another child without skills or value.

And when that happened, when abandonment took root, when your need to stitch, to heal, to feel useful became unbearable—then you’d return. Crawling if you had to. Crying if it came to that.

Because again, the pieces fit together with beautiful precision.

He watched you for so long. At first, you were just a lost child, broken, desperate for purpose. But when your powers blossomed—when those grotesquely perfect healing techniques emerged, with pain, with blood, and with that childish sense of “helping”—Masashi understood something deeper: he could mold you. Give you purpose. Make you functional. Dependent.

And you… you obeyed him. Every order. Every correction. Even when it hurt. Even when you cried. Even when you laughed. You clung to him with a blind faith that almost resembled absolute devotion. Blind. Perfect.

He made you feel useful. And that was all you needed to stay.

Now you were in Gotham. Surrounded by people who didn’t understand you, who didn’t see your power, who didn’t know you had a purpose. Who would make you feel invisible. Useless. Forgotten. It was perfect. Eventually, you would need to use your ability. You’d crave it. It would consume you. Because your worth, your whole life, depended on it. And when you used it wrong, when you hurt others thinking you were helping, when your hands left scars instead of cures…

Then you could start to break.

Masashi allowed himself a calm smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring it.

He still remembered when you used to scold him with your brows furrowed because he wasn’t “following protocol.” It was funny because you’d puff your cheeks like you were playing at being an adult. A little girl pretending to be serious. And still, so precise. So dedicated. So… his.

“It’s adorable.” He murmured to himself with mocking tenderness, intertwining his fingers with surgical care. “That thought of yours... believing you’re saving lives. Thinking that makes you good. Thinking you're in control.”

He found it endearing. Touching, even. And he couldn’t wait to see you crumble when you realized it was all a lie.

That you never had a choice.

That you weren’t even a complete person.

Just a weapon.

His weapon.

His, again.

Masashi smiled, almost fondly.

Gotham was charming, yes.

But even more charming was how it devoured its own.

And you, his sweet Y/N, were about to be devoured.

Masashi wanted this moment etched in your mind. He had sent you to Gotham so you would remember him.

And it was time to come for you.

Masashi knew he would go after you.

Not because you were ready.

But because you would think you were.

Because that was the perfect moment. When you believe you’re making a choice, when you think you’re choosing—that’s when the success of a mold is truly tested. Not when someone obeys out of fear. Not when someone obeys out of need.

But when they believe they obey by their own will.

And he had worked toward that all along. That was the goal. Not to break you with force, but to make you collapse from within and still look at him with devotion.

Like a dog rescued from a burning house running into the arms of the man who set it on fire.

Masashi could wait for you. He knew you’d come. Maybe with wounds. Maybe with tears. Maybe covered in blood.

But you’d come.

Because no one else would understand what you’d done. No one would know why it hurt so much not to help. No one would see your scars as acts of love.

Only him.

The thought made him smile.

Not because he needed you.

Masashi didn’t need anything from you. Not your affection. Not your voice. Not your gratitude. He already owned you. Every part of you. Every decision. Every thought.

But if you returned.

If you crossed that door on your own, no orders, no chains, no begging...

Then it would be real.

His masterpiece would be complete.

And you... you would think you had chosen him.

“Come for me, Y/N.” He whispered into the darkness of his study, eyes fixed on the monitor where your trembling silhouette exited a pharmacy, alone. “Do it yourself.”

“Make me real.”

Because if you chose him, if your voice called for him, if your hands touched him like it was right...

Then there’d be no denying the truth.

You weren’t his victim.

You were his.

Because nothing is sweeter to a master than a pet who returns by her own will.

The trip back felt longer than it really was.

Maybe it was the accumulated exhaustion. Or maybe it was the anticipation. Because Duke had been waiting weeks, if not months, for this moment. And not just to return home, to his room, to his city. This time was different. This time, he was coming back with a purpose he hadn’t anticipated.

The mission was only supposed to last a couple of weeks. A request for international aid, evacuation, containment, the usual. Just one of many favors extended to allied cities when they couldn’t handle an outbreak, a disaster, or a social crisis on their own. But bureaucratic delays, unstable weather, and an unexpected surge of meta-human activity in Eastern Europe turned his short assignment into a long, tense stretch, where every day felt like a forced extension of the last.

Still, even in the middle of the chaos—even when the radio failed, even when the reports mentioned missing civilians, even when he had to sleep in makeshift shelters beneath collapsed structures—he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.

The news had come with the kind of simplicity that important things often have when said by someone who doesn’t understand their weight.

“We have a new sister. She lives with us now.”

It was a message from Dick, short and without context, as if he were announcing a grocery run. Duke read it three times before reacting. First he frowned. Then he blinked. After that, he simply froze, as if waiting for the phone to buzz again—this time with a joke, a clarification, an explanation. Nothing came.

He stared at the screen. His distorted reflection in the glass, marked by dark circles and raised eyebrows.

A new sister. Just like that.

And technically, it wasn’t like he didn’t already have sisters. Cassandra, Stephanie, even Barbara, if you counted the way everyone spoke of her with such casual closeness. But none of them had joined the family from scratch. None had been a younger sister in the truest sense. They had all come with their own traumas, their own broken pasts, their visible (or invisible) scars.

But you… you were different.

Young. Almost Damian’s age, they told him. You had no training. You weren’t a vigilante. You hadn’t been rescued from a criminal organization or a violent past, and you didn’t seem to be connected to the usual madness that followed the family. You were just… there. As if you'd been left on the doorstep and Bruce had simply said, “It’s fine. She stays.”

At first, that idea confused him. What kind of girl ends up living with Bruce Wayne? What were the adoption criteria now? Where was the tragic backstory? The loss? The dramatic turning point?

But then he thought it through. And he started to feel excited.

Because for the first time, maybe they had a sister who hadn’t been broken before arriving. Someone who wouldn’t look at them with the tired eyes of someone who had already lost everything. Someone who could learn to love them, not as fellow soldiers or fractured figures to fear or admire, but simply as brothers.

He promised himself he’d get it right with you. He’d introduce himself with a smile, maybe a gift. He’d apologize for not being there from the beginning, but do everything he could to catch up. He even began making a mental list of things he could bring you: books, candy, a stuffed animal if you were very young. Would you like music? Comics? Did you have a favorite character? Favorite colors?

During one of his transfers, he took out his phone and texted Tim. Just to be sure.

“Hey. What do you think our new sister might like? Her name was Y/N, right?”

The reply took a while. Long enough for unease to creep in.

Finally, Tim answered:

“Who? Y/N? I don’t know… I think anything’s fine.”

Duke blinked. Pressed his lips together. Texted again:

“What does she like to do? Colors? Books, movies, music, anything?”

The silence lasted even longer this time.

Until the response came:

“She doesn’t bother anyone. She’s quiet. Doesn’t cause problems. Give her anything, she’ll probably be fine.”

And that’s when Duke felt it, an unexpected sting.

Not jealousy. Not annoyance. Something deeper. Colder.

Concern.

Because that wasn’t a description. It wasn’t a thoughtful answer. It was what someone says when they don’t actually know. It was what people say about someone they’ve barely looked at.

And it didn’t make sense. If you’d been living in the manor for so long, how was it possible that no one knew anything concrete? No hobbies? No funny stories? No quirks? A weird phrase? Something?

He thought about how everyone talked about Damian. Or Cass. Even Jason. There was always something. There was always context. But with you, there was only a void.

And the more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he became. Not because it was odd, but because it forced him to ask a question he didn’t want to ask: What if they’ve been ignoring her?

When he got to Gotham, instead of heading straight to the manor, he stopped by a quiet café, sat by the window, pulled out his phone and started searching.

News. Rumors. Photos. Blogs. Anything.

Bruce Wayne adopting a girl, that kind of news should’ve been everywhere. A media bomb. The usual circus. But this time… nothing. Almost nothing at all.

And what little he found was worse than scandal: it was passive-aggressive criticism, veiled mockery. Cruel comments. “The bland new addition.” “Some random girl.” “Looks more like the help than a daughter.” Some headlines were more offensive, others simply dismissive. But they all agreed on one thing: you didn’t stand out.

You were invisible.

And that hurt. Not for him. For you.

Because to be defamed, at least someone has to be watching. But to have nothing… that means you’re completely disposable in the world’s eyes.

He wanted to believe it wasn’t true. Maybe it was part of a plan to protect you. Maybe you’d asked for privacy. Maybe the media just hadn’t caught a clear photo. But then he remembered Tim’s messages, the dry way he answered, the lack of stories, the absence of detail, of warmth.

And suddenly, the idea didn’t feel so far-fetched.

What if it wasn’t the media ignoring you?

What if everyone was?

How quiet, how invisible did you have to be for even the nosiest family in Gotham to be unable to describe you in more than five empty words?

That’s when he made his decision.

It wasn’t just excitement. It wasn’t simple curiosity. It was something bigger. A necessity.

He was going to get to know you. For real. With time, with patience, with intention. Not just as someone who lived under the same roof—but as his little sister.

Because if no one else had bothered to really see you, then he would.

And nothing, not distance, not lost time, not the silence that surrounded you, was going to change that.

Sure, maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. But Duke would make sure to truly see you. It was his duty and responsibility as your big brother.

One he would gladly accept.

Bruce wasn’t a stranger to insomnia. Or to cold coffee, misprinted reports scattered across his desk, or endless searches that led to nothing but empty streets and blurred faces. He had lived his whole life with those things. But that night—and many before it—he realized something was different. This time, he wasn’t just chasing a ghost. He was turning his back on someone real.

His daughter.

His daughter. The word still lodged in his chest, too large and too fragile to hold. Not out of shame, or doubt, but because of what it meant.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to act around you. He didn’t know what to say to you. He didn’t know how to look at you without feeling like he owed you a debt he would never be able to repay. Because you were there, in the mansion, under his roof, among his family… and he didn’t have a single memory with you. Nothing. Just paperwork. A DNA test. A young face in a photograph taken without care. A medical history that felt more empty than complete.

He didn’t have stories from when you were a child. He didn’t know if you had a favorite stuffed animal. If you liked to sleep with the lights on. If you were ever afraid of storms. If you had been sick and no one noticed. If someone had taught you how to read. He didn’t know if you liked hot chocolate or preferred tea. If you woke up early. If you were scared of bats.

He didn’t know anything.

And that destroyed him more than he was willing to admit.

He could pretend he was busy. That the city needed him. That the looming threat that had begun to stir overseas—that faceless, nameless shadow—was more urgent. And, in part, it was.

There was something out there. Something that moved with precision, that knew how to cover its tracks, that manipulated medical, financial, even governmental networks with a level of control he hadn’t seen in years. Something that had been right under his nose, and now was starting to knock at Gotham’s door.

It had started as a rumor. A clandestine medical operation with impossible results. Then a series of disappearances disguised as voluntary transfers. Patients who never returned. People who reappeared healed, yes, but with vacant expressions and wounds sealed in ways that defied logic. Then, an unsigned file. A lead that went nowhere. Just a face distorted by the digital fog of an old camera. No name. No fingerprint. No record in any country. Just a few dead doctors who, in hushed voices, had spoken a single word: him.

And every time Bruce took a step forward, something pushed him two steps back. Databases locked. Footage disappeared. Witnesses recanted. Someone was cleaning up the trail in real time. Someone extremely intelligent. Extremely meticulous. Extremely dangerous.

And still… that wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was that Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you had spent years close to someone like that.

Because while the data on that man was a black hole, yours was, too. Every attempt to reconstruct your life led to a wall: medical records redacted, schools that didn’t exist, false addresses. Everything had been carefully erased. The only constant was a name, scribbled on one of the first files: the mother.

That woman.

Bruce clenched his jaw. Closed the file.

He didn’t like holding grudges. He’d learned that anger made him careless. But deep down, he couldn’t help the sting that rose every time he thought of her. Not for keeping him out of the equation. Not for denying him the chance to raise you as his daughter from the start. But for the danger she had put you in.

If your mother had just said something. A letter. A message. A signal. Bruce would’ve moved heaven and earth to protect you both. He’d done more for less. But no. Instead, you, his daughter, had reached him like a distant echo, like a consequence no one had bothered to explain fully.

And now, you were here. In the same house. Sleeping under the same roof. Eating at the same table. Walking through the same halls.

And he knew nothing about you.

Not even your favorite color.

All he knew was that you were quiet. That you never asked for anything. That you locked yourself in your room and avoided everyone. That your siblings treated you with the empty politeness people offer to a well-mannered stranger. That you didn’t complain. That you didn’t make noise.

And somehow… that was the worst part.

Because Bruce recognized that kind of silence. He had seen it before. In children trained to obey without speaking. In victims who had learned to make themselves invisible to survive. In himself, when he was a child and Gotham had torn everything away from him and the only thing he could control was his own silence.

He didn’t want you to be like that.

He didn’t want you to feel like a shadow in your own home.

But he couldn’t go to you. Not now. Not while that thing, that man, that something, was still out there, lurking from the shadows. He couldn’t risk getting distracted. He couldn’t promise you time and then fail you. He couldn’t say I’m here when every part of his mind was caught in that case without a face, without a voice, without a trail.

So he watched from afar.

Sometimes he heard your steps on the ground floor. Or saw you passing by on the security monitors. Sometimes his reports showed up neatly organized on his desk, someone had brought them, and he’d find a note in simple handwriting: Thank you for letting me stay here. No signature. Just that. Short. Calm.

Too calm.

And every time Bruce read those words, he swore he’d fix it. That he just needed time. He just needed to find that man. That ghost. Take him down. Stop him.

And then—

Then he’d give you every minute. He would learn everything about you. Ask how you liked your breakfast. Teach you what it meant to be part of a family. To fight, if you wanted. To defend yourself. He would tell you about your mother, about the Waynes, about the mistakes he’d made. He would tell you that you didn’t have to be useful to stay. That you didn’t have to be quiet to be loved. That you are his daughter, and that’s enough.

Bruce leaned over the files. Closed the notebook filled with nameless leads. Took a deep breath. He wanted to be with you. Wanted to sit beside you and ask how your day had been. See if you liked storybooks. Take you to the park. Help with your homework. Ask if you had a favorite friend. If you were afraid of the dark. If you wanted a bat-shaped nightlight.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not while that man, that someone, was still loose. Not while he didn’t know who he was. Not while he couldn’t guarantee that his daughter was completely safe.

Because this time, it wasn’t Robin. It wasn’t Nightwing. It wasn’t a vigilante.

You were just a child.

And Bruce swore he would do whatever it took to make sure you could stay that way.

Even if he had to hunt a ghost first.

But first…

First, he had to find that man.

First, he had to get him out of the way.

And then, with everything clean, everything quiet, with the shadows gone, he could finally be a father.

Someone better.

Someone you deserved.

After all, Bruce still had time to get to know his daughter.

And he would make sure of it. Personally.

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