Inheritance of Shadows

by Pistolbag

Chapter 14: I'm Fine

Summary:

Cassandra is fine.

Cassandra is also a liar.

Notes:

I apologize if this reading is a bit chaotic.

She ended up grounded. 

And depending on who you asked, the decision might have seemed not only reasonable but inevitable. Barbara’s rationale was measured, pragmatic, rooted in the idea that boundaries meant safety, and safety meant survival. Bruce, of course, didn’t need to explain himself—his presence alone carried the weight of a thousand unspoken rules. In his world, discipline wasn’t an emotional reaction; it was a system. An architecture of expectations and responses, built on precision, on control, on the idea that chaos could only ever be held at bay, never destroyed. Rules weren’t there to be challenged. They were there to remind you of the cost of deviation, and in their lives, that cost was often written in blood. So yes, grounding Cassandra made a certain kind of cold, logical sense. But that didn’t mean Cassandra had to like it. In fact, she hated it—all of it. 

Yes, okay—it had been reckless. Even she could admit that now, with the clarity that came only in the stillness after everything had already gone wrong. She hadn’t meant to be careless, not really. But in the moment Robin had asked her—quietly, carefully—what was wrong, she’d turned away, and did what she had always done—closed the door, shut the world out, and bore it in silence. Because she was fine, and why wouldn’t she believe that? Pain had never been an enemy; it was a companion, something familiar and honest in a world that so often wasn’t. Pain didn’t demand explanations. It didn’t look at her with concern. It didn’t ask her to be vulnerable. And so, when the adrenaline had faded and the low ache in her arm had begun to blossom into something deeper, sharper, she still didn't open the door. 

Hours passed. She sat on her bed unmoving, her breath shallow, her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, refusing to look down at the mottled bruising that had begun to bloom across her skin like spilled ink. She pressed her fingers to it once—lightly—and felt the grind of something not quite right beneath the surface. But even then, she said nothing. 

It wasn’t until Barbara found her that the lie unraveled. The door had creaked open with no warning, and in that quiet moment of intrusion, everything had collapsed. Barbara didn’t raise her voice, didn’t scold or demand explanations. She didn’t need to. The look on her face—shock melting into worry, then something heavier, more disappointed—was worse than anything she could have said. Cassandra had tried to explain, but the words never came. She had no language for guilt, no easy way to translate the way shame curled in her chest like smoke. All she could do was look away, arm cradled awkwardly at her side, while Barbara crossed the room and gently, without a word, she took Cassandra’s hand and turned it over to reveal the bruise—the damage she hadn’t spoken of. And in that quiet, Cassandra felt the weight of her choices settle fully across her shoulders.

Now her arm was locked in a cast—rigid, glaringly white, and impossible to ignore. It felt like a spotlight she couldn’t shut off, a constant, aching reminder of every decision she hadn’t made right. The weight of it wasn’t just physical. It was symbolic. Proof that she hadn’t been invincible. The cast made her move differently. Sit differently. Feel different. And every time she looked down at it, she felt that old, corrosive shame stir beneath her ribs. She had tried so hard not to need anything, not to be trouble, not to be the problem. But now here she was—broken, benched, and worse, a disappointment.

Worst of all was seeing Bruce—really seeing him—for the first time in what felt like months. Maybe it had been less than that, maybe more, but time had twisted strangely in the silence between them, stretching and folding over itself until even memory lost shape. The distance hadn’t just been physical; it had grown in the quiet spaces between brief, impersonal mission notes and the way his voice had vanished from the comms when she was near. And now, suddenly, he was here, standing just a few feet away, and the room felt smaller because of it. The silence between them was a live thing—thin, stretched taut like piano wire strung between them, humming with tension and everything left unsaid. She didn’t breathe. She barely moved. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves as if holding herself together through sheer force. As if bracing against a hit that hadn’t come yet, but would. Because it always did.

She didn’t want this. Not like this. If she’d had any say in it, she would’ve turned on her heel and walked the other way the moment she’d seen him. She would’ve pretended she hadn’t noticed the way his gaze landed on her the second she entered the room, sharp and weighty like a shadow cast too long. She would’ve kept moving—silent, invisible, unbothered—just another presence in the background. That was easier than this. Easier than standing in front of him with her heart thudding in her ears and the cast on her arm throbbing like a brand she couldn’t hide.

But she didn’t walk away. And neither did he. So now they were here. Now it was real. 

And even if a part of her wanted to look up—to meet his eyes head-on, to face whatever cold truth might be waiting there and prove to herself that she could take it. That she could bear the weight of whatever judgment he carried in his stare. She had stood across from enemies far more dangerous than Bruce Wayne. She had endured silence as a weapon, endured blows and blood and fear and never flinched. And yet, this—this quiet moment between them, this brittle stillness—it made her feel more fragile than any battlefield ever had. Because the fear here wasn’t physical. It was personal. It was intimate. And most of her didn’t want to look up. Most of her wanted to keep her eyes trained on the floor, her shoulders tense and rigid, braced against the disappointment she was certain was etched into every line of his face. She didn’t need to see it. She already knew it was there.

Because whatever expression Bruce wore—behind the tight, unforgiving press of his mouth, the hard-set brow, the narrowed eyes that never seemed to soften anymore—it wouldn’t be good. It never was. It would tell her everything she already feared but couldn’t stop fearing. That she had made a mistake. That she had failed not just in judgment, but in character. That she had been reckless, selfish, unworthy. That she had let them down—him, Barbara, the family—again. That her instincts weren’t sharp enough. That she wasn’t fast enough. That she wasn’t enough, period. The list went on in her head like a cruel litany, looping over itself until she couldn’t tell which voice it belonged to—Bruce’s, hers, or some old, deep-rooted echo from a past she never fully escaped.

And yet—despite everything, despite the weight pressing down on her chest and the gnawing tension that tightened every muscle in her shoulders—she didn’t want their first real conversation in what felt like forever to become a fight. Not this time. Because beneath all the noise, beneath all the guilt and regret and clumsy attempts at control, she still wanted something from him. That was the truth of it—the hard, impossible truth that twisted in her gut and made it difficult to breathe. She wanted to say something real. Not just an apology. Not just “I’m fine,” or “I’ll be better.” She wanted to speak in a way that reached him, that mattered. She wanted to crack open some hidden space between them where she could exist not as a problem to be solved or a soldier to be corrected, but as herself—as Cassandra. His daughter. Or something close to it.

But the words didn’t come. They never did—not with Bruce. Not easily. Not without cost.

“You fought with Lady Shiva,” Bruce said, his voice low and tight, barely more than a murmur—but sharp enough to cut through the thick silence like a blade. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. There was something infinitely worse in that restraint, in the way he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t pace or gesture or explode the way some people might when faced with something this reckless, this unforgivable. No, Bruce didn’t do that. He controlled it—held it close to the chest like a coiled spring, every word precise, honed, deliberate. “And you didn’t even say anything.”

The words hung in the air, suspended and heavy, like smoke refusing to dissipate. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, a dark shape carved in shadow, and looked at her with a stare that pinned her in place more effectively than any weapon ever could.

“Do you know how dangerous that is?” he asked, quieter now, but not softer. His tone didn’t rise—it deepened, like pressure building just beneath the surface of something unbreakable. It was the kind of voice that didn’t just carry anger—it carried fear. And something deeper, unspoken. Something brittle and jagged that refused to be named.

Cass’s shoulders tensed the moment the words left his mouth—tightening like pulled wire, her whole body going rigid with the sudden, instinctive pressure of needing to do something, defend something, even if she didn’t yet know what. She turned away before she could stop herself, jaw clenching hard, breath catching in her throat as the heat rose—anger, yes, but not just that. Frustration. Embarrassment. That sharp-edged, panicked feeling that always came when she felt misunderstood and cornered at the same time. She didn’t want to yell, didn’t want to snap—but the words still came fast, too fast, spilling out of her like a flare lit too close to the fuse.

“She attacked me from behind!” she burst out, her voice sharper than she intended, snapping like a whip in the charged stillness between them. She spun back to face him, movements abrupt and stiff, her expression tight. The cast on her arm dragged a half-beat behind her, a glaring reminder of how off-balance everything had become. She tried to cross her arms out of instinct—defense, posture, protection—but the cast wouldn’t let her fold into herself the way she wanted. It stuck out like a limb that didn’t belong, and the awkwardness of it only made her feel more vulnerable, more exposed.

“Besides,” she added quickly, voice still too high, too raw, “I didn’t even know she was Shiva. Who even is Shiva?”

“A killer,” Bruce said finally, the words falling like a verdict. He ran his hands through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration, the motion quick and sharp, like trying to shake loose a knot that wouldn’t come undone. “That’s what she is, Cassandra. A killer.” There was no shouting in his voice, but it was edged with something harsher—something brittle, like glass threatening to crack. The kind of frustration that had been building for too long, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this to break loose.

“Don’t you read the reports?” he pressed, voice tightening, the words almost a plea now—an accusation wrapped in desperation. “How can you go out there to protect this city if you don’t even know what you’re protecting it from? How can you expect to keep yourself safe if you don’t understand the full scope of the danger?” His eyes locked onto hers, unyielding and intense, burning with the weight of everything unsaid. 

Cassandra’s scowl deepened, darkening like a storm rolling in as she sank back into the worn seat, the hard edges digging into her skin through the fabric of her costume. She let out a long, slow breath that barely stirred the quiet in the room. Her gaze lingered on Bruce—sharp, unflinching—before she deliberately closed her eyes, pressing her lids tight as if shutting out more than just his words. The tension coiled in her shoulders, rigid and unyielding, and when she finally exhaled, it came as a low, weary sigh that spoke volumes without saying a thing.

“I’m fine,” she said finally, voice flat but carrying the weight of stubborn defiance beneath the surface. “A broken arm is nothing.”

But Bruce’s response was immediate, unyielding, the calm authority in his voice cutting through her denial like steel. “That’s where we disagree,” he said, steady, controlled—his words not a question, not an invitation, but a finality. “You’re coming back to the mansion. You’ve had enough freedom. Clearly, you can’t handle it.”

“What?” Cassandra snapped, the sharpness in her voice cutting through the room like a flare. She jumped to her feet, the sudden movement causing a flare of pain through her injured arm, but she didn’t care. She would’ve pointed an accusing finger at Bruce if the sling hadn’t pinned her arm useless, holding her back even as her frustration surged forward like wildfire. Her eyes locked onto his, burning with a mix of disbelief and defiance. “You can’t do that.”

Bruce didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. Instead, he took a slow, measured breath—like he was preparing himself to say something he hated but knew was necessary. His gaze hardened, calm and unyielding, carrying the weight of a thousand battles fought in silence. “Yes, I can,” he said plainly, his voice low and steady, leaving no room for argument. “It’s obvious you’re incapable of taking care of yourself, Cassandra. So you’re coming back.” His words landed like a verdict, cold and final. “You’ll stay out of the field until your arm heals—maybe even after that.”

There was no anger in his tone, no bitterness—only a relentless certainty that made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. And behind the firmness, there was a deeper undercurrent: frustration, yes, but also a grim kind of care. The kind that was wrapped in control because he didn’t know how else to protect her.

She fixed her gaze on him, really looked—not just glanced or skimmed, but took in every subtle detail. Her eyes traced the lines of his face, the way the light caught the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hands rested quietly as if holding back something unsaid. Time seemed to slow, the minutes stretching into something thick and tangible. Around them, the room held its breath, empty of noise except for the distant, steady murmur of the city that seeped through the windows like a muted heartbeat—cars drifting by, indistinct conversations, the faint pulse of life beyond their fragile bubble.

She didn’t speak. No words came to her lips, though so much felt suspended in the space between them. Instead, after that long, searching look, she simply turned away, the movement full with intention, each step deliberate and steady, carrying the weight of her resolve. The soft rhythm of her footsteps echoed faintly against the walls, growing more distant with every inch she put between them, as if she was quietly erasing herself from the space they had shared. There was a quiet strength in the way she walked—measured, firm, unwilling to waver—and yet beneath it, an undercurrent of something fragile, like the last thread holding her together was beginning to fray.

Bruce didn’t reach out. He didn’t call her name or make a sound.

Like father, like daughter, they say. 

—

Struggling with her suitcase became Cassandra’s way of trying to wrestle her frustration into something tangible—something she could at least fight. The battered thing sat open on the bed like a challenge, its stubborn zipper refusing to budge no matter how much she leaned into it. Her cast didn’t help; every movement felt clumsy, off-balance, wrong. She tried to shift her weight, pressing down on the worn leather lid with her good hand and the awkward edge of her cast, teeth gritted in determination. It didn’t work. The suitcase resisted her, creaking under the uneven pressure, the contents bulging defiantly against the sides as if mocking her effort.

By the time Barbara found her, the scene looked almost comical—Cassandra half-standing on the poor suitcase, hair falling into her face, her expression a mixture of stubborn resolve and mounting irritation. Barbara stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and let out a quiet laugh. It wasn’t mean-spirited; it was soft, almost fond, a kind of laughter that carried both exasperation and affection in equal measure. Cass froze, then immediately stepped back, the heat of embarrassment prickling at her neck. She shot Barbara a glare that was more pout than anger, then gestured sharply at the suitcase with her free hand, as if the ridiculous thing itself had betrayed her.

“Helps,” she said finally, the single word clipped, defensive, and a little desperate all at once.

Barbara didn’t make a big deal of it, just reached over to slide her chair closer to Cassandra’s bedside with an ease that felt almost too natural, too effortless in contrast to Cassandra’s spiraling frustration. With a steady hand, she began to gently work the suitcase closed, moving it with a kind of patience that Cassandra didn’t have the luxury of right now. Her movements were smooth, efficient, practiced—everything Cassandra was struggling with in her current state of restlessness.

Cassandra, meanwhile, remained frozen in place, her eyes trained on the scene before her with a mixture of helplessness and a simmering anger that churned deeper the more she watched Barbara take over. She felt that familiar burn rise in her chest, the heat of shame she couldn’t quite shake. It was stupid—this whole thing was stupid. The suitcase was just a damn suitcase, something so trivial it shouldn’t matter at all. But it wasn’t about the suitcase anymore, was it? It was about everything it represented: the inability to handle something on her own. The feeling of being inadequate, incapable, all of it bubbling up, turning her insides tight and raw.

Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the wave of frustration rising in her throat. She wanted to scream, to shout, to just break out of this feeling of being trapped in a body that wasn’t cooperating. She hated feeling like this—vulnerable, weak—when everything she had ever been taught was to endure, to push past, to never need anyone.

But here she was, needing help. 

She’d ruined her first real outing as Batgirl. Not just that—she’d come home with a broken arm, earned herself a punishment that felt heavier than the cast itself, and now even something as trivial as closing a suitcase was beyond her. 

She should be the one helping. She should be competent, capable, in control, the person who could lift, carry, and solve problems without needing someone else’s hand to guide her.

“I’m sorry,” Barbara whispered, her voice soft, almost fragile, as if speaking louder might shatter something delicate between them. She leaned forward slightly, placing her hands on her knees, the small gesture grounding her in a space she knew was tense, heavy with unspoken frustration. Her green eyes—warm, sharp, and filled with a sorrow that mirrored Cassandra’s own—locked onto hers, holding a mixture of love, regret, and quiet helplessness that made Cass’s chest tighten.

“I know you don’t want to go back to the mansion,” Barbara said, her voice deliberate, each word measured as if she were carefully weighing the impact before letting it slip into the air. There was a tremor in her tone, subtle but unmistakable, a quiver that spoke of the burden she carried—the invisible weight of choices made and the consequences she could already foresee. She paused, watching Cass closely, aware of how easily words could shatter the fragile balance she was trying to maintain. “But he’s scared,” she continued, this time with a gentleness that didn’t waver into weakness, a firmness that refused to let her concern be dismissed. Her eyes searched Cass’s, trying to bridge the gap between what was said and what remained unspoken. “He might not say it right—or even at all—but that doesn’t make it any less real.” 

“And I think… staying away from him only makes that fear worse,” she added, her voice trembling just enough to betray the conflict roiling inside her. “Bruce’s and yours, Cass. All of it just grows heavier when we pretend it’s not there.” She swallowed hard, her chest tightening as if the words themselves were a weight she had to carry. “So I’m sorry—but I truly believe this is for the best.” She let the silence stretch between them, letting the words linger like smoke in a room, heavy and insistent, refusing to be ignored. “And… if you want to hate me for not fighting for you in that decision, I understand,” she said, voice quiet but unwavering. “I can’t stop that. But I'm sorry anyways.”

And now the urge to scream rises inside her, sharp and molten, pressing up through her chest until it catches in her throat —a sound that wants to tear itself free but can’t. It lodges there, trembling, growing heavier with every heartbeat, swelling like tears she refuses to shed. Why? The question coils in her mind, burning. Why is Barbara apologizing? Why does she look at her with such gentleness, with eyes that still hold love and sorrow instead of disappointment? Cassandra is the one who failed

Her lips parted before she could rein them in, as if the question had been building inside her for so long that it could no longer be contained. The words stumbled out, raw and cracked, jagged with the vulnerability she had fought so hard to suppress. “How… how can you still care about me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, yet heavy enough to press against the walls of the room, demanding an answer she both feared and desperately needed. She swallows, her tongue dry, and the silence grows—slowly, unbearably—until it feels like a living thing swallowing the room, swallowing the air, swallowing her. It presses in so completely that Cass isn’t sure she can hear anything at all anymore; the world has faded to a dull, trembling quiet that exists only between the two of them. Barbara’s gaze holds her in place, steady yet aching, and the way her lips part—hesitant, searching for the right words—strikes deeper than any reprimand ever could.

Then Barbara reaches for her, gently, as though Cass is something fragile she’s afraid to break. Fingers hover first, then settle with the softest touch at her shoulder, sliding upward with slow, careful intention, an invitation rather than a demand. She draws Cass into her orbit with that small, instinctive motion, fingertips brushing through her hair with a tenderness so intimate and unearned that it burns. It hurts in a way Cass is not prepared for, a way her heart and mind scramble to defend against—because kindness like this feels sharper than any blade she has ever known.

“Cassandra,” Barbara breathes, her voice cracking open on the name as if it’s something sacred. “That's… what are you… how could I not?” The words stumble, stopping and starting, each one raw with emotion Barbara can’t disguise, leaving her momentarily speechless for the first time Cass can ever remember. And if she were thinking clearly—if her mind weren’t a storm of fear, longing, and disbelief—she might have felt a fierce, private satisfaction at reducing Barbara Gordon, of all people, to wordless awe. She might have treasured that small victory. But right now, all she can feel is the scorching tenderness of a love she does not know how to receive, and the overwhelming terror that comes with realizing it has been there all along.

Because she knew—too well—what loving someone meant.

It meant losing them.

But there was something far worse she had discovered in the quiet, unremarkable stretches of her life, a truth that crept in slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet corroded the heart in ways that grief and loss never could. It was not the abrupt, jagged pain of losing someone, the kind that left hollows in the soul and sent shockwaves through the days and nights alike. No, this was subtler, more insidious—a constant, unspoken companion that shadowed every act of care, every gesture of devotion. 

Loving someone, she realized with a pang she could scarcely name, meant inevitably—inescapably—disappointing them.

It meant that however fiercely she tried, however tenderly she gave, she would always fall short of the ideal that their eyes projected onto her. It was the sting of intentions misread, the ache of promises never perfectly kept, the quiet humiliation of her flaws laid bare in the relentless light of another’s expectations.

She had already lost one person who had loved her—lost him in an irreversible way that left a hollow behind, a silence that nothing could quite fill. But she had failed Barbara in a different, more complicated way. She had disappointed her. She knew she had. She saw it in the faint dimming of Barbara’s smile, the way the brightness faltered for just a heartbeat when she thought Cassandra wasn’t watching. She saw it in her eyes—those warm, sharp eyes that drifted over Cass a little too long, lingering with a worry that felt heavier than concern, heavier even than fear. It was the look of someone searching for fractures, trying to map out the hidden breaks before they widened. And Cass saw it, too, in the way Barbara moved around her now: slow, measured, deliberate. Every gesture gentle, every touch cautious, as though Cass were something fragile and irreplaceable, something that might shatter again under the slightest pressure. 

A shadow behind every kindness.

And that shadow whispered the same question over and over, a low, relentless echo threading through the quiet moments when her guard slipped:

Why was it always her?

Why was she always the one who failed, the one who stumbled at the exact moment someone reached out their hand? Why did she keep becoming the person who hurt the people who tried to care for her, who made their gentleness feel burdensome, who turned their love into something heavy, something edged with caution, something almost dangerous? Sometimes she wondered if love simply required a version of her that she didn’t know how to be. If tenderness demanded a fluency she didn’t possess. If the weight she carried inside her—the history, the silence, the scars that shaped her—made her fundamentally unsuited for the very thing she yearned for. And the worst question, the one she tried not to think but felt anyway, pressed cold and certain against the back of her mind:

Should she even love anyone at all?

Because every time she tried—every time she cracked herself open enough for someone to step inside— the same pattern followed her like a curse she couldn’t unlearn, couldn’t outrun. It clung to her heels, to her shadow, to the softest parts of her. Someone left. Someone suffered. Someone paid the price for caring about her, as if affection itself became a wound the moment it touched her skin. It didn’t matter how careful she tried to be, how much she held herself together, how hard she fought to keep the damage contained; the story always ended the same. People she let close were the ones who bled for it.

Maybe she was cursed. Or maybe she was the curse. 

That thought alone was all it took for her to abandon the Clock Tower.

—

Cassandra sat rigid in the passenger seat, her body still but her senses on high alert, eyes locked on the window as the city smeared past in streaks of polished glass, sterile concrete, and golden light that looked too clean to be real. This part of Gotham was a far cry from the war-torn alleyways and graffiti-scarred bricks she knew intimately—this place was all reflective surfaces and manicured charm, a neighborhood scrubbed so spotless it felt like someone had erased the truth. Trees lined the sidewalks in perfect, equidistant rows, their branches pruned like bonsai in a corporate lobby, shaped not for shade or comfort, but for appearances. The air, too, was different here—no acrid tang of smoke, no hint of the city’s usual rot. Even the shadows obeyed, falling in neat patterns instead of curling wild and jagged like they did in the Narrows. It wasn’t quiet in the car, not really—Gotham still murmured in the background, the dull thrum of traffic, the far-off wail of a siren—but the sound was muted, buffered by luxury and distance. The chaos had been repackaged, made safe for consumption.

Cassandra hated it. Not because it was calm, not even because it was rich—but because it was dishonest. It wore Gotham’s name like a badge, but none of its scars. It pretended to be part of the city, yet it had carved itself out of the larger whole like a gated illusion, a pocket of denial that turned its back on everything she’d fought for. This wasn’t the Gotham that bled. This wasn’t the Gotham that taught her to read danger in the twitch of a hand, or the weight of silence between footsteps. This was a place built for people who never had to survive it. And to her, that made it feel more foreign—more threatening—than the darkest corner of Crime Alley.

Bruce sat across from her on the other side of the limo, a quiet mountain of stillness—part silence, part judgment. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. With him, it was always hard to tell. His posture, as always, was impeccable: back straight, shoulders squared, hands resting in his lap like he’d been carved from stone and had never learned to slouch. His face was a mask—composed, unreadable, detached in that way that had made him a legend in both boardrooms and back alleys. There was no anger there. No warmth either. Just that calm, impenetrable wall he wore like armor. They hadn’t spoken since leaving the Clock Tower, and in the hush that filled the space between them, every second stretched out like wire pulled too tight. Two feet of leather seat separated them physically, but it might as well have been a city block. 

Cassandra didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to. She kept her eyes fixed on the glass, watching the world outside blur in a slow, curated parade. A woman in designer heels strutted past on the sidewalk, tugging along a dog so small it looked like a plush toy come to life—perfectly groomed, pink bow in its fur, not a single hair out of place. It trotted beside her like it knew it belonged in a magazine ad, not on a city street. Cass almost laughed. Almost. But the sound caught somewhere in her chest, curled up into a quiet ache instead.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the seat, nails biting into the smooth leather like she could anchor herself there—keep the grief from rising. It didn’t work. The pressure grounded her body, but her thoughts still slipped, spiraling out of control with every bump in the road.

One day.

That’s how long she’d lasted in the cowl. One. Day.

And already, it was gone.

Bruce’s voice broke the silence at last. Low. Even. Perfectly measured, like everything he said. “We’re here.”

The words drifted across the space between them and landed with a strange finality, like a door closing. Cassandra blinked. For a second, it didn’t register—not fully. Her fingers were still curled against the leather of the seat, her muscles tense, locked in the quiet, bracing stillness that had carried her through the ride like armor. The silence had become a kind of cocoon, and his voice—so calm, so unmoved—cut through it like a blade.

She turned toward the window, as if on instinct, and her heart gave a slow, uncertain beat. The car had stopped. Somehow, without her noticing. The city was gone, the muffled hum of life and chaos replaced by stillness so profound it felt unnatural. Outside, the iron gates of Wayne Manor stood open, tall and black and ornate, flanked by stone pillars that looked like they’d been standing for centuries. The long driveway stretched out before them, winding through trees already shedding their leaves in the slow death of autumn. The manor itself loomed at the end of the road, distant but unmistakable—its gothic silhouette framed against a sky slowly dimming toward dusk. Cold light hit the windows like fading fire, and the house sat in it like a memory refusing to disappear.

She hadn’t been here in months. Not since she left. And it hadn’t changed. Of course it hadn’t. The grounds were still meticulous. The shadows still fell in all the same places. The trees still lined the drive like silent sentinels. The manor had always existed out of time, untouched by the city that roared around it. But she had changed. Or maybe she hadn’t—not in the ways that mattered. Not enough. 

Her hand hovered near the door handle, fingers ghosting over the cool metal but never pressing down. The urge to move warred with the ache to disappear. Every muscle in her body resisted. Stillness wrapped around her like a shield, as if by not opening the door, she could avoid what waited on the other side. If she stayed still enough, quiet enough, maybe the car could just keep driving—somewhere else, anywhere else.

But she didn’t have a choice.

So, she opened the door.

And the first thing she saw— Was Alfred.

He stood alone near the great front doors of Wayne Manor, framed by stone columns and the fading amber light of early evening. There was no dramatic entrance, no startle, no sharp intake of breath at the sight of her. Just Alfred—calm, composed, immovable in the way only he could be. He was already moving before she had fully straightened, as though he'd known precisely the second her boots touched the gravel. As though he'd been waiting not with impatience, but with quiet certainty, like the rising of the moon.

His approach was steady, the slow, deliberate pace of someone who knew the weight of a moment and refused to rush it. Cassandra remained frozen in place, uncertain whether to shrink away or step forward. The wind curled around her, colder now in the open space beyond the limo, and her breath ghosted visibly in the air. The bruising chill of the evening bit at the edges of her, sneaking past the thin fabric of her sleeves and settling deep in the cracks she’d been trying not to acknowledge.

He didn’t say a word.

Just unlooped a thick wool coat from his arm and draped it gently over her shoulders, the way one might place a blanket around a child who’d fallen asleep on the couch. It smelled like the manor—old books, oak polish, and something warm and subtle she could never quite place but had always associated with safety. He was careful of the cast, adjusting the fabric so it sat comfortably, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against the stiff edge but never pressing. His touch was efficient, precise—but kind. The kind of kindness that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t demand explanations.

“Walking around like this with a broken arm in a cast is bad for your circulation, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said softly, his voice the perfect blend of concern and matter-of-fact precision—gently chiding, but never sharp.

The coat settled heavier around her shoulders now that the silence had been broken. Warm. Protective. Anchoring. Cassandra blinked slowly, her gaze lingering somewhere near Alfred’s shoes, as if even looking him in the eye for too long might unravel the brittle control she was clinging to.

“…Thank you, Alfred,” she murmured, and hesitated for a moment longer, the weight of everything she was carrying pressing down on her like a stone. Then, slowly—tentatively—she turned toward him. Her good arm moved with an awkwardness that spoke of unfamiliar vulnerability, of muscles unpracticed at softness. She reached out, barely wrapping that arm around his waist, an uncertain gesture that was almost a question.

Alfred didn’t hesitate. Not even for an instant.

His arms closed around her immediately, firm and unwavering, pulling her in with a strength that belied his gentle demeanor. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, the rough fabric of his jacket grounding her. Her breath came shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between relief and the crushing burden she’d carried alone for so long.

“It’s good to have you home, my dear Cassandra,” Alfred murmured, his voice low and steady, the kind of quiet reassurance that didn’t need to be loud to be heard. 

—

Dick’s greeting was, unsurprisingly, far less pleasant than anything Cass might have hoped for—and infinitely louder. Instead of calling out to her like a normal human being with a grasp of personal space and basic courtesy, he came thundering up behind her with all the subtlety of a freight train whose brakes had long since given up. She had barely registered the rhythmic pounding of footsteps before he launched himself onto her back in a dramatic, airborne assault. The impact tore a startled grunt from her lungs, a sharp exhale forced between clenched teeth as his arm hooked itself around her shoulders in a grip that was half–headlock, half–hug. His free hand immediately dove into her hair with the reckless enthusiasm just an older brother could have, fingers ruffling through carefully arranged strands as though his sole mission in life was to create the most catastrophic mess possible.

Cass staggered violently under the sudden weight and momentum, boots skidding against the smooth asphalt of the Wayne manor’s long, pristine driveway—its glossy surface offering precisely zero support in moments like this. For one harrowing heartbeat, the world tilted, her center of gravity yanked brutally off-course, the elegant sweep of the front steps lurching in her peripheral vision as gravity threatened to claim both of them. If they went down, they would absolutely go down together, a graceless heap of limbs and embarrassment. But instinct took over; she planted her feet with a force that sent a muted shock up her legs, muscles coiling and locking in familiar patterns of balance and recovery. Her spine straightened, shoulders tightening as she redirected their combined momentum, pulling them both back from the brink with the practiced precision of someone who had spent years learning how to remain upright under far worse circumstances than an overly affectionate acrobat ambushing her from behind.

“Hey,” Dick said cheerfully, still draped over her like an overly affectionate scarf, “you didn’t throw me ten meters over your shoulder. I’m impressed. You should break your arm more often.”

“You seem to be in a good mood, Master Dick. Perhaps you might take your sister’s suitcases upstairs to burn off that energy?” Alfred suggested, his tone carrying that familiar blend of dry wit, quiet authority, and the faint, unmistakable implication that this was less a request and more an inevitable outcome. He moved toward the mansion’s entrance with the same composed efficiency he applied to everything, the tails of his waistcoat swaying slightly with each step. When he reached the top of the drive, he paused only long enough to lower Cass’s bags to the ground with a soft, dignified grunt—more a polite acknowledgment of the bags’ weight than any true sign of exertion. He even adjusted the handles so they lay parallel, as though disorder itself were a personal offense.

Dick took the suitcases without complaint—well, without verbal complaint—and started up the polished staircase, the bags bumping lightly against his legs as he went. The wood under his boots was too smooth, too pristine, every scrape of his worn soles echoing up into the vaulted ceiling like a sound that didn’t quite belong. The house absorbed the noise the way it absorbed everything: quietly, politely, pretending it wasn’t there even when it rang in the bones. He climbed a half-step behind Cassandra, not because he needed to, but because it felt wrong to be anywhere else. Close enough to catch her if she stumbled. Far enough not to crowd her more than she already was.

The bags were awkward, heavy in the uneven way suitcases always were—something soft shifting inside, something sharp pressing through the fabric, both weights pulling against his arms. But the effort barely registered. What pulled harder was the silence between them, taut and humming, full of all the things she wouldn’t say and all the things he didn’t know how to ask. He watched the small tells in her posture: the slight rise of her shoulders every time they passed a doorway, the shallow draw of breath when her eyes snagged on something familiar. She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking away, either. She was taking the house in piece by piece, cautiously, like someone returning to a place that remembered too much.

Her gaze drifted along the walls—over the carved crown molding, the framed shipping-portrait ancestors, the brass sconces that caught the chandelier’s light in small, trembling flickers. The floors shone the way they always did, reflecting slivers of gold across the hall like warm embers. But the warmth didn’t quite reach her. Cass moved as though each step carried her through a memory she couldn’t fully parse, her eyes lingering on the shadows beneath the railing, the dip in the runner where years of footsteps had pressed it down, the subtle stillness of a house that lived more in silence than sound. The air was thick with that feeling, with the faint ache of absence, the echo of rooms that had been full once and now weren’t. The scent of wax and polished oak drifted around them, familiar, grounding, yet strangely heavy—as if the house itself were inhaling and holding the breath, waiting for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

Dick kept walking, the suitcases dragging slightly behind him, and watched Cassandra’s expressions flicker like reflections on rippled water—too fast to catch, too soft to read. A spark of recognition. The pinch of disbelief. A quick, sharp swallow. A shadow of grief that vanished the moment he tried to focus on it. None of it stayed long enough for him to name, but each one cut a thin, invisible line in the air between them.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare. Words felt too sharp, too loud—like they might sever the thin, fragile thread Cass seemed to be clinging to as she moved through the manor. There was a kind of recognition in her steps, a quiet, trembling familiarity that hadn’t settled fully into comfort but hadn’t dissolved into fear either. A lifeline, stretched thin. He didn’t want to snap it. For a moment—a single heartbeat—Dick looked down, shifting the strap of the heavier suitcase against his shoulder. The leather groaned softly under his fingers, its weight familiar, grounding. He adjusted his grip, exhaled, then lifted his gaze again, expecting to find Cass a step ahead, the soft whisper of her movement guiding him forward along the hall.

But she wasn’t there.

“—oh, shit.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, breathless and sharp, cutting into the hush like startled wings. He spun, heart hammering, eyes wide, and there she was. Cass stood a few feet away, still as stone, in front of a door that hadn’t changed—one that had once worn a childish, stubborn “No Trespassing” sign. he tape had peeled at the corners long ago, the letters faded into ghosts of themselves. Most people forgot it had ever been there. Even the owner because the door had always remained open to those who mattered. Her hand gripped the handle with a force that made his breath hitch, knuckles pale, fingers coiled so tightly he half-expected the brass beneath her grasp to fracture. The door creaked on, a sound that reverberated unnaturally in the stillness, carrying a metallic edge of finality. And then… emptiness. 

Nothing.

No bed draped in its faded blue blanket, no Wonder Woman sheets peeking from the corners, no posters of rock or metal bands plastered on the walls, no photos marking birthdays, holidays, or careless snapshots of fleeting moments, no stuffed animals slumped in the corners like silent witnesses. 

Nothing.

The room, once alive with the subtle chaos of Jason Todd’s presence, had been drained of every trace of him. 

Cass’s lips parted, quivering as if each word demanded more energy than her body could give. Her voice broke, sharp and jagged, fragments of thought tumbling over one another like shattered glass, each syllable heavy with disbelief and urgency. “Where… Where are Jason’s things… Dick, when, where, how, where did they go?” The questions spilled from her like a dam that had finally given way, carried on a trembling tide of grief, anger, and helplessness. Her hands hovered near the empty room, fingers twitching as though she might reach into the void and summon everything back. Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, breaths hitching with the force of emotion she could no longer contain, and her eyes glistened with the raw, unfiltered weight of someone confronting a loss that felt far too immense. 

“Cass…” he said softly, each syllable deliberate, careful, measured. His voice carried the weight of caution, tempered by the knowledge of how fragile she was in this moment. Watching her flounder over words, struggling to pin thought to speech, was perhaps the only real sign he had ever seen that something had pierced the armor Cassandra wore so effortlessly, leaving a raw vulnerability.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the tightness in his chest as he tried to shape his thoughts into something gentle, something that might reach her without making her recoil. “Bruce… it’s just that… grief is… just… you know.” 

She didn’t speak again. Not yet. Instead, she turned on her heel, every motion taut and deliberate, as if the anger and grief coiled within her demanded release through movement before words could follow. “Where are his pictures?” she shouted, voice cracking with the force of emotion she could no longer restrain. “There isn’t a single picture of Jason anywhere!” Her hand shot forward, trembling, as if trying to grasp some invisible proof, to physically point to the absence that pressed in around them. 

Dick bit his tongue, the words pressing against the back of his throat like a storm threatening to break free. Every fiber of him wanted to blurt out the truth—that he was wondering the exact same thing, grappling with the same helpless frustration—but he remembered Alfred’s quiet counsel, the lesson tucked into a simple, patient phrase: “Grief is complicated, Master Dick.” Everyone had their own way of navigating it, and if this—this fragile, desperate grasping at what was lost—was Bruce’s twisted way of coping, then he had to respect it.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders, and carefully shaped his words, aware that a single misstep might make her recoil further. He had to make her understand, even if the understanding came in fragments. “Cass, it’s just that…” 

“Where are my pictures, Dick?” Her voice cut through him like a whip, sharp, raw, and full of unspent grief. It silenced him completely, leaving only the echo of her words hanging in the air between them. He shifted his gaze to the right and left, scanning the walls and shelves, eyes tracing the familiar frames that lined the place. Photos of Bruce as a child, portraits of his parents, snapshots of his businesses, a few images of Dick himself in younger years, awkward smiles frozen in time—all carefully curated, carefully preserved. Newspaper clippings chronicled milestones and achievements, reminders of legacy and order.

But none of Jason. Not a single trace. No photos of his laughter, his defiance, the subtle chaos that had once made him unmistakably alive. And nothing of Cass either, her presence erased alongside her brother’s, leaving an invisible void in the carefully constructed gallery. Faded outlines marked where frames had once hung, a pale scar that seemed to throb with absence, a silent testament to what had been taken. Someone had torn them down, obliterating the visual echoes of Jason and Cass, leaving behind nothing but the hollow proof of loss. 

Cass didn’t answer—not with words, not with a single syllable that might bridge the sudden tension hanging between them. Instead, a rough, clipped grunt tore from her throat, sharp and almost animalistic in its abruptness. She moved then, closing the space between them with a precision that was almost terrifying in its economy of motion. Every step she took seemed calculated, deliberate, and yet there was an undercurrent of raw urgency that made her approach feel both inevitable and unstoppable. Before Dick could even open his mouth, before a single protest could form on his lips, her hand shot out with lightning speed. In one seamless motion, she ripped the suitcases from his grasp. The sound of the bags being wrenched free seemed to echo in the stillness, the force of it betraying the tension coiled in her body. The cast on her arm pulled painfully, tugging at the muscles and sinews beneath with each movement, and yet she barely flinched. Dick saw it there, though—the wince she tried to bury, the subtle flicker of pain she shoved down as if sheer force of will could bend her own body into obedience. Her jaw clenched, knuckles whitening, and for a moment the air between them seemed charged, as though the effort of holding herself together was enough to make the room tremble. 

She turned away before he could say anything, retreating down the hallway with stiff, measured steps that carried the weight of everything she wasn’t saying. Each footfall was deliberate, almost ritualistic, a carefully constructed rhythm of retreat, a silent defense, a quiet plea he had no way of answering. Her shoulders were squared against the world, her head lifted just enough to keep the illusion of control, but the tightness in her back betrayed her. He could see it in the subtle curve of her spine, the way her arms hung a little too rigidly at her sides, as though bracing herself against forces he could only guess at. 

Dick stayed rooted to the spot far longer than he wanted to admit, his gaze locked on the retreating figure as though letting her vanish from sight would allow him to memorize every detail of her stance, until she finally disappeared around the corner, swallowed by the dim light and shadows. And once she was gone, something in him gave way. A hollow ache settled deep in his chest, spreading through him like ink into water, and he felt the gravity of everything unsaid pressing down, heavier than he had expected. 

He let his spine slump against the wall, sliding down in slow, reluctant increments until he landed in a graceless, almost humiliating sprawl on the cold, unyielding floorboards. The chill seeped through his clothes, biting at him in a way that seemed almost physical punishment for his helplessness. Both hands rose to his face, pressing against the deep, insistent ache blooming behind his eyes. His breath shook, once, a jagged inhale that caught somewhere between throat and lungs, sharp enough to make his chest ache more. The silence that followed was unbearable in its own way, echoing in his skull with the emptiness of words unsaid, actions undone. And then the thought cut through him like a blade, jagged and unrelenting: “Fuck you, Bruce Wayne.”

—

Dick had tried, with a kind of persistent, exasperated diligence, to get her out of his room for at least two weeks. Every casual suggestion, every carefully planted hint, every attempt at gentle persuasion had been met with stubborn resistance that refused to bend to reason or charm. And yet, she came anyway—always for the essentials, always for the bare necessities: food, the bathroom, and the painkillers, which she accepted with a faint grimace that carried a complex mix of guilt, irritation, and reluctant dependence. She moved through the space like a ghost, her presence a delicate, almost spectral intrusion. She never fully stepped into the center of the room, never allowed herself the comfort of claiming it, instead hovering at the edges as if the very walls had drawn invisible lines she dared not cross.

She knew her position, fully aware that Bruce Wayne—everyone’s infallible Batman—was not the type to simply retract his word, no matter the discomfort or quiet rebellion it caused. 

So imagine her surprise when a shadow flickered across her window, a silent, fluid slash of movement that made her spine stiffen before her mind had a chance to process what it was. For a heartbeat, she was paralyzed, muscles coiled like springs, pulse spiking with the sharp, instinctive awareness that came from years of training and living on edge. Every nerve screamed, ready to react, ready to defend—but she couldn’t move. She could only watch as the shape solidified, limbs precise, controlled, and impossibly agile. And then her breath caught.

It was him—Dick. Or, more accurately, Nightwing.

He was lean and fluid, the kind of balance and precision that made him look like he could bend gravity itself without effort. The silver glow of the moon framed him perfectly, illuminating the curve of his stance and the taut readiness of every muscle, and yet somehow he seemed casual, effortless, untouchable. All completely hidden except for that infuriating, infallible grin that belonged to her big brother. “Guess who got you a one-way ticket for tonight?” His voice cut through the quiet like a knife wrapped in laughter, sharp and teasing all at once. “Your favorite big brother, of course.”

“Trap,” she hissed, the word sharp enough to cut through the space between them. Her voice was tight, coiled with suspicion and irritation, and her eyes narrowed into hard slits, scanning him like he was the puzzle she had spent years learning not to trust. “Tell me.”

Dick didn’t even flinch. Not a twitch. Not a flicker of hesitation. Instead, he did that infuriating, familiar gesture: raising both arms in mock surrender, shoulders lifting in that signature shrug. His grin tugged at the corners of his lips, low and sly, carrying just enough mischief to make it impossible for her to scowl as sharply as she wanted. “You can only watch,” he said, voice quiet but threaded with amusement, like he was sharing a secret she wasn’t meant to enjoy. “Absolutely cannot interfere. And… Robin’s coming with us.” The words landed between them like a brick in a calm pond, sending ripples of disbelief and irritation through her. 

Cass froze. He was still perched at her window, impossibly balanced, impossibly casual, and she realized—horrifyingly—that she couldn’t just slam the window shut. The thought alone made her chest tighten, a surge of adrenaline tempting her toward violence she knew she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—commit. The urge to shove him back, to watch him tumble unceremoniously into the yard below, was nearly overwhelming, a deliciously dark fantasy she fought to repress. Her hands flew up, acting before her brain could fully process, jerking the curtain closed with a sharp, almost desperate motion, hiding his smug, moonlit grin behind the fabric. “No,” she said, flat, final, words clipped like the edge of a knife.

“Come on, Cass,” he called through the thin barrier. “You’re desperate. I can see it.” The words slipped through the curtain like smoke, taunting, intimate, impossibly knowing, and for a brief, infuriating moment, she almost wanted to agree—but only for a fraction of a second, because to admit it would be to surrender entirely to him.

Because she was, in truth, desperate—desperate in a way that gnawed at her insides, a yearning that thrummed relentlessly beneath her skin. It wasn’t just a craving for movement; it was a raw, primal hunger for the kind of motion that could shake her out of the suffocating stillness of her own thoughts. She needed the heat of action—of her body propelling itself through space with a wild, untamed energy that pulsed through her like a current of electricity. There was a kind of madness in the way her muscles screamed with the burn of exertion, and yet, it was the only thing that ever felt real. The sting of the wind biting her skin, the way her heart raced in her chest as if to keep pace with the world around her—that was where she felt alive.

She needed the rush, the chaos, the kind of life that swirled around her like a maelstrom, where nothing was predictable, and everything was at once dangerous and intoxicating. Gotham, with all its crooked angles and crooked souls, was the perfect place for that kind of recklessness. It was a city built on edges—sharp, jagged, with streets that seemed to breathe with a pulse of their own. The rooftops—those narrow, dangerous ledges high above the city's heart—were her sanctuary, her domain. There, above the noise and the smog, she could feel the city’s pulse in her blood, a beat that matched her. 

She was just herself, a body in motion, free of the world’s weight, free to dance with the danger. And that—the adrenaline, the rhythm, the sweet intoxication of just enough—was the only thing that could fill the emptiness inside her.

But Robin.

She didn’t know what it was about him that scraped at her nerves with such unerring precision. It wasn’t any single thing she could name. Whatever it was, it struck deep, deeper than she ever would have admitted aloud. It reached into the parts of herself she kept barricaded, the places she hoped no one would ever stumble into. And when that unseen edge grazed her, it stung—sharp enough to make her ears ring, to make her pulse spike in that ugly, traitorous way she despised. Her chest tightened, not just with irritation, but with something tangled and unwelcome, a pressure that felt too close to fear or recognition or some ancient instinct she didn’t want to examine.

Hurt almost as much as the stillness hurt. The immobilization was its own kind of torment. Muscles twitched beneath the surface, desperate to act, to run, to reach out—anything to prove she hadn’t been reduced to some helpless, breathing statue. But the moment she tried, reality snapped back around her like steel cuffs. She wasn’t allowed. She wasn’t permitted to do the one thing that might have mattered. The brutal knowledge that she could not help—not the way she needed to, not when it counted. 

All she wanted—no, all she burned for—was the chance to do it again. To be… Batgirl, in all the ways that mattered. For the chance to redeem what she had shattered with her own hands. To mend the fractures she still felt splintering inside her. To fix what she had broken, even if she couldn’t name every piece of it anymore.

She wanted the chance to try again. And again. And again. Until the noise in her head stopped echoing. Until the ache in her chest loosened, even a little. Until the relentless grip of everything she was—everything she’d become and everything she feared—finally eased enough for her to breathe without feeling like she was choking on her own ghosts.

Perhaps—just perhaps—she could do exactly that with Robin. She could push past the irritation, past the way he scraped against her nerves and left that lingering, uneasy tension coiling in her chest. She could push past everything he made her feel, and let it burn off in motion, in action, in that chaotic, beautiful blur that only the night could offer. One night, just one, where the world condensed into motion and instinct, where the city rushed past in streaks of light and shadow, where nothing could reach her except the rhythm of her own heartbeat. One night to make the world forget her mistakes, her regrets, her failures—and, more importantly, one night to make herself forget. 

So that when the night finally ended, when she was forced to return to herself, she could sleep in peace, even if only for a single day.

“Okay,” she murmured, tugging the curtain just far enough to catch a careful glimpse of him, her eyes narrowing in cautious appraisal.

“Wait—really?” Dick’s voice cracked with excitement, and for a heart-stopping moment he teetered dangerously on the edge of the window frame, nearly toppling over entirely. Cass couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped her. He steadied himself, a mischievous certainty etched across his features, the grin stretching wider than she thought possible. “Alright then,” he said, voice deceptively light, carrying a thread of insistence that left no room for argument. “Get dressed.”

—

Cass regretted her decision sooner rather than later. The Gotham rooftop was cold beneath her boots, the kind of chill that crept up through the concrete and settled in her bones, but that wasn’t what made her tense. No—what made her tense was the boy standing across from her, masked, fidgety, and sporting what might genuinely have been the worst haircut she had ever seen. He stared at her with wide, sparkling eyes full of unfiltered excitement, the kind that made her instantly wary. Beside her, Dick stood with his hands on his hips and that unmistakable grin—too bright, too innocent, too rehearsed. “And today,” he announced with theatrical enthusiasm, “someone very important joins us for training!”

The second the words left his mouth, Cass realized she had been tricked. Because she, foolishly, had believed him when he’d promised this would be “simple” and “no surprises.” She should have known better. She really should have.

“It’s you,” Robin breathed, the words escaping him in a soft, almost awestruck rush before a wide smile split across his face. He didn’t stand still—of course he didn’t. Instead he began circling her with restless, bouncing energy, as if she were some rare circus attraction he’d been waiting his whole life to see up close. His boots scuffed lightly against the gravel of the rooftop, the cold Gotham wind tugging at his cape as he orbited her with open fascination.

“I could never see you properly before,” he said, tilting his head as though trying to memorize every angle of her presence. “You always camouflaged yourself, slipped through shadows, hid so well—like you weren’t even real.”

Still set on following her plan—pretending the guy wasn’t even there—she stepped past him without a glance and stopped beside Dick. The night wind tugged at the ends of her hair as she tipped her head back, eyes tracing the edge of the rooftop. They stood on a narrow building about eight meters above one of Gotham’s busiest train stations, where the platforms below pulsed with the rhythm of incoming and departing cars. The metallic clatter of wheels on rails rose in steady waves, vibrating through the structure.

“Training,” she said, her voice low but steady. “What do you teach?”

But Cass wasn’t looking at him when she asked. Her focus was fixed downward, studying the patterns of movement beneath them. Each train barreling in was a blur of lights and steel; each departing one created a temporary void, a gap of open space that lasted only seconds before the next arrived. She took in the rhythm, the timing, the risk. The air smelled of oil and smoke and late-night exhaustion drifting up from the commuters.

As she measured the distance to the tracks, her body shifted almost imperceptibly—weight settling, breath slowing. The world around her narrowed to the countdown between one train leaving and the next arriving. Dick opened his mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to warn her, but Cass didn’t wait for either. The moment the gap appeared, clean and sharp, she moved.

She launched herself forward in a fluid burst of motion and dove—headfirst.

She closed her eyes and let her body tip backward, surrendering to the pull of gravity as Dick’s instructions echoed through her mind. Tuck your legs in. Bring your knees to your chest. His voice was calm there in her memory, steady enough to drown out the roar of the trains below. Extend your arms. Feel the air. And when you’re close to the ground—open up. Reach, lengthen, catch the momentum.

That was how you made a perfect backflip—clean, controlled, intentional. How you landed on top of a moving train without breaking every bone in your body—well, not a new one. Cass felt the wind rush around her as she folded herself tight, every muscle obeying the sequence she’d practiced a hundred times. Then she snapped her body open, arms slicing through the cold air.

Her boots met metal with a heavy thud—solid, secure. The train streaked forward beneath her, carrying her momentum with it, but she didn’t stop. She used the force of the landing to roll, pushing into another somersault, then another, flipping her way across the length of the roof until the building’s upper ledge rose into view again. The city lights blurred around her, the whole world reduced to motion, timing, and breath.

Yeah. She needed this—just this. The air felt clearer, her limbs felt freer, and the pressure that usually knotted tight in her chest eased just a bit.

When she hauled herself back onto the roof, she rolled her shoulders in a loose, practiced shrug, trying—futilely—to shake off the tension that had been clinging to her since that night. Her muscles still buzzed with adrenaline, her breath coming sharp but steady. For a fleeting second, she let herself feel almost… competent.

That second ended fast.

Dick’s fist hit her. Not a full-power strike—he wasn’t cruel—but enough to slam the air out of her lungs and send her stumbling a half-step. The shock burned through her ribs. “What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, anger slicing clean through the night air. “Your arm’s still broken, forget?”

As if she could.

She drew in a breath, ready to fire back at Dick—ready to brush off the comment about her arm like it was nothing. Because it was nothing. It was fine. It had improved. She hadn’t put enough weight on it to matter, and even if she had, the brief strain barely registered. It didn't hurt. Not that her concept of pain was anything like Dick’s. But, anyways. 

She parted her lips to say exactly that—or at least to say something that meant it—when a voice cut through the night behind them, sharp enough to slice off the rest of her thought.

“The Grayson insignia!” Robin burst out, his voice pitched with genuine excitement as he practically bounded across the rooftop toward them. His cape snapped behind him as he closed the distance, every step radiating the kind of unfiltered enthusiasm only he could manage. “How did you learn that? Did you see them perform it too? Didn’t you think it was amazing?”

Cass blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy. “What?” she managed, more out of confusion than anything else.

Dick cut in before Robin could fire off another barrage of questions. “She didn’t see anyone do that night,” he said, shaking his head as he let out a rough, irritated exhale. “She saw me do it once—once—about ten months ago, and she learned it.” His tone sat somewhere between disbelief and exasperation, like he still hadn’t fully wrapped his head around the way Cass absorbed movement sometimes.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and snorted, half amused, half fed up. “That’s why I brought her here. Not to jump on a moving train.” His gaze flicked to Cass, eyebrows raised pointedly, before he looked back at the kid. “She’s like… a mirror that hits back. You show her something, she gives it right back to you—faster, sharper, sometimes better.”

He jabbed a thumb in her direction. “If you can land a clean hit on her, then I’ll show you the backflip on the trapeze again.”

Cass scoffed under her breath, the sound small but sharp. So that’s why she’s here.

Her eyes slid toward Robin, taking him in properly now. She had to admit—grudgingly—that Robin was, all things considered, a competent fighter. Dick had mentioned he’d trained for a year, and from what she could see, that wasn’t a lie or an embellishment. His stance was solid, planted, weight distributed with intention. Even here—just standing on a rooftop with nothing happening but tension and wind—he held himself like someone prepared to move the second the world demanded it.

He didn’t let his concentration flicker. His gaze tracked every gesture she made, every shift of her shoulders, every slight adjustment of her balance. That was good. Awareness mattered as much as strength or speed. Maybe more.

Cass rolled her shoulders again, not to shake off stress this time, but to assess him. To see how much he really saw. How much he understood.

Good, she thought, her expression giving nothing away. If he thought he was so good at planting his feet—so perfectly balanced and immovable—then fine. Let him prove it.

Cass didn’t telegraph her intent. She didn’t tense, didn’t shift her weight, didn’t draw in a breath that might give her away. One moment she stood still, studying him; the next, her fist shot forward in a clean, economical punch—simple, quick, and brutally direct. No flair. No warm-up. Just intent turned into motion. Robin had been standing too close, too confident in his readiness. His eyes widened as the punch sliced toward him, and he barely managed to dive sideways, the move more instinct than technique. He escaped the hit by a hair—but his reaction cost him something just as important: stability.

He scrambled back, retreating farther than he should have, his boots scraping against the rooftop. Cass followed the motion the way water follows a slope, fluid and inevitable. She swept her leg low in a tight, precise arc. With all his weight thrown backward, Robin had nowhere to go. Her shin caught his ankles cleanly. He hit the ground.

Using his back as leverage to snap his legs upward—lifting both feet at once for a return kick while rolling back to his starting stance—is so obvious it almost hurts to watch. She sees it before it even begins, in the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing shifts, the way his fingers curl as if bracing for the push. Cass’s eyes narrowed, tracing the micro-movements with surgical precision. She didn’t flinch or falter; every fiber of her body was attuned to his rhythm, the subtle give-and-take of weight and momentum. When his legs shot up for the return kick, she pivoted on her heels, shifting her center of gravity just enough to redirect the force. The motion was seamless, almost imperceptible, but enough to send his attack grazing past her instead of striking solidly.

She countered instantly. A quick step forward, a flick of her wrist, and her palm connected with the side of his torso, a push calibrated to unbalance, not injure. Robin stumbled again, breath catching as his forward momentum was interrupted. His eyes flicked up, a mixture of surprise and delight shimmering in their depths—he recognized the skill, the thought behind each move, and he reveled in it even as he struggled to recover.

"Cassandra Cain," Robin murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, as he leaned closer, searching her eyes like he was trying to map the journey of her soul. "You are the daughter of David Cain, one of the deadliest assassins the world has ever known, a man whose touch was death and whose hands spoke in a language most could never comprehend. From the moment you could walk, you were immersed in a silence so absolute it became your universe—a world without words, without sound, where every movement, every twitch of a finger, every shift of your body was honed into precision, into a language of lethal intent. And yet, you survived. You were rescued, lifted from that suffocating silence, and given a second life under the care of Batman. You became Black Bat, walking the streets in shadows that swallowed all but your own senses, facing monsters and criminals that would shatter the mind of an ordinary person. ”

Cassandra’s hand shot out before he could continue, striking his nose with a sharp, controlled force that left him momentarily staggered. He drew a brief, startled gasp, more from surprise than pain, and she didn’t bother hiding the flicker of irritation—or perhaps something deeper, something like self-awareness—in her eyes. His voice was quiet but steady, carrying a weight that made her lean in despite herself. "I know who you are," he said, each word deliberate, measured. "And I’m terrified of it. Terrified because you operate on a level most people can’t even imagine—instinct, courage, intuition… it’s… impossible. And then there’s me. I’m just… normal. That’s what frightens me, too—the idea that someone like you exists, and I’m just… me." 

"Tim Drake," she said simply, her voice flat, almost as if stating a fact rather than a name.

"Yeah… exactly," Tim replied, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that hinted at mischief but also confidence born of countless nights in the shadows. In one fluid, almost rehearsed motion, he spun on his heel, letting his cloak flare outward in a dramatic sweep that momentarily swallowed the dim light of the roof and sent a blur of dark fabric hurtling toward her. Cassandra’s reflexes were instantaneous, honed by years of training, and she caught his elbow mid-swing with precise, controlled force, her grip firm but measured, as if gauging him as much as defending herself. But her attention split for only a fraction of a second, and in that instant, Tim’s other hand revealed a collapsible bo staff, snapping it open with a sharp, mechanical click. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the staff extended fully, and before she could react, it tapped her squarely on the forehead. The sound was almost comical—a resonant, echoing thwack that bounced off the place—yet beneath the humor, there was a rhythm and a precision that reminded her he was kinda capable. 

Tim shrugged, the grin on his face unwavering. There was a spark in his eyes—equal parts mischief and sincerity—that made the tension in the roof shift almost imperceptibly. "And that," he said, his voice steady despite the ridiculousness of the scene, "is why I want to be your friend." 

—

After that training, ignoring Tim had become almost impossible—like trying to hold back the tide or find water in the middle of a desert. It didn’t help that the guy seemed to exist everywhere she did, as if the universe had conspired to make their paths collide at every turn. He lived at Wayne Manor—or at least spent nine-tenths of his weekends there, sprawled across the halls with an energy that defied both reason and gravity—and somehow, by some miracle or curse, his favorite haunts perfectly mirrored hers. In the library, where she had always sought quiet, focus and nostalgia, he would be there, nose buried in a textbook, diligently working through problems with a concentration that somehow both frustrated and impressed her. In the Batcave, that vast cathedral of shadows and technology that held a sacred, almost spiritual weight for her, he was there too, moving through the machines, the monitors, the endless array of tools and weapons as though he belonged—and in a way, he did, even if she hated to admit it.

Which was why, more than once, she found him lingering near Jason’s suit, as if drawn by some invisible magnet that Cassandra couldn’t begin to understand. He would stand there for minutes at a time, leaning forward on tiptoe, hands lightly brushing the glass, almost reverently, like he could somehow absorb the story of the person behind it through mere touch. There was a tension in his posture that threw her off entirely—an odd mixture of longing and respect, almost bordering on obsession. Desire lingered in the curve of his shoulders, reverence in the careful, deliberate way he traced the outline of the case, and beneath it all, there was a flicker of anger, sharp and fleeting, that made her catch her breath. It was as though devotion and frustration had been distilled into a single gesture, a language of its own that spoke of admiration, loss, and perhaps guilt, all tangled together in a way that Cassandra wasn’t equipped to decode. 

As well as she could read people—and she was good at it—she couldn’t read that.

And every time she caught him there, as if sensing her gaze, he would suddenly bolt away, practically launching himself toward the Batcomputer. His fingers flew over the keys in a blur, frantic and almost childish, muttering under his breath like a storm of thoughts trying to escape all at once. Watching him fumble, curse softly, and desperately try to regain control had become one of the few things that genuinely made her smile—no, laugh—and she would sometimes linger just a little longer to watch, the corners of her mouth tugging up despite herself. 

By the sixth repetition of this bizarre ritual, Cassandra found herself leaning against the edge of the doorway, staring at him from across the room, an almost magnetic pull urging her to break the silence. Before she could stop herself, the first words that popped into her head tumbled out, awkward and utterly ridiculous. "I… like pants."

Tim froze mid-gesture, one hand suspended over the keyboard as if caught in midair by invisible strings. His eyes widened so fast they almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the Batcave, and his mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as though the proper sequence of sounds was eluding him entirely. Finally, he managed a strangled, incredulous, "W-what?"

"I like the ones in your suit," Cassandra said, nodding toward him with that rare, almost imperceptible lift of her brow. "They look more practical than whatever that thing Dick used to wear." Her voice carried a weightless honesty that somehow made the critique sting less and feel more like genuine observation.

Tim scratched the back of his head, fingers tangling briefly in his hair as it fell neatly downwards, a far cry from the unruly, spiky style he had sported as Robin. She couldn’t help but notice how different he looked without the chaotic edge of his hair—and, admittedly, neither style had ever really felt quite right on him. He shifted his weight, a slight shrug accompanying the gesture, and offered a hesitant, "Oh… thanks," his tone awkward but sincere, like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her approval.

Prompted by the lull in conversation, Tim swiveled in his chair toward the computer in front of him, his movements fluid and quick, almost magnetic in their energy. "Want to read some files with me?" he asked, already leaning over the keyboard, fingers flying across the keys in a blur. His voice carried a nervous excitement, the kind that seemed to propel words faster than thought. "I’ve been making charts about the latest villains who’ve passed through Gotham. Poison Ivy was near the Wayne Industries biofuel facility, the Riddler… painted a few buildings, and—" His words tumbled out in a rush, a rapid-fire stream of observation, analysis, and personal commentary all at once. Cassandra watched him with a mixture of curiosity and mild exasperation, noting something she hadn’t fully registered before: Tim talked. A lot.

His eyes danced over the data, constantly shifting, scanning, connecting points, and she couldn’t help but notice the intensity in the way he approached it—like each chart, each pattern, was a personal mission. Then, just as he seemed to hit a rhythm, he added, almost casually, "Shiva was also around, which is weird." He didn’t notice her sudden stiffening, the subtle tightening of her posture, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes. "It’s not normal for her to spend so much time in Gotham…"

Cass sprang from where she’d been standing, her movements fluid and precise, landing lightly on the balls of her feet beside him with barely a sound. Without hesitation, she reached out and pushed his chair back, until they were practically face to face, the sudden closeness charged with urgency. Her eyes, sharp and unrelenting, locked onto his as if she could read the truth hidden behind his words. "Shiva," she said, her voice low, intense, almost a growl, carrying the weight of experience and the unspoken understanding of danger. "What do you know about her?" 

Tim blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden intensity of her presence, the way Cass’s gaze pinned him with unspoken expectation. For a heartbeat, his usual verbal torrent faltered, but he adjusted quickly, shifting into his familiar rhythm of analysis. "Huh… Sandra Wu-san is a formidable assassin," he said, his voice regaining confidence as he warmed to the topic. "She blends styles—Judo, Karate, Capoeira, Stick Fighting… she reads her opponent’s movements almost the same way you do." He hesitated, a flicker of hesitation passing over his features. "Not to brag, but I trained with her, and… well…" His words trailed off as he caught the sharp, unwavering edge in her eyes, the kind that demanded focus and truth, and he felt the subtle weight of her scrutiny. Realizing he’d lingered too long on personal anecdotes, he pivoted smoothly, more cautious now. "The last we heard," he continued, voice steadier, "she’s been in contact with the League of Assassins lately."

The League of Assassins.

She knew the League of Assassins by name, more from whispers in the shadows and the grim stories her father, David Cain, had left behind than from any firsthand experience. The mere mention of them sent a chill crawling down her spine, a quiet, instinctive warning that tightened her chest and sharpened her senses. If her father had ever crossed paths with them, she knew—without needing proof—that it had never been for anything honorable or clean. His dealings had always carried the scent of blood and betrayal, and by extension, the name of the League became synonymous with danger she had been trained to recognize long before she fully understood it.

"What would she want from them?" Cassandra asked, her voice quiet but loaded with warning.

"Access to the pit, maybe," Tim started, his voice trailing off as he considered the possibilities. "Although Shiva isn’t exactly the type to—"

Before Tim could finish, the doorway framed a familiar, commanding silhouette, broad-shouldered and impossibly still, yet somehow radiating a presence that made the room feel smaller, heavier. "Tim," Bruce’s voice cut through the Batcave, calm, deep, and undeniably authoritative, carrying a weight that made even the shadows seem to shift in deference. Both of them turned as if caught in the act of mischief, their heads snapping toward him, eyes wide and attention instantly focused. "It’s late," he continued, voice even, measured, yet carrying that unmistakable edge of command that left no room for argument. "You have school tomorrow. You’d better leave soon."

Tim’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, and they widened almost comically as the reality of the hour hit him like a sudden jolt. For a fleeting heartbeat, he looked as if he might bolt right then and there, launching into a mad dash through the Batcave in a desperate attempt to escape the consequences of his tardiness. "Damn, my curfew…" he muttered under his breath, the words a mixture of frustration, panic, and reluctant resignation. His fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket as he grabbed it and started to edge past Bruce, a faint determination in his posture that suggested he might still try to make a stealthy getaway. But with a single, subtle gesture, Bruce stopped him.

"Is something wrong?" Tim asked, tilting his head just enough to signal curiosity without overstepping, his voice careful but carrying a hint of concern.

Bruce studied him for a heartbeat longer, his gaze sharp and assessing, yet layered with something almost imperceptibly warm. After a moment, a faint smile touched his lips—it was subtle, easily missed if one weren’t paying close attention, but it carried a weight of approval and quiet concern. "Be careful," Bruce said, his voice low, softened at the edges in a way that made it feel more like advice than command. "And don’t stay up too late.”

Tim’s reply came crisp and respectful, the tone measured. "Yes, understood," he said, the words precise, almost military in their delivery, yet carrying a hint of his characteristic eagerness. And then, as if propelled by a sudden surge of adrenaline he bolted, moving so quickly that the Batcave seemed to blur around him. Yet even in his flight, there was a moment of hesitation, a subtle falter in his stride. His voice broke through the rushing sound of his movement, soft and hesitant, barely more than a breath: "Goodbye… Cass…andra." The drawn-out pronunciation carried a weight he didn’t dare fully acknowledge, a fleeting vulnerability that flickered in the shadows before he vanished from sight.

She started to wave him off, preparing to slip away as quickly as she could—spending extra time with Bruce always felt like navigating a tightrope stretched taut over a dark abyss. Every second under his watchful gaze made her muscles coil, her mind sharpening in ways she didn’t entirely like, a constant tension settling over her shoulders like a second skin. But then his voice cut through the quiet, calm and deliberate, yet carrying that weight that always made her freeze mid-motion. It shouldn’t have sounded unusual—she had heard it countless times—but in that moment, it did, as if the air around them had shifted imperceptibly. “Cass… you haven’t eaten.” The words were simple, unembellished, lacking any trace of admonishment, yet they landed with an unexpected warmth, brushing against her defenses like a sudden breeze in the cavernous cold of the Batcave. There was a subtle insistence there too, a weird one. 

Her hand froze mid-wave. She shifted her weight, tugging at the sleeve of her jacket as if she could make herself smaller, less noticeable. Her throat tightened, and she forced her voice to sound casual. "I’m fine," she said quickly, too quickly, trying to mask the flutter in her chest. "I’m… sleepy."

"I haven’t had dinner either," Bruce said, his tone softer this time, almost conspiratorial, as if the words themselves were part of an unspoken act. There was a subtle shift in his usual intensity, a loosening of the edges that made his voice feel unusually warm, almost like a quiet concession. "We could heat something up and eat, quietly... just the two of us. That way we don’t bother Alfred."

"I told you, I’m not hungry."

"Cass," Bruce's voice was quieter now, almost strained, as if the words themselves weighed heavy on him. He stepped forward, blocking her path, his hand reaching out, but not quite making contact, as though afraid that the smallest touch might shatter the fragile thread of connection between them. His gaze was steady, though there was something in the way his eyes lingered—an unspoken plea. "Please, let me talk to you for a second. I’ve been trying to reach you all day."

Cassandra didn’t stop walking, but her stride faltered, just for a moment, like a half-beat in a song, a brief pause that was more telling than if she had stopped entirely. The stillness of her body spoke volumes, revealing that she’d heard him, that she couldn’t escape the gravity of his presence, even if she refused to face it head-on. She didn’t turn back, didn’t look up, but the silence between them stretched like a taut wire.

Bruce exhaled sharply, his breath caught between exhaustion and a frustration that had been building for far too long. His hand ran through his hair, raking it back in a way that betrayed his growing impatience, his usual composure cracking just enough to show the tension that had been coiled beneath his calm exterior. His jaw was tight, muscles clenched, a silent war between his need to control everything around him and the increasing urge to simply reach her.

“You keep avoiding me,” he said, the words heavy, carrying a weight that felt like it could break through the silence surrounding them. His voice was lower than usual, a subtle tremor underlining the strength of the words, like he had to force them out, as if each syllable hurt more than the last. “And what I need to tell you is important.” The quiet intensity of his statement felt like a plea in disguise, and yet it was also something far harder to give. The usual command in his voice was gone now—replaced with something more raw, more vulnerable. “I thought maybe…” Bruce continued, his voice dipping lower, a slight crack of uncertainty betraying him. There was a hesitation, a split second where he seemed to lose his grip on what he wanted to say, as if the words were slipping through his fingers. “Maybe dinner would be nice. Something calmer. Something closer, because…” His voice faltered again, this time the silence stretching out longer between his words, as though he were searching for a reason that would make sense even to himself. “Because…” 

“No," Cassandra snapped, cutting him off, her voice sharp with irritation. She was right in front of him now, close enough to feel the heat of his breath and the tension in the air between them. "I’m not hungry."

"It's about Jason."

The words hang in the air, heavy and cold, as if the very room has sucked all the oxygen out of it. Time seems to stretch, then shatter, splitting the world into two halves—before, and after. Her mind stalls, unable to process, to grip onto anything solid. All at once, her anger, the familiar fire that had kept her sharp and focused, fades into something far more distant, far more insignificant. It feels like standing on the edge of a vast, empty space, her guilt—always there, always heavy—suddenly feeling so small, so minuscule, next to something far more terrifying: hope.

Hope. The thought lands like a heavy stone in her chest, a weight that presses down until she can barely breathe, until her ribs feel like they might crack under the pressure. The thought of it, the possibility of it, stirs something deep inside her—a hunger, a desire, something she had long buried because it hurt too much to acknowledge. But that hope, fragile as it is, shatters in an instant. It breaks like a mirror, with thousands of shards splintering into her palms, cutting her skin and drawing blood. But the pain doesn’t register—not at first. She can’t feel anything. It’s like the world has gone numb, like she’s suspended in some hollow space where everything—every emotion, every piece of herself—has frozen into nothingness. It’s as though her heart has stopped beating altogether, as if the moment her hope died, everything else with it went still.

And then, in the stillness, she sees him.

She doesn’t need to hear the words—she doesn't even need to see his face, really. She feels it in the way his posture changes, the subtle shift of his body language. His shoulders slump, as if the weight of what he's carrying has finally dragged him down. His eyes narrow, darkening with a mixture of pain and regret, and his jaw tightens, clenched so hard it’s almost painful to watch. It’s all there, in the way he stands, in the air around him, in the silence between them. She doesn't need him to say it, because she knows.

The realization comes crashing over her like a wave, and in that moment, it’s too much to bear. The words are unnecessary—everything he’s trying to tell her is written all over him, in the small, nearly imperceptible shifts of his body. She sees it in the way his breath hitches slightly, how his gaze falters, how his hand twitches as if reaching for something he can’t quite grasp. She sees it, and it’s so much worse than hearing it spoken aloud. She can’t escape it; she can’t outrun it. It’s like she’s been slapped with a truth so harsh, so raw, that it cuts through her completely, stripping her of every layer she’s ever built. And yet, even as she sees him, she hates being able to see him this way. She hates that he’s laid bare in front of her like this, vulnerable and open in ways she’s never known him to be. She can’t look away, but she can’t look at him either. The tension between them is suffocating, and all she wants to do is turn away, to shield herself from the emotional weight of it—but she can’t.

"He's dead."

Notes:

Hey, I know this probably took ages, but university nearly killed me—like, literally.

But hey, that's not your problem. The real issue is that this chapter is a complete disaster. I’m sorry if it’s awful—I wrote it between classes, exams, bursts of madness, and whatever bits of rest I could grab. Honestly, I don’t even know how I managed to fit all this in. It feels like it’s all over the place.

I’ll totally understand if you hate it, so feel free to let me know. It’s definitely a bit more depressing than usual... I’ve been in that headspace lately.

Anyway, see you soon, I hope... honestly, I shouldn't even say that anymore.