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tsuvvy · 11 months ago

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Oh Sister of Mine - Chapter 2

Mistreated Stray

You wake up cuffed to a hospital bed. You refuse to cooperate with the Batfamily and stubbornly refuse to disclose any information about yourself or how you ended up in your job with Kerrim. And surprise rises when they find out whose DNA matches closest to yours.

Warnings: Mentions of pain, you are handcuffed to a bed, fighting with electricity, violence (not a lot), mentions of not eating well, implication of (not) poisoned food, mention of killing and torture, you being compared to a stray dog (not in a bad way, I promise)

Word Count: 2.3k

Your head was pounding. Your limbs hurt. You felt uncomfortable.

You wanted to curl up into a little ball. But when you tried to move your hand, it didn't go very far. It was abruptly stopped by a force.

You peeled your eyelids open and managed to look down through your blurry vision. You were handcuffed to the bed.

You looked around with your confused and still somewhat blurry eyesight.

Off to the side, there was a man. He was decently tall and his clothes looked meticulously cleaned and pressed of any wrinkles there could ever possibly be with his perfect posture. He didn't have many similarities with your father, but you were quite disoriented. He was at a counter with his back towards you.

“Dad…?” You muttered out in a somewhat shaky voice of pain. Your head felt like it was getting worse.

The man paused in what he was doing at the sound. He took a moment before turning to look at you. He had gray hair and wrinkles along his forehead, which were both no doubt from aging. And he had a nice mustache as well. It was clear he had a nice job to get such a nice suit as the one he wore.

“Ah, I see you are finally awake,” He said, more of an observation than trying to speak to you. “I am Alfred Pennyworth,” Cassandra had already told him of her own observations that you couldn't understand much, but it looked like you could. No one knew to what extent of speech you knew and didn’t know. He grabbed the tray off of the counter he was just at. He stepped towards you and put it down on the bed next to you.

You almost curled away from him. Like a scared stray dog. Your gaze traveled to the tray, his hand, and then him. The tray had an assortment of little items on it. You couldn't tell what they were. They smelled good, but..

The man backed away from you, noticing your movement and cautious gaze.

“Go on,” he gestured toward the tray. “It is safe,” he offered a kind gaze. But he was meant with nothing but a mean scowl from you. He knew this was going nowhere, “I will return shortly.”

You watched him turn his back toward you. And you watched him leave.

It took a moment before you looked down the tray. You hesitantly reached a hand over, poking the little sandwiches on the tray before picking it up and smelling it. You took a tiny and cautious bite. It actually tasted.. Good..

You are so accustomed to the lazily prepared and bad tasting food that your father would feed you. So these tiny little sandwiches seemed like a delicacy. One that you could not stop eating.

You only stopped when someone stepped into the room that resembled that of a hospital one.

The old man had returned, then behind him came a red-head in a chair with wheels and two ravenettes in after her. The four stopped when they looked at you. The tray of 14 little sandwiches was down to about 3 now.

Alfred smiled at you, even if you had gone back to your stiff and cautious curl you could manage. Your body pressed against the arm of the hospital bed.

“I see you enjoyed the snack,” Alfred said, “Excuse me while I make some more for our guest.” He had turned to the three.

“Of course, it's no worries at all!” The red head told him with a smile before he made his exit.

You watched him leave, your gaze immediately turning to the three that entered farther into the room.

The woman with short black hair looked at you. You hated her gaze. You hated the pity you saw. And you hated the color. And you just hated it. You hated her.

“Hello,” the red head said, wheeling her chair a bit closer to the bed you were sitting in. “I'm Barbara,” her voice was sweet, gentle, and soft. “This is Bruce,” she gestured to the man with black hair who moved to stand behind her. “And that is Cassandra.” She stood farther away from the bed, her arms crossed, “Though you probably.. Already know her.” Barbara glanced at you, watching your reaction. Bruce watched carefully as well. You just glanced around at everyone warily.

Why weren't you locked up? Why weren't you getting worse treatment than just being cuffed to the arm of a hospital bed. You’ve seen your father kill and torture his enemies. Why wasn't that happening to you?

“What's your name?” Barbara asked you gently. Bruce stood behind the chair she sat in, still watching you.

“I…” Your voice was quiet, and you were hesitant, you looked away stubbornly. “Can’t tell.” Though you did keep the three in your peripheral. The three were a bit disconcerted from that answer. You were young, possibly younger than Damian, so why couldn’t you tell them?

“Why not?” The redhead asked. You didn’t answer so she moved on. “What about your age?” She asked gently, her gaze reassuring. You stubbornly shook your head. Barbara looked behind herself at Bruce, the two sharing the same look.

“I understand you are scared, but-” Bruce was cut off.

“Not scared.” You sent him a scowl.

“Alright, you aren’t scared,” he restated, “Either way we need to know why you were working for someone like Kerrim.”

You looked away again. “Please, we want to help,” Barbara urged.

“Nothing,” You said, voice cracking subtly for a second in your uncertainty.

“Nothing?” Barbara questioned.

“Nothing I know.” You said.

“What does that mean?” Barbara asked. She had a good idea what you meant. She was a genius, after all. But she wanted to hear it from your perspective.

“They don’t know anything,” Everyone looked to the doorway. There stood a boy with a dog next to him. “But they’re lying.” His gaze narrowed on you in a glare. And you returned that glare with a scowl.

“Damian?” Barbara questioned.

“You do know something,” He walked in, his hands in his pockets and the dog at his side. “You just won’t give it up.”

Everyone was silent for a beat.

“Or,” Damian spoke up through the silence, “You were taught not to.” Damian could see through you. “Am I right?” He raised a brow, the cocky smirk that looked to be an insanely good impersonation of Robin (crazy, right?). Your scowl only deepened. When Alfred came into the room with another tray of little sandwiches, you tried to push yourself farther into the armrest on the bed. Damian picked off one of the little sandwiches as he said, “Seems I am.” His gaze shifted towards Bruce, “Should I continue?” He asked arrogantly.

“I believe there is no need for that, Master Damian.” Alfred spoke as he placed the newly acquired tray of sandwiches on the bed and placed the ones from the other tray onto it and took the old tray. He diligently backed away from the bed and in turn, you. He didn’t wish to make this any more stressful for you than it already was.

“Alfred is right,” Bruce agreed.

“Bruce,” A boy with black hair peeked into the room, a laptop in his hands. “Could I speak with you,” he insinuated to talking away from this room.

“Yes,” Bruce said, looking at you. “Barbara, Alfred, stay with them.” He told the two. “Damian and Cassandra, come with us.”

The two obeyed, following him out of the room. But, the dog next to Damian's side stayed in the room instead of following him out. The big dog came to sit next to the chair Barbara was in.

“Have you found something, Tim?” Bruce asked.

“A little,” the boy answered as he led the group back to the main computer he had been working at.

“And that is?” Damian raised a brow.

“I'd appreciate it if you kept the rude remarks to a minimum, thanks.” Tim sighed as he sat in the swivel chair and began to type away. “I couldn't find a lot.” Tim said.

“What did you find?” Bruce asked. He put a hand on the top of the chair and leaned into his other hand he rested on the edge of the desk.

“I tried looking for things based on her description and pictures first. Like missing persons reports or even any pictures that might have been taken out in the open. But I couldn't find anything,” Tim continued to type on the keyboard. “Then I looked for a birth certificate by putting in general information, but also couldn't find anything.”

“Get to the point.” Damian chimed in, getting impatient.

Cassandra had stood quiet, listening intently. Something about you she felt like she knew. She felt like she knew you. But she knew she didn't. She would probably recall meeting a young child adept at fighting that had electricity powers.

“Getting there,” Tim grumbled, finally pulling up a DNA Match screen. “Then, I had Alfred help grab something to use for a DNA match,” He cleared out the other screens in the way.

On the big computer screen was a picture displayed of you, and then one next to it. The picture next to the one of you was of Cassandra, much to Damian, her's, and Bruce's surprise. The words,

‘Closest Match’

were flashing on the screen.

“Now, the kid is obviously not in the database,” Tim pushed against the desk, turning the swivel chair to look at the three. “But they are related to Cass.”

Cass stood stunned, staring at the computer screen. Maybe there was a reasoning to why you were so familiar to her…

The four looking at the computer, Tim at the others, heard a sudden zap, then a few barks and yells. Everyone whipped to look at the door.

“Hey, hey, no!” Barbara's voice sounded from the room.

Not long at all afterward, you came out of the room as quickly as you could. Though you were significantly slower.

Bruce stepped forward, but he stopped when he caught your gaze. Your venomous gaze that would have sent shivers down anyone's spine who didn't deal with people like this a lot. But it caught Bruce off guard.

It wasn’t as much about the venom in your glare. It was what you reminded him of.

You reminded him of something like a stray animal. One that has been mistreated over the years, had to fight for food. Lost loved ones, been abandoned.

Your gaze traveled across everyone in the room.

“Don't!” You yelled when you saw Tim stand up. “Don't, come.. Come near!” You figured out your words. Tim and Cassandra shared a glance.

“Just..” You looked at Bruce quickly. “Calm down.” He kept his tone as soft as he could manage. He puts a hand out, tries to ease your emotions.

You finally noticed Damian. He had gotten closer without your realizing. Your reaction time has decreased with how exhausted you still were. You managed to back away from his hand in the nick of time.

“Damian no!” Cassandra yelled when she saw Damian about to punch at you.

Damian hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting to Cassandra momentarily. You took the opportunity to send a kick at him. He dodged. You started sending more attacks, all being significantly slower than they had been when you first ran into the vigilantes.

Damian only dodged your attacks, slowly backing away throughout the area. No one else intervened. It was all happening too quickly.

You were already charging up the electricity in your arm. It wrapped and flickered around your arm, quickly traveling down to your hand. You threw your hand out, sending the shot of electricity at Damian, but he ducked, effectively dodging it.

Your eyes felt heavy. Your own arm you had just used felt numb and tingly. Your legs shook, and your heart was racing. And you were falling..

Damian moved quickly, still in his crouch from ducking. He opened his arms and you fell into him, your head landing on his chest.

Damian put a hand around your shoulder, holding it firmly, making sure you wouldn't try to get up, but he already knew you couldn't with how weak you were.

And you weakly trying to push against him to get away from him only proved that.

“Get away,” you said, voice shaking. “Get. Get..” You weakly pushed. “Get away. Get away..” You sounded like a broken record. Voice continuously breaking, and also continuously repeating yourself. “Please.. Get away!” You cried.

“Calm down!” Damian told you.

“Away! Away! Away!” You continued to cry.

“Hey, I told you to calm down!” Damian kept his voice a firm but calm tone. “You're safe, no one will hurt you!” He glanced at the woman who had approached and crouched next to the two of you. You hadn't noticed her.

You hadn't noticed her until she was pulling you away from Damian’s arms and into her own.

“Shh,” Cassandra held you tightly in her arms against her chest, “It's okay,” she rested her forehead against your head.

“Get away!” Your voice grew louder, more desperate, more hysterical. “Get,” She shushed you again, “Get away..” Your voice was growing quieter. “Get away.” A mutter now.

She was.. Cassandra was warm, and.. You couldn’t understand anything that was happening. Too much is happening. This warmth was foreign. And the want to lean into her was foreign, and quite frankly an unwelcome feeling you didn't want in your body.

“It's okay,” She told you softly, “I have you.” She wasn't sure why she felt the need to protect you. To hold you tightly. To never let go. To always keep you safe.

Why did the words make your stomach tighten like they did? And your heart felt weird. Almost worrisome to you if you had the time to think of your heart of all things.

You tried to fight the way your eyes grew heavier. “Get away..” Your voice was quiet, shaky, and tired. “Get..” You breathed, “Get away..”

You were asleep…

<- Chapter 1 Chapter 3 ->

@redh00dsbf @02006

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bat-mom-writer · 27 days ago

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Rage and Redemption Part 2

Bruce Wayne X orphan(Female) Reader

Summary: months after losing your parents in a fire, you become a troublesome child for the workers at the orphanage. But one day Bruce Wayne comes to your orphanage to adopt you.

Rating: sad, angst, happy ending?

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

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Bruce Wayne, dressed in a casual yet elegant suit, stepped out of his sleek black car, which purred softly as it came to a stop. Before him stood the orphanage, its ivy-covered bricks telling a story of neglect that starkly contrasted with his polished vehicle. He took a deep breath, his heart weighed down by the enormity of his decision. The cool air, tinged with the faint scent of charred wood from the fire that had devastated the nearby apartments, stirred painful memories. The image of the girl’s tear-stained face lingered in his mind, pushing him to move forward as he approached the building, filled with a sense of compassion and resolve.

As he walked up the familiar, well-worn steps, the door of the orphanage creaked open, unveiling a warm and inviting interior that contrasted sharply with the cold exterior he had just left behind. The joyful sounds of children’s laughter and chatter filled the air, creating a vibrant atmosphere that felt like a heartbeat amid the heavy silence he had endured since that fateful night. He gently closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing down the corridor. Approaching a kind grey-haired woman at a desk, he shared the reason for his visit, his smile reflecting a mixture of hope and nostalgia. In response, she offered him a warm and encouraging smile, guiding him toward Ms. Jenkins' office with genuine warmth, as though she understood the weight of his journey.

With a mischievous grin stretching across your face, you dashed down the dimly lit hallway of the orphanage, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the worn wooden floors. Your heart raced wildly in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and exhilaration coursing through you. In your grasp, you held tightly to a small purse, its fabric cool against your fingers, a prize you’d deftly snatched from Ms. Jenkins’ cluttered office, a thrill of rebellion sparking within you with each step.

A stern voice echoed behind you, but you refused to look back. You knew it was her, the one who had been pursuing you for what felt like an eternity. The click-clack of her heels grew louder, yet you were faster, driven by anger and an urgent need to break free from this place. You charged through the cafeteria, skillfully dodging tables and chairs as the other children stared at you in wide-eyed disbelief, their spoonfuls of oatmeal suspended in mid-air. The smell of burnt toast from the kitchen enveloped you, momentarily overpowering the usual stench of the orphanage.

You jumped onto the first table, the metal screeching under your weight. You kicked a plastic tray off the edge, and its contents splattered on the floor with a loud crash. The laughter of younger kids encouraged you as you moved from table to table, creating chaos. Trays clattered and food was scattered everywhere. You felt a rush of excitement, a feeling you hadn’t experienced since the fire took everything from you.

Ms. Jenkins’ shrill voice closed in, making it clear she was far from amused. The rapid clicking of her heels echoed as two imposing male staff members charged behind her. You could practically feel the heat of their breath on your neck. But as you approached the last table, you seized your moment. You took a determined running start and propelled yourself off the edge, targeting the exit of the cafeteria. The open floor loomed ahead, and freedom was within reach just as Ms. Jenkins and the two staff members rounded the corner, their eyes wide with shock and fury.

With a swift and powerful kick, you launched the last tray into the air, sending its colorful contents flying like a delicious, chaotic storm. As the food scattered across the floor, the three adults—each one heavyset and awkward—lost their footing on the slick surface, their arms windmilling wildly in a desperate attempt to regain balance. The burly men collided with one another, their bodies thudding together, which sent Ms. Jenkins toppling to the ground with a surprised yelp.

The delightful chaos sparked a wave of laughter and squeals from the circle of children nearby, their eyes wide and gleaming with a mix of delight and mischief. The entire scene unfolded like a scene from a live-action cartoon, a perfect blend of slapstick humor and unexpected absurdity, and you couldn't suppress a giggle at the hilarity of it all.

For a brief moment, everything around you seemed to come to a halt, as if time itself had decided to pause. The chaos of the chase morphed into an unexpected dance of slips and stumbles, each mishap adding a touch of humor to the frantic scene. With a surge of adrenaline, you seized the opportunity presented by their misfortunes and sprinted through the cafeteria's exit door. The cool breeze that greeted you felt refreshing against your skin, whispering promises of freedom and escape.

But as your sneakers touched the polished tiles of the hallway, a sudden collision interrupted your joyful laughter. You ran headlong into a wall of muscle and affluence—none other than Bruce Wayne himself. The impact knocked you back onto the floor, sending your purse skidding away from your grasp. Disorientation set in as you blinked up at him, his eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected encounter. Yet, amidst the initial shock, you noticed his expression soften as he recognized you.

“Hey, are you okay?” he inquires, his hand outstretched in an offer to help you up.

But you were quicker than he anticipated, weren’t you? The adrenaline coursing through your veins transformed you into a blur of motion, nimble and swift like a fox darting through a forest. You seized the purse from the cold, unforgiving floor and bolted toward the door, your heart pounding in your chest. The metal handle glinted in the dim light, tantalizingly close, as if it held the promise of liberation just beyond its threshold.

Freedom was merely a push away, an intoxicating invitation to the vibrant world outside that had been beckoning you for far too long. The smooth, cool surface of the handle felt like the key to a cage in which you had been trapped, yearning for escape and the sweet taste of the open air that awaited you.

Just as you were about to dash away, a hand—firm yet gentle—wrapped around your arm, bringing your frantic movement to an abrupt halt. Startled, you looked up to see Bruce Wayne's familiar face, his expression a mix of concern and determination as he kept you from making your escape.

"What are you running from?" he inquired, his voice steady and calm, cutting through the tension in the air. His grip tightened just enough to convey importance, not enough to inflict pain, but enough to signal that he wouldn’t relent easily.

"Let me go, dipshit!" you snarled, attempting to pull away from him, your eyes blazing with defiance. The purse was still in your hand, and you swung it around, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.

Bruce's grip didn’t waver. His eyes searched yours for something beyond your hidden anger and fear. “I won’t let you get hurt,” he said, his voice firm yet kind.

Ms. Jenkins and the two male staff members stumbled into the hallway, their faces flushed with exertion and embarrassment from their fall. "There you are!" she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched from the effort of chasing you. She straightened her skirt, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the scene before her: you, holding her purse, and Bruce Wayne, standing as an unexpected obstacle to her authority.

"Mr. Wayne!" she exclaims her voice a mix of surprise and urgency as her eyes flicker nervously between the designer purse you hold in your hand and the calm, unwavering determination etched on Bruce's face. "I sincerely apologize for this disturbance," she continues, her tone softening slightly as she takes a breath to steady herself. "This girl is quite a handful," she adds, casting a wary glance in your direction as if trying to gauge the situation. With a swift motion, she tilts her head toward the staff members nearby, her fierce expression conveying a clear message for them to take action and intervene.

In an instant, the two burly men grab your arms tightly and pull you behind Ms. Jenkins, wrenching the purse from your grip and spilling its contents on the floor. You struggle to break free and run for the exit, but their hold on you is unyielding.

Ms. Jenkins bends down, her nose in the air as she rummages through her purse, her eyes narrowed in accusation. She picks up a lipstick, then a set of keys, before her hand closes around a small, tattered photo of a family, its edges burned. The sight sends a jolt through her, and her expression softens for a moment as she looks at you, recognizing the pain. But quickly, her face hardens again.

"You know why you can't have this back," she says, her voice low and measured. She holds up the photo, the flimsy paper almost transparent from your constant touch. "You've caused enough trouble today, young lady."

Anger surges in your cheeks as her words pierce through you. That photo was the final fragment of your old life—the one before everything turned to ash and despair. It captured a moment of joy, with you, your mom, and your dad all smiling, the happiness you've yearned for since that fateful night. You wrench against the staff's grip, desperation flooding your voice. “It’s mine! Give it back!” you cry out, but Ms. Jenkins only tucks the photograph into her pocket, a painful reminder of the fire's merciless destruction.

"You'll only get it back when you learn to behave," she says, her voice icy and dismissive. Each word feels like a dagger to your heart, twisting deeper with every syllable. "Take her to detention for the night," she commands the staff, who nod and move to drag you away. You kick and scream, desperation clawing at your throat, but their grip is like iron, unbreakable. Their faces are as hard and unyielding as the prison bars that seem to loom closer with each step, leaving you feeling utterly powerless and frightened.

As you are taken away, you catch a glimpse of Bruce’s face, his brow furrowed and eyes filled with concern. For a moment, you see a flicker of anger aimed not at you, but at Ms. Jenkins. That brief comfort vanishes, replaced by dread as you leave the only person who has shown you kindness since the fire.

Ms. Jenkins looks at Bruce as the two staff members take you to detention. She straightens her skirt and smooths her hair, regaining her usual authoritative stance. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she says, her voice overly sweet. "We have rules for a reason. She's a troublemaker, that one."

Bruce nods, his eyes fixed on you as you turn the corner. He can feel the anger radiating from you—a fierce intensity that he knows well, one that drives his nightly battles as Batman. He fully understands the pain of loss and the unwavering need for justice that comes from witnessing the suffering of the innocent.

Ms. Jenkins clears her throat, regaining his attention. "Not that you're not welcome here, Mr. Wayne, but is there something specific you were looking for?"

He nods, his eyes still lingering on the spot where you had disappeared. "Yes," he clears his throat, "I am looking to adopt."

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. Ms. Jenkins’ eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, she is speechless. Then she smiles broadly, clasping her hands. "How wonderful!" she exclaims. "We’re thrilled to have people like you offer homes to our children. They need someone like you to give them a chance at a better life."

Bruce nods, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm interested in her," he says, pointing down the hallway where you were taken.

Ms. Jenkins' smile weakens as she glances back, expecting to find someone there, but finds the hallway empty, save for the distant echoes of your protests. "Who?" she inquires, her tone a bit less pleasant than before.

Bruce maintains his steady gaze on her and responds with clarity, "I’m referring to the girl you just sent to detention—the one you were chasing."

Ms. Jenkins' smile fades into a strained grimace before she quickly recovers. "Ah, her. She's quite a handful, I'm afraid. She's still adjusting to the loss of her parents in the fire, you see. It's been quite a challenge for us to manage her grief and behavior. Would you be interested in another child?" she suggests, her voice saturated with insincere kindness.

But Bruce's mind is made up. With a firm expression on his face, he shakes his head and declares, "No," his voice is steady and resolute. "It's her."

Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "Mr. Wayne, I must advise against that. She's a very… troubled child. She's been through a lot, and it's affected her in ways we're still trying to understand. She's prone to outbursts, theft, and violence. We've had to restrain her more than once."

Bruce's jaw clenches, but his gaze remains unwavering. "I understand she's been through a traumatic experience, and she needs guidance. I believe I can provide that for her."

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” she says, her voice suddenly cold as ice, “but she’s not even on the list of children available for adoption.”

Bruce's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you mean she's not on the list?" he demanded, his voice firm with confusion and determination.

Ms. Jenkins' smile shifts into a smug smirk. "Exactly, Mr. Wayne. She is not suitable for adoption at this time."

But Bruce isn't one to be deterred. He reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a sleek black checkbook. "Twenty thousand," he says, his voice steady, "she's on the list."

Ms. Jenkins' eyes widen at the sight of the checkbook, and for a moment, a greedy expression crosses her face before she quickly regains her composure, adopting a professional demeanor. "Mr. Wayne, I appreciate your generosity, but it's not that simple. The welfare of the children here must be our top priority."

Bruce's hand hovers over the checkbook, the pen ready to sign. "Fifty thousand," he says simply, the words slicing through the tension like a knife.

Ms. Jenkins glances around the empty hallway, seemingly wary of being caught. The distant laughter from the cafeteria fades away. She licks her lips, and her greed is evident. "Why don’t you and I talk more in my office?" she whispers conspiratorially, nodding toward her door, its nameplate glinting in the fluorescent lights.

"Thank you, but I would like that picture back," Bruce says firmly, holding out his hand with his palm up, expecting the family photo.

Ms. Jenkins hesitates, her eyes flicking from the checkbook. "Mr. Wayne, I must insist that the photo stays with us for now," she says, her voice a delicate balance of greed and authority.

Bruce's eyes narrowed, a steely glint reflecting his determination, as he slowly tucked the checkbook back into his pocket. "First, the picture," he repeated, his voice a low, menacing rumble that reverberated off the walls and sent an uneasy silence down the hallway.

Ms. Jenkins lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her emotions. With a subtle, trembling hand, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws a worn photo, its edges frayed with time. She places it gently into Bruce's outstretched palm, the paper warm from her touch. To you, it feels like a lifeline—a precious remnant of a past that has been shattered beyond recognition.

As Bruce gazes down at the image, the fierce anger that once burned in his eyes begins to dissolve, giving way to a profound sadness that reverberates in the depths of your own heart. It’s a shared grief, one that has lingered like a haunting shadow since the day of the fire. Carefully, Bruce tucks the photo into his pocket, the corners peeking out like a fragile promise, a glimmer of hope amidst the overwhelming darkness.

“Thank you, please lead the way,” he says, his tone firm and a winning smile on his lips.

Ms. Jenkins nods, her arrogance fading as she realizes she must comply with Bruce. She turns and walks down the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor.

Bruce trails behind, his eyes fixated on the very spot where you were forcibly taken from him. The memory lingers in the air like a haunting specter, as he can almost hear the anguished echo of your cries—each one a desperate plea that pierced through the silence. He recalls the raw urgency in your voice as you begged for the one thing that could provide even a flicker of solace in this cold, heartless world. A tight knot of anger and determination forms in his chest. He vows, with unyielding resolve, that he will never allow anyone to strip that comfort away from you again.

Part 3

#batman #bat family #dc universe #bat boys #dc fandom #batfamily #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x daughter #bruce wayne x reader #batman x daughter #orphan reader

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