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Chapter Text

It started with Dick

Bruce didn't understand what was wrong at first. He didn't understand why Dick flinched when he touched him. Or why Dick sometimes became detached. Completely unresponsive, even after Bruce kept yelling his name. Or why Dick had so many scars after spyral. Scars he didn't have before. Scars that were deep and painful to look at. Bruce didn't understand any of it. But damn him if he wasn't willing to try.

It started with Dick, as all things did.

Dick was used to having nightmares. The rhythm of them was an unwelcome and unsettling fixture in his existence. And yet, these nightmares were a familiar dance, a routine he had grown accustomed to.

He was used to them. He was used to the constant feeling of sweat dripping down his face. The constant thrashing of his body as he tried to evade the inevitable.

The constant fear- This nightmare especially, Dick was most familiar with. It always started the same. As usual, Dick during the days of his spiral mission would find himself in an empty room with Bruce Wayne looking at him affectionately.

They would hug as Bruce would offer a brief moment of respite. "Dick" Bruce always smiled.

This should've been his first warning. Bruce was mad at him. He was always mad at him. He never cared to ask about his wellbeing during their check ups. He never told him anything about his siblings. He didn't seem to care about him anymore

"I think it's time for you to come home" Bruce would say gently.

The scene as always would change after that, transitioning to the stately Wayne manor. Damian stood slightly behind his father, a smile gracing his features.

"Richard, I've missed you,"Damian would confess, reaching out to embrace his older brother.

This should've been the second sign. Damian was 10 in his dream not 14. And at that age, Damian never initiated hugs. But Dick still didn't notice, because the scenes were different for some reason.

—Real Dick, unable to decipher between reality and dreams, smiled in his sleep at Damian's words—

With determination, Damian took Dick's hand and led him into the bustling dining room. There before him, were all his siblings, greeting him with various smiles.

"Dick!" "Dickibird how have you been?" "Brother!" "Hey, there, Dickhead." His siblings were all there. Greeting him with hugs and words of affirmation.

That was the biggest sign yet. His siblings never stayed under the same roof. They always fought with each other.

Nevertheless, Dick didn't seem to care about that. He was just glad his siblings were together.

"Welcome home, chum" Bruce warmly greeted Dick giving him a smile of his own. Despite that, a nagging unease persisted in his chest.

The scene suddenly transformed, revealing Bruce, Dick, and his siblings were gathered around a Christmas tree. Dick looked around confused the change. But no one else seemed to have noticed. They just stared at him expectantly.

"You need to wake up," a voice whispered softly in his ear, making Dick jump. He glanced around again in surprise. No one seemed to be nearby, leaving him confused.

He shrugged it off as he looked at his siblings. Surprisingly, Jason offered his Christmas gift first, presenting Dick with an old photograph of the two of them skiing together. Dick looked up to express his gratitude, but to his shock, he found himself facing a 12-year-old version of Jason grinning cheekily at him. "Do you like it?" Jason asked.

Dick nodded confusedly. The unexpected sight only served to deepen his confusion. A piercing laugh echoed in his ear, causing him to sit upright, creeped out as he looked around. Again, no one else was in the room, leaving Dick to question his own sanity.

Trying to regain composure, he went to sit back down, but as he did, the warm and joyful Christmas scene vanished, and Jason was nowhere to be seen. Disorientation clouded his mind as the scene abruptly shifted once more, shifting him to the bat cave.

A voice whispered to him, its tone filled with mocking laughter: "Wake up." Confused, he glanced around, but the room remained empty.

Dick blinked in disbelief. But when he opened his eyes, he saw his 15-year-old self beaten face staring at him angrily.

That's when Dick realized what's wrong. It was a simulation. Of course it was a simulation. Minos was doing it again. He was messing with his mind again. But, why? Agent 37 has already proven his loyalty to spyral many times before.

"What is wrong with you" His younger self yelled, maintaining his focus once more.

"Do you want Bruce to bench us?"

The boy in front of him flickered. Turning to a very mad John Grayson.Dick gasped slightly. "You need to focus" his father yelled reprimanding him with a firm punch.The force of the blow sent Dick crashing down on the ground with a thud.

As his body touched the ground, he felt her. Her body pressed on his. Her hands on him, tugging at his suit. The touch of her hands sending shivers down his spine.

Catalina whispered sweet something in his ear. Her voice, a sharp knife cutting at his chest. Dick didn't hear what she had said. Dick couldn't hear-

"Hush, mi amor," She repeated, "Let me make you happy. Let me make you forget, Querido."

Panicked gasps escaped Dick's lips as he desperately attempted to move, to free himself from her embrace.

The internal struggle raged within him, a silent plea for his body to obey and push her away. A silent plea for his mouth to cry out. He didn't want this, every fiber of his being rejected the unwanted intimacy. Yet, his body refused to respond, leaving him frozen in a state of internal turmoil till she was done with him.

The scene shifted once again, and Dick found himself in a Spartan-like room with nothing more than two chairs and a small glass table.

Dick cried in anguish. He couldn't do this anymore. He had to get out of here. He knew how to. He didn't like it but he knew.

Weary, Dick surveyed the room, searching for anything that could potentially be used as a weapon. When he found none, Dick stood up and grasped the table tightly, determination in his eyes. "Dick, wake up" a voice, different from the one he'd heard before, pleaded with him. This one was gentler. its urgency tinged with panic. Like it was a voice of a person who cared.

However, Dick disregarded the voice. He was used to these voices. He was used to the mind games.The manipulation. The unending cries of his siblings as they begged for help. He was used to all of it. So he didn't listen. Instead, he forced himself focus on his mission.With a swift and deliberate motion, he raised the table high and smashed it against the floor, shattering it into sharp shards.

"Wake up" The gentle voice said louder this time. the pleading voice became more desperate, urgently begging him to wake up. Dick didn't care as he reached for one of the shards. The voice cried out, commanding "DICK!"

Sweat, that's the first thing he felt. His body was drenched in sweat.

Disoriented and groggy, Dick blinked rapidly. His hair wet with perspiration. A sense of exhaustion weighing heavily upon him.

He shook himself out of his sleepiness. He sat up, expecting to be in Minos's laboratory. But he was shocked to find himself his room in the manor. With Bruce sitting at his bed,  looking at him with horrified gaze that filled Dick with a mixture of confusion and concern.

That can't be! Was he still in the simulation? But he did what he was supposed to do. 

Attempting to speak, Dick mumbled incoherently, "B 's tha' relly' you?" Bruce just stood there, staring at him in shock,  “W’at 's it?” His words slurred as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

When Bruce still didn't say anything, Dick's confusion deepened. However, before he could say anything, sudden and intense pain shot through his wrist, pulling him back to reality. Yeah no, this definitely wasn't a simulation.

His focus shifted as he glanced down. 'Oh' Dick thought, finding that his hand was dripping with dark, crimson blood, while his other hand clutched a knife.

Dick remembered now. The crime syndicate, spyral's mission, Tiger's plan, Bruce's amnesia, Damian was.... Damian was alive. This was real. And apparently so was him cutting himself.

Bruce didn't say anything. Instead, he immediately grasped hold of Dick's bleeding hand, applying firm pressure to stop the flow of blood. Dick winced involuntarily in pain at the sudden compression.

Bruce grunted "Keep applying pressure" Dutifully, Dick obeyed, reflexively following the directive as he watched Bruce hastily retrieve the first aid kit.

In the subsequent moments, a pensive silence settled over them as Bruce focused intently on carefully bandaging Dick's wounded arm.

Bruce finished tending to Dick's wound, securing the bandage with expert care. Turning his gaze towards Dick, Bruce inquired gently,

"What happened?"

However, Dick averted his gaze, ashamed. "Nothing," He said, attempting to deflect the conversation.

"Chum, that didn't look like nothing. I thought I lost you. You weren't responding. You almos-"

Bruce breathed. The shock of finding his son's wrist bleeding in the dark room still fresh in his mind. Bruce opened his mouth again seeking answers, but Dick cut him off with a request.

"Can we please not talk about this now?" Bruce paused momentarily, contemplating before reluctantly nodding in agreement. Bruce finally understood everything, but at the same time nothing.

He knew that something awful had happened to his son, but he didn't know what, when, or how. Despite his desire to probe further, Bruce chose to let the matter go for now. As he held his son close in an embrace.

Chapter Text

Then it was Jason.

Bruce didn't know what to do with Jason. Their relationship was.... restrained to say the least. He couldn't just walk up to him and demand that he tells him everything. Not like Bruce can do that with Dick either. But Jason was....difficult. He wasn't one to admit defeat.

He wasn't one to tell Bruce or anyone for that matter what's bothering him. He kept everything inside a locked box. He used anger to avoid his feelings just like- just like him. Jason was so much like him. Bruce....... didn't like that.

Bruce wanted him to be able to express himself. To admit that he's in pain. To come home, and let him take care of his son. Bruce just wanted his son to be okay

Jason wasn't fond of closed spaces. Such spaces held a special torment. The sensation of being enclosed, the suffocating feeling that threatened to rob him of oxygen, suffocated him. He found no solace in the way dirt and rocks pressed against his body, clinging to his clothing and skin.

He couldn't ascertain whether his aversion was rooted in claustrophobia or something deeper, though the intensity of his aversion indicated a deeper-seated source of pain.

He just knew he detested being confined. That's what happens when you are forced to crawl your way out of your own grave. The day was turning out to be the worst it seems. For he found himself in the same situation he was evading.

Jason was panicking. As in full on panicking. His chest heaved as his lungs battled the onslaught of dust, leaving him in a fit of coughs.His lips were bleed, a deep, winy hue seeping out from the corners of his mouth. Panic consumed him, constricting his breathing even further.

His shirt hung in tatters, torn by the abrasive rubble surrounding him. And he was pretty sure that there was a fucking rod poking at his stomach.With each jap adding agony to his already desperate state. He was trapped, pinned under the weight of a colossal building rubble, powerless to move and drowning in anguish.

And each time he breathed, the rubble dug him deaper making him moan in pain as the rod kept slicing at his stomach.

But, how did that happen you may ask. Well let's fuckin' go back to the bringing.

You see, Jason wasn't particularly a fan of family gatherings or met galas for that matter. But since he was now legally not dead

—"my son was away, studying abroad. But he seems to be back now. Only he's more interested in books than his old man" Bruce joked. He had to come up with an excuse to why Jason was seen quite a lot in libraries—

Jason was forced to attend them. He was forced to wear a suit with a tight collar. He was forced to join in conversations and smile as rich, surface-levelled asses looked him up and down with a grimace. He was forced to wave and bow as he kissed stranger women's spoiled hands.

"Jason, isn't it?" A lady asked. Jason turned around, giving her a stiff smile. He knew her. But he couldn't remember her name

"Oh how the time has passed. I remember just 3 years ago, seeing Bruce Wayne walking around with a street ra- kid."

"But, look at you now!! You look like a grown, handsome, gentleman. Definitely an upgrade, especially with those muscles" she continued touching his forearm. God he knew her. She was that courtesan that had more than 6 husbands in the span of 2 years.

Straining a smile, Jason gulped his 2nd glass of wine. He lowered his voice, a barely concealed smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he addressed the woman before him.

"Oh, Mrs. Adams, or should I say Mrs. Baker?" he began, feigning forgetfulness. "It's a bit confusing, really." He continued seamlessly, his tone dripping with insincere apologeticness.

"Last I heard, you were tied down with Josh Fritzerberge or was it Charles Cooper? Oh, pardon me, my memory must be failing me again. It's just hard to keep up with the revolving door of your romantic endeavors."

Mrs. Allen, now it seems, huffed turning her back to Jason and storming off with a not so subtle scowl

"Having fun, Jay? " A voice behind him whispered.

Jason didn't fucking involuntarily jump from surprise at the sudden voice.

He fucking didn't, and if Tim said otherwise he's lying.

Turning around, Jason saw his stupid big brother Dick smiling at him cheekily.

"Just peachy" Jason replied, His tone dripping with sarcasm. As he absentmindedly folded his arms. Before his brother could tease him any further, a scream broke out followed by a rumbling sound.

The once-stable building now felt like a house of cards about to topple over, shaking violently with each reverberating boom. In the midst of the chaos, Jason stumbled and collapsed onto his older brother, Dick. The impact of their collision caused them both to groan in unison as their heads collided, the sound of the building's shaking drowning out any other sounds around them.

Looking out from their place of momentary safety, Jason and Dick witnessed Riddler's menacing form standing triumphantly in a seatless helicopter, adorned in his signature lime green suit, white luxurious furr, and striking purple undershirt.

The sight of the notorious criminal caused panic to spread among the attendees. Jason, in a hurry, grabbed Dick and ducked behind a nearby table as they sought shelter from the commotion. Riddler's insane smile widened as he entered the building, his footsteps echoing through the room.

Without hesitation, he approached the man known as Alexander Allen, the current husband of Mrs Allen, and the host of this gala, with a sinister grin. Riddle's cheerful tone betrayed the sinister undertone of his words.

"Mister Allen, lovely to see your frightened face again," he taunted. "Sorry to crash your party. Seems lovely. I like the chandeliers . Very shiny. Shame I have to destroy them, but you broke our deal so." Mrs. Allen gasped, her eyes wide with trepidation as she looked at her present husband.

Riddler continued, a sadistic gleam in his eyes, "However, I am a benevolent man, so I’ll make this easy for you. There's a bomb in this building, and it will detonate in three minutes' time. If you can solve my riddle before then, you'll walk away unharmed. Riddler grinned menacingly as he continued

"I'm a mix of greys and blues. When I'm outside, everyone disappears.

And when I'm inside, no one sheds tears. You hate me when I'm alone, and smile when I'm gone. What am I?"

Unsurprisingly, Alexander Allen didn't do nothing but stare fearfully at the Riddler.

Jason hastily scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of Bruce.

Where was Batman? Why wasn't he evacuating the building? Frustration bubbled within him, mingling with the fear emanating from Alexander Allen.

Turning to his brother, Jason quickly assessed the situation. He locked eyes with Dick, urgently asking,

"Do you have your su-garments on?"

Dick replied with a nod and revealed a glimpse of his Nightwing suit underneath his shirt. Dick reciprocated the question,

"What about you?" Jason hesitated, struggling to find the right words. Slowly and deliberately, he drew a gun from his pocket as well as a mask.

"You brought a gun into a gala!? " Dick whisper- yelled, unable to hide his shock and incredulity. The mere thought of Bruce discovering this daring gesture sent shivers down his spine. Amidst the chaos, Jason finally spotted Bruce, engaged in a fierce battle with Riddler's guards.

Jason disregarded Dick's protests, a fierce determination gleaming in his eyes.

"Seems like the Red Hood will be sporting a fancy attire today,"

Jason declared, discarding his suit jacket, and folding his sleeves. Dick followed suit, quickly shedding his clothes as well, as he rolled his eyes at Jason's posh words.

"You distract Riddler," Dick instructed, "and I'll evacuate the building."

It happened in a blur. Dick had successfully evacuated all the civilians, while Batman had took out the guards with practiced precision. Jason...Jason had fucked up. He had faced off against the Riddler, attempting to divert his attention from Alexander Allen.

Jason had placed a gun to Riddler's head, asserting his intentions. "Who are you? Some kind of new vigilante?",

Riddler questioned, perplexed by Jason's lack of.... everything. "Trust me, my name will be on everyone's lips once I put a bullet in your goddamn brain." Jason had growled.

Riddler had pressed the button.

Which brings him back to the fucking now.

The sense of panic enveloped Jason like never before. He could feel the harsh, excruciating pain of the rod piercing his stomach, tearing through him mercilessly.

In an instant, he was transported back to the harrowing memory of his grave. The relentless rain dripped down upon him, the lifeless trees surrounded him. the ache of undesired consciousness exorcised him.Realizing he was trapped within the confining space of a coffin.

The taste of dirt filled his throat as he desperately pushed and punched against it with both his weakened legs and arms. His cries for Bruce's, Alfred's, anyone's help echoing in his coffin.

"-son" someone had called his name. Or maybe Jason was simply hallucinating.

"-ason breathe" His hallucinations said. Jason couldn't, he tried, but he couldn't. Because in his mind, there was only dirtandrocksandwallsofacoffintootightforhi-

"Nononono please, chum breathe. I need you here with me. Please breathe"

"Jaybird, please!" The sight of Dick and Bruce hovering over him in extreme panic filled the room.

Suddenly Jason was breathing. gasping for air, his lungs filled with nothing but clean oxygen no dust, no dirt.

Slowly, the fog around him cleared, and his senses started to return. He saw his family staring at him with concern. Bruce appeared relieved, as tears still glistened in his eyes.

Dick had cried a lot as he held Jason's face, his tears mixing with Jason's already bloody cheek as he whispered weakly,

"Please don't ever do anything like that again."

Chapter Text

Then, it was Cassandra.

Bruce couldn't help but acknowledge that Cassandra Cain was a different case among his children. She had endured unspeakable pain and witnessed horrors beyond measure.

Unlike her siblings, who were rescued and cared for by him, Cassandra had grown up with a deep sense of independence, never relying on him in the same way.

In truth, it was the reverse. Bruce needed her more than she needed him. She had a strength and resilience that he admired. She tried to hide her pain. Bruce had noticed that. She also tried to hide her flinches at being touched. Bruce sighed in wonder.  what might've been wrong with her? He did not know. 

Cassandra had an ability.

An ability to read others' body language. To decipher it like a code.

Despite what people thought, It was not a natural talent, but rather a skill that she was forcefully taught from birth. Trained day in and day out, she was molded into a relentless weapon, her existence revolving around killing and interpreting the subtle signs of others.

Her father had taken away her voice, severing a part of her tongue to ensure she could never speak of her true nature.

Her mother, rather than providing love and care, further subjected her to abuse and torture. Both parents exploited Cassandra's abilities, one turning her into a lethal instrument, while the other wielded her as a deadly killer...

Some believed that Cassandra's ability to read body language was an advantage in crimefighting, but Cassandra saw it differently.

While she acknowledged its usefulness at times, she believed it was more of a curse than a gift. Born as a weapon, she was supposed to use her ability to kill. She was supposed to use it to sense people's weaknessess.

Instead, her ability forced her to be human, to empathize with the pain and suffering around her. To see other's hate for her. It made her feel vulnerable in a way she disliked...

They were in the midst of a mission when it happened. The mission seemed straightforward, with their objective to dismantle a criminal operation selling harmful drugs.

Tim would infiltrate the organization, Dick would neutralize the criminals, while Bruce and Damian would handle interrogations. Additionally, Cassandra was assigned the role of keeping watch for any potential threats. Each member had their role to play in bringing down the crime ring and keeping everyone safe.

Cassandra had foreseen the impending danger. She witnessed the threat behind Tim, the impending shot aimed at her younger brother. She was far away from him. She wouldn't get there in time.

She desperately longed to scream, to warn him, but her voice refused to comply. She needed to run. To save her brother. But her body failed her, unable to move or respond.

'Tim , danger' she typed hastily with shaking hands. Hoping that someone would notice. When no one did she pushed herself up. Forced herself to run desperately. attempting to save Tim, but fortunately, Dick was faster, springing into action before she could. She read the signs of 'panic' and 'worry' emanating from her older brother, witnessing him duck behind a barrier, taking a bullet for Tim....

They had returned to the manor. Dick was in surgery. His wound was deep. He was bleeding a lot. "He took a bullet to his liver." Leslie had said. "It will take him a long time to wake up. And even then, he might not be able to move or do anything for at least a month."

Cassandra sat silently, not lifting her gaze from the floor.

There was no sign of Tim.

Cassandra sat silently, not lifting her gaze from the floor. 

 Jason was here in the manor.

Cassandra sat silently, not lifting her gaze from the floor. 

 Damian wept madly in the background. 

Cassandra sat silently, not lifting her gaze from the floor. Because that was all she could do. 

Bruce was.... Bruce was radiating anger. Cassandra knew who that anger was aimed at. The blame weighed heavily on her, and she could read every emotion of his flickering through his eyes: 'disappointment', 'betrayal', 'fear', 'concern', and 'hate'.

 She wished to cry, to plead, "I tried to save him." But her voice refused to cooperate, leaving her silent and overwhelmed with guilt...

Bruce's voice grew stern as he talked to Leslie. She stood silently, her own disappointment and guilt weighing heavily on her.

Cassandra, feeling nauseous, made her way up the stairs, only to be met with Jason's cold body language "mad" "hate" "disappoinment" "anguish" as he turned his back on her.

Tim was still missing, probably consumed with guilt over the incident.

Instead of sobbing, Damian was unexpectedly sitting in a corner. With confusion, Cass signed 'Damian?'

The young boy looked shaken and exhausted, his face bearing traces of dried tears. Reading his body language, she sensed feelings of 'disappointment', 'sadness', 'frustration', and 'despair'.

"Cain" Damian greeted tersely. Not even looking at her.

'hate' Cassandra read the last one 

 He walked away from her. leaving Cassandra feeling even more guilty and shaken.

Cassandra found herself trapped in a state of silent despair, unable to shed tears or even breathe properly. The weight of everyone's disappointment and self-blame consumed her.

A week passed, and she remained in her room, barely leaving to obtain food. Each time she ventured downstairs, she was met with the same exact painful words. She found herself constantly bombarded by the emotions of her family whenever she ventured downstairs.

The words "hate" and "mad" were like a constant weight on her shoulders, their presence overwhelming and difficult to ignore. Despite their attempts to hide it, their true feelings were clear to her.

She couldn't shake the thought that they really did hate her, and this realization only made her feel worse.

 Starvation soon set in. She couldn't get down anymore. She couldn't face her family after what she had done. She couldn't eat. She had lost her appetite. But It was fine. Her father had starved her countless times. She was used to it.

3 days passed, she found herself plagued by vivid nightmares that haunted her sleep. The haunting images of Dick's lifeless form sprawled out, coupled with the terrifying scenario of Tim dying because she couldn't protect him, replayed repeatedly in her dreams.

The most gut-wrenching nightmares, however, were the ones where her family explicitly expressed their hatred towards her, abandoning her completely.

 "Cassandra" Bruce appeared in her room, his presence jolting her out of her misery.

'what are you doing here...' she signed.

 Bruce was hunched as he grabbed at her door unsurely. He was leaning forward to avoid hitting his head at the door frame He looked awkward and detached.

Cassandra motioned for him to come over as she pulled out a chair for him. Bruce sat in silence. He looked like he swallowed a sour lemon. He didn't want to be here.

Cassandra studied his face. His thoughts were filled with 'guilt', 'family', and 'hate' 'worry'.

"Are you...well?" Cassandra felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she pushed them away to the back of her mind.

'I'm fine,' she signed, attempting to brush off her feelings, but Bruce saw through her facade, frowning "You don't look fine to me," he stated concernedly. "What is.... bothering you?" he said, his tone sincere and hesitant. Concern evident in his voice.

 Bruce studied Cassandra's face intently, as if trying to read her thoughts and emotions. She fidgeted under his gaze, feeling self-conscious and uneasy. He seemed to have countless questions swirling through his head, but instead of questioning her further, he instead reached out and gently held her hand.

The touch was so gentle. So soothing. Unlike the words she had read. Unlike the pain she had endured.

The weight of her emotions finally overwhelmed Cassandra, and she erupted into tears, the first time she had cried since the traumatic incident.

A mixture of despair, guilt, and the neglect she felt from her family poured out in the form of hot tears, unable to be contained. Her quiet sobs filled the air, a poignant testament to her inner turmoil and emotional pain.

She signed 'hurt Dick' frantically, her body language conveying her belief that it was her fault. Bruce quietly placed his other hand on hers "You didn't. It's not..your fault."

However, Cassandra couldn't shake the feeling of failure, signing 'hate me.' Bruce's mouth hanged open in surprise. He awkwardly looked at her. Trying to console her he said "No, they don't. They are upset. But they don't hate you."

'Your body says hate me' Cassandra's emotions overwhelmed her again, and she looked away. 

"I don't- look..Cassandra, sometimes...our bodies can convey the wrong idea. But that doesn't mean that it's true." Bruce inhaled momentarily before continuing.

"No one hates you, or blames you for what happened" Bruce patted her shoulder gently.

Cassandra cried. She knew her father was right, but still, she had failed the mission. She couldn't save her brother. She had failed them. She looked at Bruce,  doubt crossing her face.She could still read "hate" and "failure" in his body

'Your body says "failure" is that not true?' Cassandra signed with tears rolling down her cheeks.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat, a wave of self-deprecation washing over him. He took a deep sigh before speaking, his voice heavy with regret.

"It's true. But the failure is mine, not yours. I failed to stop Dick from being injured, failed to provide Tim with the support he needed, failed to see your suffering." His fatigue was evident in the lines etched on his face, the burden of his failures weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Cassandra vehemently shook her head in disagreement, signing "Not your fault." She recognized the irony in her words, considering the thoughts that had occurred in her mind not even two minutes ago. However, she knew it was true. Her dad didn't have any fault in what had happened.

Bruce didn't say anything. He just maintained a stoic silence, his emotions unreadable.

Instead of expressing himself, he simply relayed the information: "Dinner is ready..." His gaze lingered on Cassandra, his invitation to join him for dinner hanging in the air, silently conveying his hope that she would accept.

Cassandra glanced out of her window, realizing that the sun was already setting. Turning back to her father, she nodded, a mix of determination and uneasiness in her eyes. 

Indeed, her ability was truly a curse, an overwhelming burden that left her drained and broken at times. But....—cassandra looked at her dad's back as she stood up to follow him—

Her family was by her side. Her dad was by her side. He would never abandon her, ever. 

A soft smile broke her face, a rare moment of respite that hadn't been there for days.