Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

it was time

Bruce Wayne

Father of a family, one of the owners of Fazbear, inventor of animatronics…

Bruce was backstage at the restaurant

wearing his springlock suit over his suit, facing the animatronic helmet

It was an animatronic bat

Bruce's business partner John Grayson gave him a ridiculous name

Batsy

He said it would be a good name, that the children would love

Bruce almost laughed at the sentence

children

Those childish and foolish beings really thought that animatronic bat was “harmless”

The costume was practically a cartoon bat, with black skin with gray belly, with triangular ears, small teeth and a little pointy accompanied by small, bouncy white and robotic eyes.

But Bruce knew the costume was more than that

That that thing could feel alive

that could bring him something much greater than just joy

But of course he had to be interrupted

“Bruce!” He heard someone scream

Soon he saw who it was

was John

Wearing his Fredbear costume, which was a golden springlock, he looked like a cartoon bear, with practically golden skin, belly, hands and nose in yellow tones and of course a purple top hat and robotic white eyes.

He was at the backstage door

John had taken Fredbear's head

he was standing,looking at Bruce

Bruce just frowned at him, highlighting his frowning face and deep stress lines.

“How rude to shout like that John”

“Sorry B” John said “but you have to hurry, the kids are waiting for the show”

the sentence made the man sigh, and also look at the helmet again

he touched the animatronic face, feeling something different seeing the animatronic eyes

it looked like a mirror…

that revealed a long-hidden part of him…

It seemed perfect

“So…are you going to keep looking at your own animatronic helmet or are you going to help me?” John said, bringing Bruce back to reality.

Bruce grunted

“Okay, I’m going ”

“Great,” John replied, putting out Fredbear’s head, “I’m waiting for you, old friend.”

the man then stared at John leaving and then settled Batsy's head on himself

so…he changed

putting on Batsy's head always made him change...as if he was filled with joy and excitement

some even said he looked like another person

He then opened his eyes, changed his posture and went straight to John

“finally” John said “ready?”

“I’m always ready” Bruce replied “It’s showtime!”

beneath the springlock John smiled

“that's the spirit!”

Soon the two entered the stage, a lot of children screamed with euphoria and excitement when they saw the two animatronics

John and Bruce then started the show

they did juggling, magic tricks and even played music

The kids loved it, I was having a pizzeria party today and Bruce and John were the main attraction

they were performing at the restaurant itself and being highly acclaimed!

Fredbear's Family Diner

their pizzeria, without a doubt the most crowded place in town

A place full of toys, arcades, served pizzas and even had animatronics made by him and John

Freddy and Batsy

It all felt like a real dream!

But for some kids…..

that would be a real….

nightmare

elm street

It was a calm and peaceful neighborhood

it was morning

the sun rose as the parents went out to work and the children packed their backpacks to go to school

So we see one of the houses in this neighborhood

The house was simple but remarkable

Two floors, with white coating and dark wood blinds that seemed to resist many years of sun, wind and silent stories.

the symmetrical facade gave a sense of order

There were three windows upstairs, and two on the ground floor, all of them closed and impeccable, reflecting the soft light of the morning like discreet mirrors.

Number 666 was stuck just above the front door, right in the center, as if it were an identity seal. The entrance was sheltered by a small triangular eaves supported by thin columns, enough to protect from the rain or sun while someone searched for the key.

On the left, a garage extended with the same paint pattern as the house, connected by a continuous wall. In the front yard, the lawn was well maintained, divided by a concrete strip that formed a kind of corridor to the steps of the entrance. A pole with two lamps occupied the opposite side of the garage, and a white fence with a small gate delimited the beginning of the property

in front of all this, there was a bicycle abandoned at the side of the path, apparently forgotten

There was no movement in front of her, people even seemed to want to move away from that place, which was strange since the feeling was that everything was in the right and perfect place

its interior was simple

The hall had a stretched carpet and light walls

To his left was a room with sofas and a central table, lit by the light from the windows. Further on was the living room, a larger space with large sofas, throw pillows and a thick rug covering the floor, and a television.

The main bathroom was small, with blue tiles and clean arms, a large closet mirror and a built-in bathtub with shower next to the toilet seat.

The kitchen was practical and organized, with well-lined cabinets and utensils in sight. Next to it, a compact laundry houses baskets and a machine in constant operation. A room with a large table and chairs indicates a more formal dining space, always tidy.

and in them there was a calendar, which shone with the light showing the date

-March 7, 1982-

We slowly climbed the silent stairs of the house to the second floor. The sound of our footsteps was muffled by the old carpet, and everything around us exuded a strange sense of abandonment—as if the house, large and cold, carried in every corner memories that no one wanted to remember anymore.

At the end of the hallway, there was a white door, with a lock on the inside.

There, slept Damian Wayne.

The room was poorly lit. The thick curtains blocked what little light tried to enter through the window.

The white wallpaper looked too pale, almost sickly. Toys were scattered all over the floor. There was a built-in closet painted white, and a green nightstand next to the bed, empty except for a half-filled glass of water.

In the center of the bed, covered by a light sheet, slept Damian.

The six-year-old boy was curled up, as if trying to hide from the world even in his dreams.

His skin was dark, contrasting with the dark green of his pajamas. His black hair was slightly messy. For a moment, he seemed calm… but the peace would not last.

His frowning face began to contort in tension. The eyes beneath his eyelids moved frantically. A cold sweat began to form on his forehead.

Damian was dreaming.

Or rather… having a nightmare.

His small body began to move. First timidly. Then in spasms. He mumbled softly, muttering nonsense—or perhaps names no one else could hear. The frown deepened, his fists clenched, his lips pressed together as if he were fighting something invisible.

The nightmare tightened. Deeper. Stronger.

Until Damian couldn't take it anymore.

His eyes flew open—wide, filled with terror.

And then, the scream

High. Sharp. Ripped

The sound went through the walls like a punch, echoing through the hallways of the house.

And, soon after, the tears came. Thick. Silent. Bitter.

Damian didn't know if he was crying out of fear... or something deeper. Something that hurt and that he still couldn't name.

Sitting up in bed, breathing heavily, he looked around.

There was nothing. No shadow in the corner. No monster in the closet

But the chill down my spine was still there

Carefully, he got out of bed. His feet touched the cold floor

With each step, the room seemed further away from comfort

He reached the closet and opened it slowly, his hands shaking

Empty

“Phew…” he sighed softly, trying to control his breathing.

But before he could calm down, a sound made him freeze.

KNOC. KNOC. KNOC

Three dry, firm, loud knocks on the bedroom door.

Damian jumped, startled, and nearly fell to his knees.

“Damian? Is everything okay?”

The voice was familiar. Calm. Warm.

It was his mother

Talia al Ghul Wayne

“I heard a scream,” she continued.

Damian wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to hide the emotion in his voice.

“It’s nothing Mommy” he replied, still panting. “It was just a… scare.”

On the other side of the door, she hesitated

“Another nightmare?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No need,” he said, grabbing a shirt from the closet, his eyes still heavy. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Talia replied sweetly. “Breakfast is ready. If you need me… you know where to find me.”

Damian didn't answer right away. He put on his shirt, took off his pajamas, grabbed his black shorts and put on his shoes. Only then did he murmur

“I'm going.”

"Okay"

There was a pause

“I love you, sweetie.”

Damian paused for a moment. This always caught him by surprise.

"I love you too."

He then went to the mirror and arranged his hair with his fingers.

In the reflection, he saw the boy in the long-sleeved green striped shirt, black shorts and brown shoes.

For a second, he smiled.

But when he noticed that the curtains were still closed, he went to them and slowly opened them. The gray light of day finally invaded the room, as if it had been asking to come in for hours.

With a click, he unlocked the bedroom door.

Yes, Damian — at age six — was already locking his door every night.

Not because of monsters.

But because of what was waiting outside.

When he turned the handle and opened the door…

WAS ATTACKED

Something jumped on him with force. Damian fell to the ground, with a desperate scream.

“BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

The scream was accompanied by laughter. Laughter he knew well.

was Damian's brother

Jason

Jason Todd Wayne

Damian was shaking, unable to move. His eyes were watery, his chest heaving.

He had just come out of one nightmare… and entered another.

“Hahaha! Gotcha, idiot!” Jason laughed out loud, as if that was the funniest thing in the world.

“Y-you scared me…” Damian said, his voice shaking, tears streaming down his face once more.

“That was the intention, crybaby!” Jason replied, mocking, as he walked away.

He was a white boy with black hair, with a white streak in his hair that he had dyed himself. He was wearing his favorite red tank top, ripped jean shorts, and black sneakers.

Damian tried to hold back his tears. He cleaned himself up, tried to stay strong.

“That’s not cool, Jay…”

Jason turned away in disdain.

“Of course it is! But you’re so dumb you can’t even understand.”

And then, without another word, he walked down the stairs as if nothing had happened.

Damian just watched him

he wanted to fight back, but it wouldn't be worth it…

Damian then turned and walked down the hallway slowly

As he walked down the long hallway, Damian's footsteps echoed softly against the silent walls of the house.

The air there always seemed thicker, laden with memories that insisted on not disappearing. His eyes wandered, almost against his will, to the worn frames hanging along the wall

traces of a time that no longer existed.

The old photographs, faded by time, showed faces that had once been full of life and hope. Smiles frozen in a past that now hurt to remember. But one image, larger than all the others, always held his gaze

the cruelest of all…

It was a family portrait. All five of them. Whole. United. Happy.

Her father, Bruce Wayne, with his arms firmly wrapped around Talia—the rare gleam of peace in his eyes contrasted with his always hard expression.

Around them, their three children formed an almost perfect picture of harmony

Jason was on the left, his black hair slightly messy, but wearing an impeccable suit, as if he knew the importance of that moment

The smile on his face wasn't forced—it was genuine. A smile that today seemed to belong to another life

In the center, right on Talia's lap, was he

Damian

still small, his hair carefully combed, his eyes shining with innocence. A serene smile on his face, hugging his inseparable teddy bear, as if the world was safe as long as he was in his mother's arms.

And on the right, wearing a black dress with gold details and a large, shiny yellow bow in her black hair, was Cassandra Cain Wayne.

Damian and Jason's younger sister

The smileiest of them all. The bow seemed to shine in the image, almost as much as the lively smile she offered the camera—a smile that still echoed in Damian's memory like a gentle but painful ghost.

He stood there for a moment, motionless, his chest tight. That picture was no longer a portrait of joy…

It was a memorial

Damian sighed deeply

There was nothing left to see

Only the emptiness that came after

he turned unhurriedly, leaving the shadows of the past behind, and walked down the stairs in silence, his footsteps now muffled by pain. He made his way to the kitchen, not because he was hungry, but because there, sometimes, the silence weighed a little less heavily.

Soft morning light streamed through the tall windows of house, bathing the kitchen in a golden, almost illusory hue—as if trying to pretend that this home was still a place of peace.

The smell of freshly made pancakes mixed with the familiar aroma of brewed coffee, filling the room with a welcoming warmth. Talia stood at the stove, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun, her apron draped over her dress, her gaze intent on her children as if their every gesture were a precious thread she refused to let go of.

Jason, on the other hand, was chewing on a pancake with a lazy, almost teasing expression.

He ate grotesquely, exaggeratedly noisily, as if he deliberately wanted to irritate anyone who was watching him. Syrup ran down the corners of his mouth and dripped onto his plate, but he didn't seem to care

Cassandra stood nearby, delicately pouring syrup over golden pancakes and crispy bacon strips on her plate.

His movements were light, almost rehearsed—and the smile on his face, that same smile from the old photograph in the hallway, shone with sincerity. A stark contrast to his older brother's coldness.

Damian entered silently, his dark eyes watching everything with involuntary caution, as if he were waiting for the exact moment when chaos would come to destroy him. He sat down at the table, obeying Talia's call with an almost shy nod.

“I made pancakes,” she said sweetly, carefully placing the breakfast on Damian’s plate, as if her every gesture was an attempt to compensate for the cruel world outside. And inside the house

“Jason,” she said, sitting back down. “Can you take your brothers to school today?”

Jason stopped abruptly, his pancake still half-chewed. He choked exaggeratedly, as if the request were a personal insult.

“WHAT?! Why me?!” he protested, eyes wide with indignation.

“Because you’re the older brother,” Talia replied firmly, without raising her voice. “And when your father and I aren’t around, you have the responsibility of taking care of them.”

“I don’t want to be seen in public with the crying baby,” Jason said, shooting Damian a venomous look. “They’d make fun of me for the rest of the year!”

Talia's expression changed. Her gaze, now harder, fixed on her eldest son with the intensity of someone who would not tolerate disrespect.

“I don’t care,” she said coldly. “Do as I say. And don’t call your brother that again.”

Jason huffed angrily, pushed his chair back noisily, and went to grab his backpack.

Damian looked down, the hunger dying inside him. Even with his mother defending him, it hurt. Not because of the words, but because of the look of contempt Jason always gave him. A look that said, without mincing words: you don't belong here

After coffee, Damian and Cassandra grabbed their backpacks and found Jason already standing by the front door.

“Let’s go. I don’t have all day,” the older man grumbled impatiently.

Cassandra then quickly put on her shoes and they followed him to the front yard. But as soon as they reached the gate, Jason extended his arm and pointed down the street.

“Damian. Across the street. Now.”

Damian stopped, confused.

“What?” he muttered.

“Are you deaf? Across the street. NOW.” The tone was more aggressive than before. Cruel. Every word carried a latent hatred—a resentment that had grown with the years

Damian hesitated. A part of him wanted to just obey, as he always did, and get it over with. But before he could take a single step, a small, firm hand came between him and Jason.

“Wait a minute,” Cassandra said, her voice steady as a rock. “Mommy told you to come with us.”

Jason crossed his arms, smirking.

“She told me to keep an eye out. Not to hang out with you guys. And since I don’t want to be seen around the crying baby, he goes the other way.”

Cassandra's eyes widened, and her smile disappeared. She looked at Damian, then back at Jason.

“If Damian goes the other way, then I’ll go with him.” She took her brother’s hand and began to guide him firmly.

“Great!” Jason shouted. “Less work for me!”

But when they reached the other side of the street, Cassandra turned and shouted back

“And, Jason… I’m going to tell Dad I saw you smoking with your friends again!”

Jason's face paled in an instant.

“You can’t do this!” he shouted, more desperate than angry.

“Wait and see!” she replied, turning with a triumphant smile as she walked beside Damian.

Jason stood there for a few seconds, frustrated, before turning around and heading towards the school.

As they walked, Cassandra noticed the tension on her brother’s face. He said nothing, but sadness seemed to drip from his hunched shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Dami,” she said softly. “That idiot won’t do anything to you. I promise.”

No matter how sweet the words were, they couldn't heal the pain in Damian's heart.

“Y-you didn’t have to do that, Cass,” he muttered. “It would have been better if I had just obeyed. He’s right… I am an embarrassment to everyone.”

She stopped immediately and grabbed her brother's shoulders, her eyes meeting his tightly.

“That’s not true. You don’t embarrass me in the slightest.”

“Are you sure?” Damian asked, his voice cracking.

“Of course,” she said, smiling again. “You’re my brother.”

Damian tried to smile back. It was weak, but it was sincere.

"Thanks…"

“You’re welcome.”

They stopped when they saw the school ahead. The prison disguised as an educational institution. Cassandra turned to him once more.

“I’ll meet you at break, as always, okay? We’ll have lunch together with Dick.”

“Okay,” he replied.

She hugged him tightly and ran to the entrance.

Damian stood there for a moment, watching his sister's silhouette disappear among the other students. He loved her. Even though she was younger, she always defended him like an older sister should.

And when she wasn't around, the world seemed darker.

As he entered the school, the morning heat was no longer warm. Damian felt invisible to most of his classmates, and to the few who saw him… he was a laughingstock.

Crybaby

Brat

Lost… No. He hated that one the most:

“crying child”

The nicknames hurt, but the worst part was knowing who helped spread them.

Jason's friends

Roy, Kori and Rose

They hung out with Jason like a hellish foursome. Wherever he went, they went. And they mocked Damian with the same contempt Jason showed at home.

It was a cycle of pain that never ended.

And that day, like so many others, Damian walked to his desk with heavy shoulders and an even heavier heart. Cassandra tried to protect him. His mother tried to love him. But sometimes, that wasn't enough.

But maybe that was asking too much….

After the show ended, Bat and John came out backstage.

“What a spectacle, my friend!” John said, carefully pulling Freddy’s head off, still laughing from the night’s performance.

“I agree,” Bat, or rather Bruce, replied with a slight nod, before removing the mask from his suit.

The moment the animatronic bear head came off him, Bruce's face was revealed... but unlike the excitement that should accompany the end of a performance, what was seen was an icy countenance.

His eyes were dark with dark circles, marked by weariness and boredom. His jaw was clenched, and his gaze seemed always distant—as if his body were there, but his spirit were trapped somewhere else.

“What a… sad face, I would say.” John observed, half laughing, half worried, trying to break the ice with his usual good humor. “Cheer up! I have something amazing to show you.”

Bruce didn't answer right away. As he pulled off Batsy's heavy suit, he felt a silent wave of anger rise in his throat.

What John called “awesome stuff” usually meant yet another spectacular creation… yet another demonstration of natural talent that Bruce could never match—and hated for it.

From the beginning, Bruce and John had worked together on building the restaurant's animatronics. 

But while John did it with an almost childlike joy, as if he were shaping dreams, Bruce saw the work as an obligation.

For him, building and fixing was just a way to keep the wheels turning, there was no passion — just pressure.

He didn't understand how John could smile while programming sensors, tuning mechanisms, adjusting lines of code with the patience of an artist shaping a masterpiece.

What hurt the most… was that he wanted to feel it

He wanted to be the brilliant one

He wanted to be what was needed

But it wasn't. John was.

Even so, Bruce took a deep breath. As he always did. He buried his anger, put on his fake smile and donned the invisible mask of a good colleague again.

The two changed clothes — John, as usual, wore his orange and red plaid shirt, worn blue jeans, and his inseparable black boots.

Bruce maintained his air of superiority with a sharp black suit, gray shirt, and impeccably polished dark brown shoes.

Every hair was in the right place, calculated to the millimeter. He always made a point of looking better than he was.

John led him into the workshop, past the gears, shelves of tools, endoskeleton parts, and costumes undergoing maintenance.

But there was something new in the center of the room.

A box

Giant

It was a blue gift box with a black bow on top. It made no sound. No light. It just stood there, still… so serene it was so menacing.

“What’s that?” Bruce asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“My new animatronic,” John replied, visibly excited. “He’s amazing. You’re going to love him.”

Bruce kept the smile on his face, but inside… he was gritting his teeth.

“Of course I will love it, you always have something better. More creative. More loved!” Bruce thought

He hated it when John acted like they were still kids building toys in the backyard. He hated that John still saw it as fun.

“Show me.” Bruce said dryly.

“I’m showing you now, don’t worry.” John replied, laughing, and pressed a button on the side of the box.

The lid opened with a soft spring sound… and then he emerged

From within the box, a tall, thin figure rose like a living shadow.

The new animatronic was completely different from the others. Its body was slender and covered in a deep black, almost shiny “skin.” White lines crossed its limbs—long arms, thin legs, and exaggeratedly elongated hands.

Four white buttons adorned its torso like those on an old toy.

But the most striking thing…was the face

The face was a pale, expressionless mask, with two huge red teardrop marks beneath the empty black eyes.

The smile… was thin. Silent. Perpetually closed, but forcing itself into joy.

It was as if a deep sadness had been locked forever behind that smile.

Bruce froze

Not out of fear, but out of anger.

That was art. That was a spectacle. And it wasn't his.

“This… is the Puppet!” John announced proudly. “Sorry it took me so long to show you, I made it especially for Dick’s birthday in a few weeks. But I couldn’t wait to put it together and especially to show you!”

Dick?

Dick Grayson?!?!?

Bruce almost lost control of his face

That masterpiece…that elegant, dark and mysterious monster IT WAS MADE FOR JOHN'S SON!?!?!?!?

The noisy son…John's smiling perfect son!?!?!?!?

GOD! Now Bruce really hated that kid!

Dick Grayson was like a constant storm of joy that prevented John from dedicating himself exclusively to the animatronics — and, consequently, to him.

Bruce hated how much of a loving father John was. He hated that John had a son who truly admired him. He hated that he himself had three sons and only two of them seemed to really care about him.

Jason was a worthless rebel who probably wasn't even his son considering the bitch he had for a wife.

Damian was a useless whiner—though he could still be molded into something useful.

And Cassandra…she idolized Bruce!, obeyed his orders, not to mention that she was easy to control and manipulate.

“It’s… impressive,” Bruce said with a forced smile. “When are we going to put it in the restaurant?”

“Today, if you want. It’s all programmed.” John smiled and then pulled something out of his pocket—a bright blue bracelet. “By the way… this goes with it. It’s a tracking bracelet. I programmed Puppet to watch over Dick whenever he’s wearing it. If he gets lost, cries, or gets hurt, the animatronic will be there.”

Bruce looked at the object. It was a silly bracelet.

But the idea was brilliant.

“Interesting technology…” he murmured.

“It took me hours to tweak the code,” John said. “But it was worth it for my son.”

“We’ll put it up today,” Bruce said, his icy voice hidden beneath a cloak of cordiality. “There should be room next to the main stage…or in the gift shop, near the entrance. Something visible.”

“Great! I’ll help you,” John said, smiling even wider as he pressed the button to return the Puppet to the box.

“Oh… and the best part,” John added with a twinkle in his eye. “He loves playing with kids. He’ll be a hit with the little ones.”

“Yes…” Bruce said, his gaze lost as he stared at the box being closed

“The children…” he thought “Anything for the children…”

On the other side of the school, away from the noisy hallways and stuffy classrooms, four teenagers were slumped in a secluded corner of the backyard, a place hidden between cracked walls and dry trees where no one bothered them.

The sound of their laughter echoed low, muffled by the distance and the silence of the class they were ignoring.

Jason Todd Wayne sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with his sketchbook on his lap. He wore a worn, sweaty red tank top that showed the paint and burn marks on his arms. His blue jean shorts, ripped at the edges, contrasted with his dingy black sneakers. His black hair was messy, and there was something fierce in his eyes—as if he carried a rage he could never quite explain.

Beside him, Roy Harper was puffing on a cigarette with a scornful look in his eyes.

He was white, with red hair like fire burning against the sun. He wore a dark blue tank top, worn denim shorts, and red sneakers that had seen better days. He had that cynical smile that only angry teenagers can have.

Kori Anders was dark-skinned, golden-skinned, and her eyes sparkled with sarcasm.

Her long red hair cascaded down her back like a flowing waterfall, contrasting with the purple top she wore under a denim jacket that fell off her shoulders. Her shorts were short enough to draw attention and provoke reactions, and her sneakers were white, stained with dirt.

Rose Wilson, on the other hand, seemed like a shadow of her friend.

White, snow-white hair contrasting with her tight orange top and matching denim shorts, she fiddled absently with a lighter, turning the wheel as if expecting something to explode. There was something sharp about her—as if every word could cut.

Jason scratched another line on the paper, chuckling to himself.

“So, let me get this straight…” Roy began, blowing out smoke slowly. “Did you scare the kid again? With that clown mask? That must have been hilarious!”

Jason smiled with wicked pride.
“It was a work of art. He fell to the ground, shaking, crying like the baby he is. I thought he was going to piss himself!”

The laughter of the four cut the air like a razor.

Kori peered at the notebook in Jason's lap, her eyes widening.

“What’s up, Jay? Are you drawing monsters again?”

“Monsters, no. It’s us,” Jason replied, finishing the details of what looked like a distorted mask. “I’m working on something that’s going to make that brat lose his mind for good, and it involves a drawing.”

“That doesn’t answer Kori’s question,” Rose said, playing with her lighter and distracted by his fire.

Jason sighed, as if it were obvious

“He’s been bothering me since the day he was born, Rose, so I’m trying to come up with a way to make his birthday unforgettable.” Jason replied, “like an eternal trauma. And you know what would be perfect? ​​A little surprise at the party.”

“What are you thinking?” Roy asked curiously.

Jason looked up, his eyes flashing.

“Masks. Real masks. The ones Uncle John makes for the animatronics. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica… but mainly… Foxy!”

When he said the name, he even seemed to calm down, as if Foxy was more than just a character.

Foxy is the best. Fast. Smart. Scary. He's the coolest. I've always said that Foxy is the only character who seems to have real anger.

“Aren’t these characters from a cartoon?” Kori asked in confusion.

Jason sighed as if it was obvious again.

“Yes Kori! 3 of them are a cartoon” Jason replied “But Freddybear is a cartoon AND an animatronic, and Damian is scared to death of him!”

“Wait, you want us to wear the masks to your brother’s party?” Rose asked, laughing. “Really?”

“I know my dad, he’ll probably want to save money and then he’ll decide to have the party at his ridiculous pizzeria, so imagine that,” Jason said excitedly. “The whole restaurant with music playing… and suddenly, we show up. The four masks. He’ll think the animatronics themselves came to get him. He’ll cry, he’ll scream, he’ll beg in front of everyone, then everyone will laugh at his misfortune! It’ll be epic!”

“Okay, we like the plan, but where are you going to get those masks?” Kori arched an eyebrow.

“With my uncle John,” Jason replied as if it were obvious. “He loves to show off his creations. What if I play that little game of being a needy nephew, asking for something from his and my father’s work, then he’ll definitely do what I asked and give me the masks!”

Roy laughed out loud

“You’re an evil genius, man.”

Jason just smiled, but inside, it was more than amusement. It was hate. Hatred for that whiny brother, that “factory error” that his mother insisted on treating as fragile and special.

Jason didn't see anything special about him. He only saw weakness. A burden. A constant reminder of everything Jason wasn't to his parents.

And he wanted Damian to feel fear. He wanted him to know, deep down in his soul, that Jason would always be around… to make his life a nightmare….

And now, he had the perfect plan.

and with the help of his friends, uncle John

and especially Foxy and the other animatronic friends

the nightmare would really begin….

It was already night.

9:00 pm specifically

Bruce was in his black car. The engine roared furiously as he sped through the city. The city flashed past the dirty windows in distorted flashes, red and yellow lights merging like jumbled memories.

He drank. Cans and cans of beer piled up on the passenger seat and the floor of the car. The bitter, metallic taste of the alcohol didn't quell the fury throbbing inside him...it only fueled it.

The day had been a failure

Another failure

He was winning. He had improved a lot in the animatronics presentation and was so close to proving that he was still the best... but then John came along, with that always friendly smile, that idiotic sparkle in his eyes, and another one of his "brilliant inventions".

An animatronic.

Incredibly functional. Smart. Detailed

Made just to give as a gift to a child!

A child! A damn child!

Bruce hated children

To him, they were stupid, noisy, unpredictable.

Small, insignificant beings, destroyers of lives!

They were the ones who ruined his

He never wanted to be a father. It was an accident!

all three times were!

Jason was the first mistake, without a doubt the worst of them

Damian, it was a burden

Cassandra…

Well, maybe Cassandra was the only exception.

The only one he tolerated.

Maybe…

Bruce drinks another can and crushes it violently. He steps on the accelerator even harder.

He was tired

Tired of living like this

As if he had lost something along the way, something he couldn't even name.

He wanted more from life

He wanted to feel something that would remind him that he was still alive.

Arrives in the neighborhood.

Your street.

Your house.

That damn house.

With his damn family.

With his damn children.

He brakes suddenly, almost running over the sidewalk. The car stops with a jolt

He gets out, staggering, smelling strongly of alcohol, his hair disheveled and his clothes wrinkled. A can of beer in his hand.

He walks across the lawn. His steps are heavy and dragging. With each step, he seems to be getting closer to the abyss.

in front of the door he looks at the handle as if it were a trigger.

He stands there. Still. Breathing heavily.

Then he finally turns the doorknob and enters.

He then sees Talia, she was on the couch, watching some program.

They look at each other for a few seconds.

Silence. Tense. Dense.

Until Talia speaks, dry but exhausted:

“You’re late for dinner.”

Bruce snorts. A harsh, dismissive sound

“I was at work. I didn’t look at the clock.”

“This is the fifth time you’ve missed dinner because of work.” She turns her face slowly. “You barely see your children. You remember them, right?”

“They know I’m busy, Talia.”

“With what?” she bursts out, rising from the couch. “With those damn animatronics?! When did robots become more important than your family?!”

“Since animatronics are the only ones that don’t waste my time”

“You have no right to say that!” she screams, her face red, her voice shaking. “We are not a burden on your life! We are your family, Bruce! Or at least… we were.”

Bruce runs his hand over his face and lets out a dry, bitter laugh.

“Family?…” he said ignorantly “That one died a long time ago Talia”

“No, Bruce. This family didn’t die, we were murdered. You killed us. You killed everything we built. You killed us when you started drinking. You killed us when you started coming home smelling of alcohol and ignoring our children. You killed us when you looked me in the eyes and made me feel… invisible!”

“Enough, Talia! Don’t start with your fucking drama!”

“Drama?! Damian woke up in a panic today! Jason scared him again! Speaking of him, Jason keeps spitting hate on his brother as if it were normal! And Cassandra… Cassandra admires you! She still calls you a hero! And all you do is… drink! Work! And run away from us!

Bruce was silent for a moment, his jaw clenched.

“They don’t need me,” Bruce replied. “They have you. The perfect mommy!”

“They need a father, Bruce! They need someone who will be there when they wake up from a nightmare. Someone who will say, ‘I love you.’ Someone who will protect them. Someone who will teach them!”

“I’m not that guy Talia” Bruce replied “I never was!”

“That’s the problem! My God! I ask myself every day why the hell I still insist on this!” Talia screams, almost out of breath. “Why am I still here!”

“Then go away Talia!” Bruce says coldly “go away and spare me this! Just don’t take the children, they are useful to me.”

Talia remains silent. Her eyes are watery. She wanted to say so many things….

But in the end, she just whispers:

“That’s why I’m here Bruce. I’m here not for you, it’s for them.”

“Fuck it, I’m tired of this conversation” Bruce said, walking past her “I’m going to the garage, I have animatronic projects to do”

“You know what? Go away! Like always!” Talia replies, cold, but with pain in her voice. “Good night, Bruce.”

The man didn't answer, he just slammed the door so hard it made a noise that echoed through the house.

Three pairs of eyes watched everything from the top of the stairs.

Jason, Cassandra and Damian

Jason stood with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed and his gaze hard. Despite the sarcasm, there was something dark in his eyes.

“Great,” he muttered dismissively. “They fought again. Why am I not surprised?”

Cassandra held a plastic doll tight to her chest. Her eyes were wide, filled with tears she refused to let fall.

“Shut up,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “They just… argued.”

“They argued?” Jason turned to her. “If by that you mean they almost killed each other, then yes. It was an argument.”

Damian stood still. His eyes lowered, his shoulders tense. He murmured,

“I hate it when they fight…”

“Nobody cares what you hate or not, crybaby”

Damian bit his lip. But he didn't answer.

He was used to it. Jason always said things like that.

“I care,” Cassandra said firmly, her voice shaking with courage. “I care about Dami, and I don’t like you talking to him like that.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Cass,” Jason replied dryly. But he looked away. He knew he had gone too far.

They fell silent. The weight of their parents' argument still echoed through the walls of the house.

"I'm going to my room. Good night, Cass. Good night, crybaby."

"Good night..." Damian replied, almost whispering.

Jason then walked down the hall to his room and slammed the door.

Cassandra turned to Damian, who was still staring at the floor.

“Is there a problem, Dami?”

“I don’t like it when he calls me a crybaby…” Damian confessed, his voice very low. “But today he said ‘good night’ to me. That… that’s better than nothing, right?”

Cassandra hugged him tightly.

“You’re not a crybaby. You’re just… sensitive. And that’s not a bad thing, okay?”

“Okay…”

She gently brushed his hair away.

“If Jason is rude again, tell me. I'll finish him off myself.”

Damian laughed. A small, muffled laugh, but sincere.

“Okay.”

“Good night, Damian. Have a good dream.”

She kissed his cheek and left, heading to her room.

Damian stood in the hallway for a moment, until he found the courage to go too.

In the bedroom, he locked all the windows. He locked the closet. He turned on the fan.

He picked up his flashlight.

He stood in front of the light switch, his finger trembling.

He turned off the light.

And he ran to bed.

He hid under the covers as if he could protect himself from the whole world.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wished it would all go away.

Maybe tomorrow… maybe tomorrow will be better.

Maybe his father will get better. Maybe Jason will get better.

In the end…

Tomorrow is another day.

Chapter Text

Fredbear’s family diner

For many children, that place was a dream come true: a castle of pizza, games and magic.

The air smelled of melted cheese, freshly baked dough, and sweet soda. The walls were covered in colorful balloons and children's drawings. Lights flashed in vibrant hues, drawing attention to arcade games, carousels, shelves of prizes, and the majestic center stage, where the stars of the show—the animatronics—danced and sang to a laughing audience.

But for Damian, it was a nightmare disguised as a party.

The metallic sound of the gears, the fixed and bulging eyes of the robots, the calculated movements and the shrill sound of the pre-recorded voices… Everything about him screamed danger. And there was a reason for so much fear.

There was something wrong there—in the metallic sounds coming from behind the scenes, in the way the animatronics' eyes seemed too alive, as if they could see him, judge him, pursue him.

The entire restaurant pulsed with a strange and disturbing kind of energy that only he seemed to notice

The children around them laughed, ran, jumped on the toys and disputed chips in the arcades.

But Damian was alone at one of the corner tables, his feet swaying without reaching the floor.

Alone

Again

Nobody wanted to play with him. Some children just whispered and pointed

“It's the owner's son, a strange boy…”

“The one who cried because of Freddy at the last show…”

“The one who had to be taken away by the staff when he got stuck in the playroom…”

“The one who had to be taken away by the staff when he got stuck in the playroom…”

But then, a sweet, animated voice sounded in the crowd:

“Daaamian!!!”

The boy lifted his head fast, a small smile appearing on his face

It was Dick

Dick Grayson

Wearing a light blue t-shirt with the Fredbear’s logo and jeans, Dick had that contagious glow in his eyes and an easy smile that made Damian feel safe.

Dick ran to him and hugged him without hesitation. Damian reciprocated, a little shy but genuinely happy.

“Dude, you’ve been gone!” Dick said, ruffling Damian’s hair. “It’s been like… a month! I was starting to think you’d become a human being hiding from society!”

“Sorry…” Damian replied, looking at the floor.

“No need to apologize, you came today, that’s what matters. Ah! You’ve grown! You’re bigger!” Dick said, pointing to Damian’s head. “You’ll pass it to me soon, huh?”

“Maybe…”

Dick laughed. There was something about him that Damian admired. He didn’t make fun of him. He didn’t treat Damian like a baby. He just… liked being with him. Like a real brother.

“You’re right on time!” Dick said. “I have something really cool to show you. My dad gave me something as a gift. It’s amazing!”

“What?” Damian asked, curious and suspicious at the same time

Dick's eyes sparkled. "An animatronic just for me. And he's amazing! Like... the best friend ever!"

Damian took a step back

Animatronic?

That word chilled his blood

He immediately remembered what Jason had done. That time he had locked him in the Parts and Service room…

The brother's laughter as the lights flickered and the endoskeletons' red eyes lit up in the darkness. Those eyes…

They were like those of a predator watching its prey.

Damian cried

He screamed

He begged.

And Jason didn't open the door

just…laughed

“Hey…” Dick bent down a little. “Are you okay?”

Damian swallowed. “It’s just… I don’t like them. The animatronics.”

“I know.” Dick placed a loving hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But this one is different. I swear. He’s nice. He takes care of me. Almost like a babysitter… only much nicer.”

Damian hesitated

“If you want, we can just go check out the arcades. There’s a new Space Raccoons one. It’s awesome!” Dick suggested with a gentle smile.

“No… it’s okay. I trust you.”

Dick held his hand and guided him to the souvenir shop, where a huge box with golden ribbons was positioned in the center of the room.

“Taddow!” Said Dick excitedly. “Puppet lives here!”

Damian arched his eyebrow. “He… lives in a box?”

Dick laughed “Only for a part of the day. See it!” He pressed a button next to the box and soft, slightly unsettling music began to play.

Then, suddenly, the box opened with a snap and a slim figure came out, with a white mask and a painted smile.

The animatronic was slender, with a black body with white details. His arms were long, and his face was a white mask, with violet stripes under his eyes and a gentle smile. She moved with grace, almost like she was dancing

Damian took a step back by reflex… But to his surprise, he was not afraid. The way the puppet moved was different. almost human. Almost alive. but not threatening

She approached Dick and bowed a little. He responded with a gesture of hug, and Puppet held out his arms as if welcoming him carefully.

“This is Puppet,” Dick said. “My father created her especially for me. She takes care of me when he’s busy. She helps me with chores, protects me, tells me stories… like a babysitter. But she’s also my friend.”

“He looks… alive,” Damian said, delighted.

“Yeah, my dad said he programmed her with “emotional routines,” whatever that means, but I think it means she understands how people feel.”

Puppet looked at Damian. And even without speaking, he felt… something. A gentle look.

As if to say: “you are safe”

“It’s beautiful…” Damian said, smiling for the first time that day.

“And you know what’s best?” Dick said excitedly. “She’s going to be at my birthday party in two days! You have to go!”

“Birthday?” Damian’s eyes widened. “I… I didn’t even know…”

“Relax!” Dick laughed. “There’s still time. You’re coming, right?”

Damian hesitated. “I don’t know… Dad’s been acting weird. He won’t let us leave the house.”

“really? why?”

Before Damian could respond, a firm, cold hand landed on Damian's shoulder.

He froze

He turned slowly… and there was Bruce.

Impeccable. Cold. The smell of alcohol discreetly impregnated in his suit. His face with that polite smile… but without a soul.

“Because I like to keep my kids safe, Dick,” Bruce said politely. “The kidnapping rate has gone up. I’m sure your father understands that, right?”

“Oh, yes, of course…” Dick said, disconcerted. “Hi, Mr. Wayne, how are you?”

“Very well.” Bruce pulled Damian closer slightly. “What were you kids talking about?”

“My birthday!” Dick replied, trying to keep the mood light. “I invited Damian. Can he come?”

Bruce turned to look at his son. The smile disappeared for a millisecond. Long enough for Damian to feel his blood run cold

“I’ll think about it,” Bruce said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to speak to Damian… in private.”

“Okay…” Dick said, already starting to walk. “Meet me on stage later, okay, Dami?”

Damian nodded fearfully

As soon as Dick left, Bruce led him wordlessly to a hidden door in the corner of the restaurant. He pressed a button and walked in with Damian.

It was a small room. Dirty. Poorly lit. Fans whirred with a constant noise. A cluster of old monitors showed shaky camera feeds from various corners of the restaurant. There were old papers, a creaky chair, and the smell of burnt coffee.

“Do you know where we are, Damian?” Bruce asked.

"no…"

“This is the security room.” Bruce sat down and turned slightly in his chair, facing his son. “Do you know what this is for?”

“To watch… the pizzeria?”

“That’s it. To observe. To discover the truth.”

Damian looked at the cameras, trying not to shake.

“Really?”

Damn he already knew why Bruce had put him here

“Look closely, Damian,” Bruce said. “Do you see everything? Arcades. Kitchen. Corridors. Stage. But there’s one thing missing.”

“Missing?”

“Someone.” Bruce stared at him. “Where’s your brother?”

Damian stopped

His heart raced

His throat tightened

“I… I don’t know…”

“Are you sure?”

“Y-yes…”

Bruce stood up. He approached. The cynical, gentle smile reappeared.

“Don’t lie to me, Damian. You know what happens to children who lie, don’t you?”

Damian stepped back, trembling

“Jason is… problematic. If he did something, and you’re covering it up, that’s your fault too.”

“I… I swear I don’t know…”

“Do you want your mother and I to suffer more? She and I already have so much on our shoulders…”

"n-no"

“Then tell the truth”

The room seemed smaller now. The air was heavier. The cameras seemed to be watching along with Bruce. Damian could feel the walls closing in. Bruce's voice was soft, but every word was poison in his mind.

He couldn't tell the truth

He couldn't.

– One hour before –

The black car pulled into the Fredbear’s parking lot to the muffled sound of children’s songs drifting through the restaurant doors.

The painting shone in the strong late afternoon sun, reflecting the pizzeria's cheerful facade like a cruel irony in the face of what was happening inside.

The atmosphere inside the car was stifling—not because of the heat, but because of the tension.

Bruce, at the wheel, kept both hands rigidly on the steering wheel for a moment, his eyes fixed straight ahead, as if he were rehearsing what he would say.

In the backseat, Jason stared out the window with boredom and irritation, while Damian kept his hands clasped in his lap, silent, his body hunched over.

“Listen up, both of you,” Bruce said finally, turning off the engine with a sharp click. He turned halfway in his seat, his face still as hard as ever. “As much as your mother would like me to spend time with you guys, I still have work to do here. In the meantime, I want you two together all the time. Got it?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Why? I don’t want to be stuck with that jerk.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Because I said so. And because he’s too little to walk around here alone. You’re the oldest. You’re going to take care of him. End of story.”

Jason snorted loudly, crossing his arms. “Take care of him? I already have to put up with him at home. Now here? This kid is dead weight.”

“Jason,” Bruce said in a low, icy tone, “one more word and you’ll wait in the car for the rest of the afternoon and I’ll make sure the windows and doors are closed.”

Damian shrank back a little more. He felt the weight of his brother's anger and his father's coldness like a tightness in his chest.

Damian shrank back a little more. He felt the weight of his brother's anger and his father's coldness like a tightness in his chest.

He hated it when the two of them fought. 

The worst part was that it happened all the time.

Jason laughed bitterly. “Of course, Dad. Because that’s what you do best, right? Give orders. You only show up when you want to and give orders.”

Bruce turned back around, muttering something under his breath. He grabbed the door handle and got out of the car without answering. Jason got out soon after, slamming the door behind him.

Damian descended more slowly, following the two in silence, his eyes downcast.

The facade of Fredbear’s was colorful and cheerful, with a huge neon sign flashing “Welcome to Fredbear’s Family Diner!” Animatronic characters Freddy and Batsy smiled from banners hanging in the windows, holding slices of pizza and waving to visitors

But to Damian, it all felt like a disguise—as if behind every mechanical smile were eyes watching, menacing.

As soon as they entered, Bruce dropped them off at the entrance and headed straight down the back hallways.

“Stay here. And stay out of trouble.” Was all the man said before disappearing through the doors marked “Employees.”

Jason sighed, as if carrying Damian was a punishment.

“Let’s sit down now. The sooner this is over, the better.”

Damian nodded without saying anything. They sat at one of the tables in front of the stage, where an animatronic was practicing movements while canned music played in the background.

The smell of pizza was strong, but Damian still didn't feel hungry.

Jason glanced at him sideways, visibly irritated. “You don’t even like this place, do you?”

Damian hesitated. “It’s just… I don’t like animatronics.”

“You really are a baby.” Jason took a sip of the soda he had grabbed from the counter. “You’re the son of the guy who created those animals and you’re still afraid of them? Pathetic.”

Damian shrugged, trying to make himself seem smaller. He wished Jason wouldn’t talk to him. He wished he would disappear.

After a few minutes of silence, Jason stood up.

“Where are you going?” Damian asked, looking at him.

“Smoking,” Jason replied dryly. “If Dad asks, tell him I went to the bathroom.”

“But he told us to be together…” Damian muttered, worried “And he also told you to stop smoking”

“Are you really going to rat me out?” Jason suddenly turned, going to his brother. He grabbed Damian by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close. "If you tell anything, I swear I'll destroy all your toys. All of them. One by one in front of you."

Damian widened his eyes, trying to pull away. “But I just—”

“Shut up,” snarled Jason. “Do you understand?”

A few tears escaped before Damian managed to respond, his voice trembling: “Y-Yes…”

“Great.” Jason released his shirt with contempt. “What are you going to say if Dad asks where I am?”

“that you went to the bathroom…”

“Good boy,” replied Jason, before releasing Damian's shirt out. Didn't look back

Damian stood alone, staring at the empty chair beside him. The stage ahead, with its two giant animatronics smiling statically, seemed to watch him. children's songs continued, as if they mocked it all

He swallowed, repeating to himself as a mantra:

“I just have to lie… I just have to lie… I just have to lie…”

But inside, it felt like every word was a knife in his throat.

“He… went to the bathroom.”

The sentence left Damian's lips like a thread. Weak. Shaky. He could barely keep his eyes on Bruce.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Bruce slowly crossed his arms, looking at his son as if trying to decipher an equation… or crush it with his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” he said slowly. “Funny. Because I was in the bathroom. About five minutes ago. And guess what?”

Damian swallowed hard. 

He could feel his heart pounding in his temples

“There was no one there.”

Bruce stepped forward.

“So…why don’t you explain this to me?”

“D-Daddy, maybe you went after he—”

“Damian.” Bruce’s voice cut through the air like a razor “Don’t lie to me”

The boy froze.

“You know what I hate more than anything in this world?” Bruce continued, his voice growing lower and lower. “Lies. Lying people. Falsehood. Fucking dishonesty.”

He walked over to the counter, picked up a remote control and a cassette tape.

He put it in the VHS player.

He rewound it.

“But since you said you didn’t lie…” Bruce pressed play. “Let’s see.”

The TV hissed before displaying the recording in black and white.

Damian appeared sitting next to Jason.

Then came the conversation. Word for word.

Recorded

Inescapable

“What are you going to say if Dad asks where I am?

“that you went to the bathroom…”

“Good boy,”

Damian felt everything inside him wither.

The video paused on its own as Jason disappeared from the frame. The tape ejected with a pop, and Bruce held it with disturbing calm.

He turned slowly to his son

“Damian…” he said, each syllable heavy as lead. “You lied.”

“I… I just—”

“You lied,” Bruce repeated, taking a step forward. “To my face. At my work. Under my cameras. What did you think? That I was stupid?”

Damian instinctively recoiled.

“No daddy, I—”

“Worse. You lied to protect him?” Bruce spat the word like venom. “That piece of shit? That bastard who’s treated you like dirt since the day you were born?”

“I… I didn’t mean to stress you out…” Damian’s voice trailed off.

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT YOU WANTED TO DO OR DIDN’T DO!” Bruce yelled, slamming his hand hard against the table next to him, making everything shake. Damian recoiled with a sob.

“After everything I do for you!” Bruce roared. “After giving you food, a roof over your head, toys, school! Everything to make you someone! A life YOU DON’T DESERVE! And what do I get?”

He took another step forward

“Lies! Treason! Ingratitude!”

Damian stumbled as he tried to retreat, falling to the ground.

“And to help who?” Bruce knelt before him, his eyes alight with anger. “To help a spoiled brat who threatens you, who hurts you, who disrespects me every day!”

Damian choked on his tears.

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy… I… I swear, he forced me… I was scared…”

“Afraid?” Bruce spat the word out, with a disdainful smile. “You’re afraid of him, but you lie for him? And me? Huh? You’re afraid of me?”
 
Damian didn't know what to say

Bruce leaned in closer, his face inches from hers.

His voice dropped to a cold whisper.

“I'm the only one in this world who still cares about you, kid.”

Damian didn't answer

He just cried

His body was curled up, ashamed, terrified.

“But it’s okay,” Bruce said, suddenly calm. Almost gentle. He stood up, as if nothing had happened. “Were you forced by Jason? I believe you.”

Damian widened his eyes, not understanding.

“So…I’ll give you one last chance to redeem yourself,” Bruce continued, crossing his arms, “where’s Jason?”

Damian hesitated. “You… you already know. Don’t you?”

Bruce smiled

An icy smile

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I want to hear it from your mouth. Are you going to lie again? Are you going to disappoint me again?”

“D-Daddy… why do I have to—?”

“Because I fucking say so!” Bruce shouted, his voice echoing off the walls of the security room. “That’s why!”

Damian sobbed, leaning against the wall

He wanted to disappear.

Disappear

“Don’t worry,” Bruce said, calmer again. “Jason will never know you told me.”

Lie.

It was a lie.

Everything about him said so.

Damian knew what was right. He knew what was wrong.

But he also knew that Bruce was like a trap. If he resisted, it would only hurt more.

“Do you promise… not to hurt him?”

Bruce tilted his head slightly.

“I would never hurt your brother.”

Lie

Damian felt like screaming. But all he did was shake his head.

“H-he’s… in the alley… next to the pizzeria…”

Bruce smiled

That smile 

“See?” he said, patting the boy lightly on the shoulder. “It wasn’t that hard.”

He turned around and started shuffling papers.

“Go. Go play with Dick. Enjoy what’s left of your day.”

Damian stood there in shock.

“Go now!” Bruce shouted without turning his face.

Damian nearly tripped as he ran out of there.

The sound of the door closing behind him sounded like a gunshot.

In the hallways of the pizzeria, children's music played muffled and dull, like a soundtrack to a nightmare.

Damian walked like a ghost.

The bitter taste of guilt still in his mouth.

Fear seeping from every pore.

He had obeyed.

He had done everything right.

But still…

Something bad was about to happen.

And he knew it….

Jason was leaning against the trash barrels behind the pizzeria, dragging on a cigarette as the heat from the butt lit his face with a brief orange glow. 

For a moment, he breathed peacefully. 

The smoke escaped his lips as if it were washing away all the resentment stuck in his chest.

He opened his sketchbook and scribbled furiously—squiggly lines, heavy shadows. 

He drew himself and his friends wearing animatronic masks, laughing as they pushed a small, crying version of Damian into a dark closet with animatronics.

“It’s going to be like this…” he muttered with a half-smile. “That idiot’s party is going to be like this. A total nightmare.”

He made a stronger line to mark the hook in his hand in the drawing, why the hook? He liked pirates. He was proud of it, even if no one else understood.

But then…

BANG!

The side door to the pizzeria was practically blown open. 

The sound made Jason's heart leap in his chest. 

He froze for a second, seeing a large, heavy shadow form in the glare of the hallway light.

Bruce

He came down the steps like a bull coming out of the stable. His jaw was set, his eyes dark as an abyss about to swallow everything.

“Jason!” he roared, raising his voice slightly. But that scowl… that firm, controlled tone… it was even worse than shouting.

“Shit!” Jason whispered, throwing his cigarette away and running as fast as he could. But he didn’t even take two steps before he felt a violent tug on his collar.

Bruce pressed him against the wall so hard that Jason felt the concrete rip through his shirt.

“Smoking? Again?” Bruce growled. “I warned you, Jason. I TOLD YOU TO STOP THAT SHIT!”

“Oh, sure, because you’re the epitome of virtue and all against vice now, right?” Jason spat the words. “Better to smoke than to drink like a pig and break things in the house.”

Bruce paused for a second. 

And then, the punch came.

Straight into Jason's face. It cracked like a rock being thrown against a mirror.

Jason fell to his side, groaning, the taste of iron filling his mouth.

“That…” Bruce said, shaking his hand as if his fist had been stung. “Was for opening your filthy fucking mouth.”

Before Jason could get up, the second punch came. In the stomach. It knocked the wind out of him. The boy fell to his knees, gasping like a fish out of water.

“And that was for leaving your brother alone, disobeying my orders, and smoking on my fucking watch!” Bruce roared. “I should break all your fingers and see if you can draw any of your useless drawings after that.”

Jason coughed up blood. The hot, bitter taste ran down his lips

“You really are a disgrace Jason. A burden. A damn mistake!” Bruce spat near him. “What are you waiting for? Get up. Now!”

Jason, his face swelling, his eyes watering with rage, dragged himself to his feet. His nose was bleeding. Bruce stared at him for a moment…and then, to his surprise, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

He began to press hard against Jason's nose, without the slightest care.

“Oh, fuck!” Jason groaned. “That hurts!”

“Shut up. This isn’t to make you feel better, it’s to stop the bleeding before it stains my shirt,” Bruce replied, his eyes as cold as stone.

They stayed like that for minutes. The silence was full of hate. Jason could barely look at him.

“There,” Bruce said, tossing the dirty handkerchief on the floor. “Now go wash your face, take care of your brother, and try not to be so useless for five minutes. Can you do that?”

“Yes…” Jason whispered through clenched teeth.

Bruce pulled his arm hard once more.

And if I catch you doing any shit again, the next punch will be in your teeth, understand? I will make sure you spend dinner drinking soup through a straw.”

Jason snorted in disdain, but nodded.

“Okay…”

“Great,” Bruce said, finally releasing him with a shove on the shoulder. “Now get out of my sight.”

Jason staggered away, picking up the sketchbook that had fallen to the floor.

He went to the bathroom and turned on the tap. The cold water hit his bruised face and made him bite his tongue to keep from screaming. 

He washed the blood away slowly, but the pain was constant — in his face, in his stomach… and in his pride.

He looked at himself in the mirror for a second

His eyes were red, his breathing heavy

This was routine

Bruce always hit him 

He always took it out on him.

But this time it was different

This time… Damian had given him away.

“That little shit…” Jason growled, clenching his fist.  “He's going to pay. He's going to pay for what he did”

He left the bathroom with the notebook in his hands. Every step he took in the hallway was filled with boiling anger.

Only one thing echoed in his head:

just now that he has decided to make his plan happen

he will take revenge!

Damian will pay.

In the back workshop of the restaurant, the metallic sound of gears being adjusted echoed between the walls covered in tools and project sketches. 

The animatronic Fredbear was motionless on the bench, his mouth locked in a strange position. John, sweaty and with rolled up sleeves, struggled with a wrench in his hands, his frown of concentration.

“That again…” he murmured, frustrated. “I should have revised this joint before the final assembly”

It was already the third time that month that Fredbear's mouth had locked, and it seemed more and more difficult to fix. 

He sighed, pushing a strand of hair glued to his forehead. 

An hour later, with a sudden and dry crackle, the metal jaw came loose. 

John smiled, relieved, and wiped his hands on his already grease-stained pants.

But before he could fully relax, a shrill, energy-filled cry cut the air

“DAAAAAAAAD!!!!!”

John turned immediately, already recognizing that voice before he even saw him.

Dick, his almost eight-year-old son, appeared at the door of the workshop with a lively jump, spinning in the air as if he were in a show. He landed with a final somersault—one of many John had taught him.

“Look at who has arrived!” said John, opening his arms and crouching down to receive his son.

Dick ran up to him and was lifted into his lap with ease, even though John felt a light twinge in his back. The boy laughed out loud, his face lit by a radiant smile.

“What's up, chum? How are you?”

“Very well!” replied Dick, with the excitement overflowing. “I wanted to talk to you, but you were taking a long time, so I came to look for you!”

John chuckled, pressing his son to his chest for a moment before releasing him lightly on the side bench.

"Yeah, Fredbear had a problem again," he said, pointing to the now-fixed animatronic “His mouth locked again.”

“Again?” Dick widened his eyes. “But you fixed it, right?

“Of course I do! John said, jokingly inflating his chest. “You know how it is… Daddy fixes everything!”

"That's true," Dick replied proudly, crossing his arms and swinging his legs on the bench. “But… why don't you put a button to open your mouth, like the ones inside the animatronics?”

John stopped for a second. He stared at his son, surprised. Then he let out a soft laugh.

“You… You're right. It's an amazing idea! It will take a little more work, but it will solve this problem once and for all. Very well thought out, Dick!”

Dick smiled, brightening up at the compliment. His eyes sparkled as if he had just won a trophy.

“I think I’m getting as smart as you!”

“If you keep this up, you’ll end up surpassing me,” John said, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately. “And what did you want to talk about?”

“It's about my party!” Dick said excitedly. — Damian can come, right?

“Of course he can!” John answered immediately. “I've already invited all the boys from your school, but one child won't make a difference”

Dick paled for a second, his smile falling like a house of cards in the wind.

“E-everyone?  “he asked, his voice shrunken. “Did you invite everyone from my school?”

John immediately noticed the change in his son's tone.

“Is something wrong, son?”

Dick hesitated, looking at his hands.

“It’s just… I don’t like the kids at school, Dad. They always pick on me, call me weird, strange and dickhead.”

John’s heart tightened in his chest. He bent down until he was eye level with his son and held his hands firmly.

“Dick, kids do that, they make fun of each other and that’s okay. I don’t know, and they can’t see how amazing you are, that’s their problem. You’ll still be my boy,” he said, lightly touching his son’s chest.

Dick smiled back shyly.

“At least Damian will be there,” he murmured.

“That’s for sure,” John said. “And I promise this will be the best party of your life.”

“Okay…” Dick replied, standing up. “He should be waiting for me at the front of the stage.”

“Then run over there,” John said, winking. “But first… one last question?”

Dick stopped at the door and turned around.

"What are the party decorations going to be?"

John smiled, a mischievous smile full of affection.

"Oh, that's a surprise. You'll find out on the day."

Dick snorted, crossing his arms.

"I just hope it's a circus…"

"No promises!"

Laughing, the boy ran out the door. But on the way out, he ran into someone unexpected.

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Wayne,” Dick said politely, walking past the tall, exhausted-looking man. “Bye, Mr. Wayne!”

“Bye…” Bruce replied with an almost automatic wave.

As soon as Dick was out of sight, John approached his friend, wiping his hands with a cloth.

“Wow, Bruce… you look like you got hit by a truck.”

“The truck’s name is stress,” Bruce replied with dry sarcasm. “Jason’s driving it, and he’s been running me over every single day.”

“Did he do something?”

“He was born, he breathes, he keeps messing up everything he touches…” Bruce replied impatiently. “And he won’t stop disobeying me.”

John scratched his head.

“If you want, I can talk to him. You know that, between the two of us, I’m the one who’s better with kids…”

Bruce smiled, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll try to finish that new animatronic you designed.”

“Start with the head, okay? Its structure is very sensitive.”

“What’s the name again?”

“Bonnie. That purple rabbit.”

“Right…” Bruce said, already turning to the counter. “And where are we going to put this thing? We already have three animatronics running around here.”

“The new branch, remember? It opens next month, with the new models. Bonnie, Chica, Foxy… even the new brown Freddy.”

“Oh, sure,” Bruce replied with a poorly disguised sigh. “You can go. I’ll take care of it from here.”

John nodded, gave his friend two friendly pats on the back, and left, still smiling from his conversation with his son.

When he was alone, Bruce let go of the cloth he was holding and took a deep breath.

The silence in the room returned, but with it, came the darkness within him.

Then, without warning, Bruce kicked the endoskeleton off the floor, sending it flying. With a savage grunt, he swept his arms across the workbench, knocking over projects, parts, tools.

“ ‘I’m good with kids,’ ‘I have a perfect son,’ ‘I fix everything,’ ” he sneered in a mocking voice. “Son of a bitch!”

He punched the table so hard that a crack opened in the wood.

“I hate you, John. You’re such a lucky bastard. You walk around smiling, everyone likes you, you damn snob!”

His eyes went to the projects on the wall: the new animatronics, all with John's unmistakable creative touch. He hadn't created anything. He only executed. He only obeyed.

And yet, he was the one who supported that damned pizzeria.

John had everything.

He had ideas.

He had talent.

He had a son who smiled at him. Who loved him. Who trusted him.

Bruce gritted his teeth.

he had only created the bat animatronic that John managed to ruin with his ridiculous name idea!

“ He thinks he’s happy. He thinks he’s won. But I… I’m going to show him.”

He looked at the photo on the floor: John and Dick, laughing together on a sunny morning. A simple scene. But to Bruce, it seemed like an insult.

“I’m going to take that happiness away from him. I’m going to make him feel the same emptiness I feel. The same anger, the same bitterness.”

His smile was cold

Stifled

Deadly

“And it’s going to happen soon….”

“Very soon……”

Chapter Text

Jason was pissed.

Once again, he was stuck with his younger brother. 

Forced to stand aside while Damian had his way with Uncle John’s son—and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. 

And as if the humiliation and frustration weren’t enough, now he had to discreetly wipe the blood dripping from his bruised nose… 

yet another consequence of a fight he didn’t start, but which, as always, fell on him

Anger burned inside

Jason wanted Damian to feel everything he was feeling at that moment

The anguish

The stress

The constant feeling of being ignored and unappreciated…

And, well, luckily he already had a perfect idea to make him pay for everything.

It was almost ready, he already had the plan, the date set, all that was missing were the masks and the brat's birthday to arrive

But his thoughts were interrupted when someone sat down next to him on the wooden bench next to the main stage

Jason recognized the smell of grease and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke before he even looked to the side

 “What’s up, champ?” John said with a gentle smile. “Everything okay? You seem… tense.” 

Jason snorted.

“That’s called stress.” 

For some reason, that made John laugh.

“Wow, you sound just like your father,” he commented, laughing.

Jason stiffened inside. It hit him like a punch to the gut.

He wasn't like Bruce. He never would be.

Bruce was bitter, cold, and distant. A miserable man, incapable of loving, of smiling, of caring. Jason refused to believe he could be like him.

Could it be... was it?

John noticed the uncomfortable silence, and carefully changed the subject.

“Hey. What happened to your nose?” he asked, leaning in to get a better look. “It looks like it’s bleeding.”

He tried to gently cup the boy’s face, but Jason slapped his hand away.

“It’s nothing!” he exclaimed, almost shouting. Then he covered his mouth in guilt.

Damn it… he couldn’t treat Uncle John like that.

John was different. He was kind, calm, someone who genuinely cared. He and Talia were the only adults Jason could truly respect.

“I’m sorry, Uncle John,” he murmured, lowering his eyes.

John smiled as if nothing had happened.

“It’s all right, kid,” he said in a calm voice. “I just wanted to see if you were okay. You were fine when you got here earlier.”

Jason hesitated.

He couldn’t tell the truth.

“I… tripped and hit my face on the ground,” he lied.

John raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

“Really?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem like that…”

“It was!” Jason replied angrily.

John raised his hands in a peace sign.

“Hey, calm down, I was just asking,” he said, still with that damned light smile. Jason took a deep breath, trying to control himself.

“I’m sorry… again.”

“No problem. Besides, your father asked me to come talk to you.”

Jason snorted again.

“What does he want now?”

“He’s been having a lot of problems with you, he said you always disobey him and that makes him a little stressed out…”

Jason almost laughed. 

It was funny.

“Stressed out?” he repeated. “He makes me stressed out! He doesn’t even care about me!”

John was silent for a moment

"Jason... your father loves you. You know? The same way all fathers love their children..."

That was a lie

They both knew that

"What did you want to talk about?" Jason said, cutting the subject short.

John took something out of his coat pocket. A small pack of cigarettes.

"I found this in the alley behind the restaurant," he said. "Is it yours?"

Jason froze.

“How did you…?”

“Jason, it’s not hard to connect the dots. Bruce caught you smoking again, didn’t he?”

Jason was silent.

“Look,” John continued, “I’m not going to lecture you or demand an explanation from you. After all, Bruce has already done that. I just want to understand why you smoke, Jason?”

The boy shrugged, looking at the floor.

“It makes me feel good. When I smoke, my problems disappear with the smoke.”

“Smoking doesn’t erase problems, Jason. On the contrary, it only creates more. Especially in your lungs.”

Jason looked up.

“But I’ve seen you smoking. And so has my father. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that you’re 13,” John said, serious for the first time. “You’re still a child.”

“I’m not a child!” he retorted.

“Yes, you are. 13 isn’t 21.”

Jason clenched his fists. He wanted to fight, but he couldn’t with John.

“Jason,” John continued, “think about your family. Think about your mother and father. Do you think they deserve this extra burden on their shoulders?

Bruce, yes. But Talia…

“No,” he admitted.

“Then make an effort, not for me but for them. Promise this was the last time?”

Jason hesitated… and then nodded.

“Okay. I promise.”

John smiled and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Then his eyes fell on Jason’s notebook, which was left open beside him.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asked, carefully picking up the notebook. “Are these your drawings?”

Jason tried to pull it back.

“It’s just… some silly ideas.”

John ignored the comment and began to flip through the pages. His eyes lit up with excitement.

“Wow… this is really cool. Look at this!” He pointed to a page where Jason had drawn himself and three other children, all wearing large, expressive animatronic masks: Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy

“Who are they?” he asked

“Me and my friends,” Jason replied, almost embarrassed. “We really like the animatronics… we like their style in the cartoons that you and my father created, like a gang, you know?”

John laughed.

“That’s amazing. Those drawings have personality! And those masks… did you come up with the design yourself?” “Yeah….”

Jason hesitated for a second. Now was the moment he had been waiting for.

“Actually… that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

John stopped flipping through the pages and looked at him intently.

“Go ahead.”

“We wanted realistic masks of the animatronics. Like the cartoon you and my dad made. And then I was wondering if you could make these masks. Just like the ones in the cartoon, but with a little bit of my design... because my friends and I want to wear them for Halloween.”

“Masks like that?” John asked, frowning.  “It’s a lot of work, Jason. These are very specific details”

“I know…” the boy said, biting his lip. “But it’s important. My friends… they dream about this….And so do I.”

John looked thoughtful. 

Jason took advantage.

“Look, if you make these masks, I promise I’ll quit smoking. I’ll behave, I’ll… do whatever.”

John laughed, surprised by the boy’s sudden enthusiasm.

“This is emotional blackmail, huh?”

“Maybe it is” Jason replied with a half smile.  “But it’s worth it, isn’t it?”

John looked back at the drawings. He took a deep breath and nodded.

 “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. It’ll take some time, but… I’ll do it for you”

“Really?!?!” Jason smiled, surprised. “Thanks, Uncle John.”

“You owe me one, huh?”

Jason nodded.

He knew.

John then stood up

“I’m going back to the workshop now. But if you need anything, call me, okay?”

“Okay… Bye, Uncle John.”

“Bye, champ.”

And as John walked away, still smiling, holding the pages carefully, Jason felt the weight of guilt begin to build in his chest.

He liked Uncle John. A lot.

Sometimes, it felt like he was the father Bruce never was.

And manipulating him… using his kindness…

It made him feel dirty.

But it had to be done 

It was the only way to make his plan work... 

finally, he was going to do what he had been waiting for so long, now he just had to wait for the masks and the birthday

Even though, inside, it was eating him away little by little,

he was doing the right thing.

Damian will finally pay 

even if it's the last thing he does in his life

The workshop smelled of burnt metal, grease, and nostalgia. The sparks from the blowtorch cut through the silence with sharp cracks as Bruce welded the side of Bonnie’s head. The precision of the movements was almost therapeutic for him. Almost.

The sound of the door opening momentarily snapped him out of his trance. Bruce looked up from under his welding mask. It was John, still smiling, with that naive gleam in his eyes.

“So?” Bruce murmured, lowering his mask and putting down his tools. “Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah,” John replied, walking over to the bench. He sat down with a sigh, as if finally relaxing. “Jason promised me he’ll quit smoking. Or at least until he’s old enough to do it without hiding.”

Bruce gave a dry laugh. He knew it was a lie. Jason would smoke again. But that didn't matter. The important thing was to let him discover for himself how useless it was. After all, Bruce had to learn the hard way too.

"Great," he said simply, going back to wiping the heated metal with a cloth.

"But listen... I was thinking about something, and I think it's a good idea for us." John's voice carried that sincere and almost childish excitement. "Something that could change everything!"

Bruce looked sideways, his eyes fixed on his friend. What could it be this time?

"What is it?"

“I remembered a moment with Dick earlier today, we were watching a new episode of that Freddy cartoon…” John began excitedly. “ And he was completely hooked! You know that scene with Bonnie playing the guitar? He was laughing, jumping on the couch, asking to see it again”

Bruce crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. He waited.

“ And then it hit me… we already have t-shirts, keychains, some loose toys in that little store in the arcade. It’s giving a good return. But what if we go further?”

“ Further how? “ Bruce asked, his voice firm. He could already feel the sting of irritation starting to rise.

“Plush toys! Masks of the animated versions of the characters from the cartoon! Action figures, really!”  John’s eyes shone. “Like, just imagine: kids watch the episodes, fall in love with Freddy and the others… and then they get the same doll for their birthday! Or buy a Bonnie mask and pretend to be the character! It's gold, Bruce”

Bruce was silent for a few seconds.

There it was again.

John, with his innocent smile, always dreaming, always jumping from one idea to another, and managing to make everything work out as if the world were conspiring in his favor.

"Hm," he grumbled, picking up his welding mask as if he was going to put it back on. But he stopped. "That... came out of nowhere?"

John smiled, a little shy now.

"Not really. Besides Dick, when I talked to Jason. He was drawing some pictures of himself and his friends wearing masks of Freddy, Chica, and Bonnie and asked me to make them for Halloween, that is, he and his friends saw the drawing... man, seeing all those drawings, also seeing how kids like personalized Freddy gifts, I thought... Why not make this become something real?"

Bruce didn't answer right away. He just watched his friend

John seemed so relaxed

So convinced

As if it really was a good idea

But all Bruce saw was arrogance disguised as enthusiasm.

They had decided together on the direction of the brand. 

They were co-creators. 

They had sold part of the rights to Freddy for the production of that damned cartoon. 

Bruce had accepted, thinking about the financial return, not about transforming Freddy's image into something "cute" and "colorful".

And now John wanted to transform that symbol into a plush toy, a party mask?

Bruce smiled.

A fake, polite, calculated smile.

"That's... interesting," he said. "I never thought about that, to be honest."

John seemed excited by the answer.

"Really? Wow, that's great. I thought you'd be more resistant to the idea.”

He laughed.

Bruce laughed too. Fake.

“No, no. That’s a great idea, John. You always had a good nose for these things.”

John leaned his elbows on the counter, confident.

“Thanks. I know it seems like a lot, but I think we can handle it. The cartoons are already showing, the characters are popular. We just need to be more aggressive. Imagine opening a line of plush toys of the animated version of Freddy, Chica, Foxy…”

Bruce hated that name. Foxy. A character created within that cartoon, popular among children, adored by the public.

A comical aberration, who now threatened to eclipse the serious work he had done with the real animatronics.

“You’re right,” Bruce said, returning to the counter, masking the anger in his voice. “We need to seize the moment.”

John grinned from ear to ear. Not for a second did he suspect the anger bubbling behind Bruce’s eyes. He didn't even notice the venom contained in that gentle expression.

Why did John trust him?

He trusted him like a brother.

He thought Bruce was his life partner, his business partner, his dream partner. And it was this kind of blind trust that Bruce knew how to use like a blade.

John stood up, excited.

“Okay, in that case, I'll start preparing some drafts of everything and go after the right contacts. We're going to rock Bruce! For real. This could change everything. You'll see... in a few years we won't even have to worry about fixing these old pieces of junk anymore. It'll just be a laugh while other businesses fall apart”

Bruce just nodded.

"Sure, John. Go for it. Change the world."

John laughed.

“ "Change the world," you say as if it were ironic.”

"I'm never ironic," Bruce replied.

John patted his friend on the back twice before leaving.

The workshop door closed slowly, and silence returned, broken only by the buzz of neon and the cold metal under Bruce's hands.

The welding mask slipped down his face again.

Bruce didn't say a word.

The silence that followed was even worse.

He stood there, motionless for a second, staring at the metal of Bonnie's head. The fake smile he'd been wearing for the past few minutes still hung on his lips—crooked, empty, dead.

Then he undid it.

And the mask fell

Bruce took a step back. The air seemed thicker now. His eyes, once calculating, gleamed with restrained fury.

“It’s going to change the world,” he repeated, muttering John’s words with disdain. “Change the world…”

He slammed his fist down on the workbench. The metallic sound reverberated through the room, startling a few crows that were perched outside the workshop window. He took a deep breath… but it was no use.

Another punch. Harder.

“He thinks he’s the center of the damn universe!” he shouted. “He thinks everything he touches turns to gold! As if he were to take credit for all this!”

He pushed the workbench hard, causing the tools to slide and fall to the floor with a crash.

“Cartoon! Plush toys! Masks!” he continued, through gritted teeth, his face flushed with rage. “He wants to turn my work… our work… into colorful crap for spoiled children to drool over!”

He picked up Bonnie’s metal head, still unfinished, and threw it against the wall with a hoarse scream. The piece shattered into sparks, splintering pieces across the floor.

“FUCK THE REST OF THESE ANIMATRONICS! I created Batsy! Me! He was just the idiot with the happy ideas, the charismatic guy! But I was the one who put this together! The one who stayed up all night adjusting endoskeleton after endoskeleton in this stupid restaurant… the one who gave soul to this whole shit… I was!”

He was panting now, leaning on the workbench, his knuckles raw and red.

For a moment, the world went silent again.

Bruce stared at the floor of the workshop, strewn with metal pieces, screws and scrap. He took a deep breath… and laughed. A low, bitter laugh.

“And he still thinks we’re partners…”

The laughter stopped suddenly. His eyes narrowed, and he stared at the door where John had left.

“But that’s okay,” he whispered. “Let him dream. Let him build his little empire with stuffed animals and cartoons. Let him lose himself in the illusion that he’s in control.”

He bent down, picked up one of the broken gears from the floor, and held it between his fingers.

“I just need to give him a good push. Just one. And when he falls off the board…” He squeezed the gear tightly until the metal scraped the palm of his hand “…I’ll be here. In his place and in all the glory!”

He clenched his hand tightly, blood slowly dripping between his fingers.

Bruce Wayne smiled. This time, it was real. Cold. Sharp.

"Let's see who laughs last, John….."

Damian was standing in front of the stage, next to Dick. The dim light coming from the ceiling lamps made strange shadows on the stationary animatronics—Fredbear and Batsy

Dick watched the two with eyes shining with admiration, as if he were in the presence of real heroes

“Aren’t they amazing, Damian?” Dick asked, his eyes fixed on Fredbear

“Yeah…” Damian replied quietly, without taking his eyes off the imposing golden figure

He didn't really know what he felt. He didn't hate the animatronics—or at least he didn't think he did—but something about them made him uncomfortable

Especially Fredbear

He had the strange impression that he was staring back at him

His head was slightly tilted, his eyes empty but piercing... As if he knew something.

“When I grow up,” Dick continued excitedly, “I’m going to create a bunch of animatronics like my dad. With eyes that glow in the dark and that really dance!”

“Cool…” Damian muttered, more out of politeness.

“And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Dick asked, turning to his friend with a smile.

Damian thought about answering—maybe a veterinarian, as he had once told his mother

but was interrupted by a familiar sound.

Footsteps. Heavy, firm, marking the floor like hammer blows.

Bruce.

He appeared leaving the workshop, with his dark jacket perfectly aligned on his body and his hair arranged as if nothing had happened minutes before. 

No one would have guessed that this man had gone crazy, broken a workbench and screamed like a madman not long ago.

“Damian, Jason,” he called firmly. “Time to go.”

Jason stood up from the corner of the pizzeria where he had been sitting, silent.

“Okay,” he replied curtly.

Damian hesitated, turning to Dick.

“Can I say goodbye to Dick first?” he asked, his voice low, afraid of getting a negative answer.

Bruce sighed loudly, as if it were a sacrifice.

“You can. But be quick. Jason and I will be in the car waiting.”

“Thanks, Daddy ” Damian said, with a faint hope.

And then he ran back to Dick, not knowing when he would have another moment like that.

Dick opened his arms to receive him in a tight hug.

“Bye, Dick...”  he murmured, his voice breaking.

Dick hugged him back with the same intensity.

“Bye, Dami. See you at my party!”

Damian hesitated.

“Yes, I do...” he replied, still with a twinge of doubt.”

“Do you think your father will let you go?”

Damian was silent for a second, before answering with a fragile hope:

“I think so... Maybe“

Dick smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. He felt that something wasn't right.

“ I hope so... I'll save you a piece of cake, okay?”

Damian nodded, hugging him once more before slowly pulling away. His heart tightened, as if he was leaving behind something too precious.

“You’re my best friend, Dami. I just wanted you to know.”

Damian felt his eyes burn, but he hid it.

“You’re mine too.”

The two slowly let go of each other. Damian looked back at the exit door.

Bruce was already in the car, looking impatient. Jason was in the passenger seat, his arms crossed.

The youngest walked to the vehicle with heavy steps, as if he were heading to a courthouse.

He got in without saying a word.

The car drove off in silence.

The road was empty, lit only by the scattered streetlights. 

The sound of the engine seemed to amplify the discomfort among the three.

Damian, huddled in the backseat, kept his eyes fixed on the window. His chest tight, his hands sweaty. His father's presence was a constant weight.

“Damian,” Bruce broke the silence.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Just so you know“ he began, his tone calculatedly cruel  “you are not going to that ridiculous party that John’s son has.”

Damian blinked, surprised.

“But… but you said you would think about it…”

“And I did. And the answer is no”

“B-but…”

“There is no “but”” Bruce interrupted, his voice harder. “ I said I don’t want you at that stupid party, period. That son of John’s is a terrible influence on you.”

Jason snorted and laughed disdainfully.

“I agree. Everyone at school thinks Dick is weird. Not that you aren’t too…”

“Dick’s not weird! He’s not a bad influence! He’s my friend!” Damian shouted, before he even realized what he was saying.

 The silence that followed was like a vacuum.

Jason turned around, surprised. Bruce stared at him in the rearview mirror with an expression of pure shock. Damian had his hands over his mouth, as if he had said something atrocious and wanted to force the words back out.

“What did you say to me?”

Jason was silent. Damian didn’t respond, paralyzed.

“I talked to you, kid. Say it again. Go.”

Damian couldn’t. He just stared at the window, as if hoping to escape.

“H-he's my friend…“ Damian repeated, now almost whispering.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Damian… you dare contradict me?… in my car?“  His voice was low, but filled with restrained fury. “What kind of spoiled brat like you think has the right to talk back?”

Jason turned away, resentful.

“Leave him alone, okay? He just wants to have a friend. You have no idea what that's like, do you?”

“Shut up, Jason“ Bruce said through gritted teeth.

“No. Seriously. Even John, who I've heard you say is "weird", is more of a father than you ever were. At least he cares about his son”

Bruce slammed the car on the brakes, making Damian crash into his seatbelt. The sound of the tires screeching on the asphalt echoed through the deserted street.

“What did you say?”

“That he's a better father than you! That he cares! That he listens! That he hugs his son!”

“Jason!” Bruce shouted. “Watch your mouth, brat!”

 “Why? Are you going to hit me? Again?” 

Damian began to cry softly. 

“Please… stop…” he whispered, holding onto his seatbelt. 

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself! Not me, not Cassandra, not MY MOM!” Jason shouted.

“ENOUGH!”

Bruce turned around and slapped Jason hard across the face. 

The sound echoed through the car like a loud bang.

Jason stood still for a few seconds, his head turned away, his face red. 

Then he turned back, silent. 

Damian was sobbing softly, his face wet with tears, shaking with fear. 

The rest of the way was spent in absolute silence. 

Bruce drove as if nothing had happened.

When he got home, Bruce parked the car and unlocked the doors.

“Jason, get out. Damian, stay.”

Jason left, but not before giving his father one last hateful look.

Bruce locked the doors again.

Damian looked at him, swallowing hard.

“D-Daddy…?”

Bruce turned around with feigned calm, his gaze icy.

Then he grabbed Damian by the wrist and pulled him tightly closer.

“Listen to me, you ungrateful brat!” he said in a low, threatening voice. “You’re going to stay away from that daddy’s boy Dick and especially from his party, understand?”

“B-but… he’s my friend—

“SHUT UP!” Bruce shouted, squeezing the boy’s wrist even tighter. “WHEN I COMMAND YOU, YOU OBEY!”

“O-Ouch,” Damian murmured, trying to free himself, but Bruce was holding on so tightly that his nails tore the boy’s skin.

“I’m trying to save you from becoming useless like him! So that you can stop embarrassing me, Damian! You’re weak, just like your mother!”

“P-please…” Damian whispered, watching the blood drip from his wrist.

Bruce let go of him when he noticed the blood.

“Do you understand? You’re not going to that party. Never. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Y-yes…”

Bruce unlocked the doors without another word.

Damian ran out of the car, stumbling. 

The fresh night air felt like a relief after the hell inside that car. 

He took a deep breath, trying not to cry anymore. When he turned around, Bruce was already driving away, without even looking back.

Damian stood there, his pulse throbbing, his eyes wet, and his heart crushed.

Sitting on the balcony of the house, Jason waited for him.

The two exchanged brief glances, no words were said.

"What's up?" he asked, standing up when he saw his brother.

Damian didn't answer. He just stared at the ground.

"Damian... what did he do?"

"N-nothing..."

"Show me."

Damian extended his arm. The blood was still dripping slowly. Jason's eyes widened.

“Son of a bitch…”

“I-it was my fault, I answered… I deserved it…”

“You’re six years old. Nothing justifies this.”

Damian didn’t say anything.

“Come on. Let’s go inside. Mommy will take care of this.”

“B-but what about you?”

Jason touched his nose, still red.

“It’s nothing.”

“B-but…”

“Shh. Just come in.”

As soon as they entered, Talia walked over to them. 

With her face excited and happy

 “Damian! Jason! How was it with your father?” 

“More or less,” Jason said, “look, Damian has something to show you”

Damian reached out

Talia widened her eyes

 “What?! Who did this to you?! Jason was you?!”

“What?! No! It was our father!” 

“Wait… and your nose?! Bruce too…?” 

“There's nothing on my nose!” 

"Yes there is!" Talia replied

I'm fine," Jason murmured, looking away.

"You're not fine. None of you are! Come in. Now. I'll take care of you."

Jason snorted, but he didn't disobey his mother.

She led them inside, as if protecting what was left of the world. 

The home might be in ruins, but as long as Talia was there, they still had shelter.

In the bathroom, with the soft lights reflecting off the white tiles, Talia knelt down, grabbing alcohol and gauze from the sink cabinet.

“Okay, who comes first?” she asked.

“Damian,” Jason replied, giving the boy a little push into the room.

Talia knelt before Damian.

“Come, my love. Mommy will take care of you…”

then the door closed

Jason watched, leaning against the door, his eyes blazing

Anger burned inside him for both Bruce and Damian, honestly he didn't know why he defended John or Damian, Jason hated the boy, but... in the car the feeling of protecting Damian from Bruce was... greater.

he wasn't going to give up on his plan

much less stop making Damian's life a hell

But he knew one thing: if Bruce wanted to break his brother… he would have to go through him first.

“So…” Talia began, her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on her son. “Are you going to tell me what happened to your nose, or am I going to have to investigate until I find out?”

Jason rolled his eyes, letting out an impatient groan

He sat on the cool edge of the tub, his head tilted back slightly

The bleeding had stopped, but swelling and bruising were beginning to form.

“Nothing happened…” she murmured, trying to look away.

“Jason…” Talia said, with that soft intonation that only mothers can use when they already know the truth.

The boy sighed deeply. 

It was useless to lie to her.

“Okay. It was Dad.”

Talia stopped, the cotton soaked in alcohol still in her hand. 

Her heart tightened in her chest.

“He caught me smoking,” Jason continued, with a bitter half-smile, “and he punched me.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. She took a deep breath. 

When she looked back at him, she was more tired than angry.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“It won’t do any good,” Jason said dryly. “He doesn’t change. He never changes.”

Talia sat down across from him, lowering herself until she was level with his face. 

The bathroom was lit only by the yellow light above the mirror, which cast soft shadows on the tiles.

“Jason, your father—”

“Oh, here it comes,” he cut in disdainfully. “Are you going to defend him again?”

“He’s a complicated man…” she began, trying to sound rational, but her own voice seemed to tremble. “But he loves you.”

Jason stared at his mother coldly, his eyes half closed.

“I thought mothers couldn’t lie to their children.”

“I’m not lying,” she replied, but even she didn’t fully believe it. “He… he’s stressed, yes. He has a horrible way of showing it, but he loves you. He loves your brothers.”

Jason let out a weak, almost painful laugh.

“And you?” he asked suddenly. “He loves you too, doesn’t he?”

Talia froze. 

She didn’t answer. 

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she dipped the cotton in the alcohol and moved closer to him.

“This is going to sting a little,” she warned, lightly caressing his cheek.

When she pressed the cotton to his injured nose, Jason gave a muffled groan and recoiled slightly, his eyes narrowed in pain.

“I warned you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She worked in silence for a few seconds, cleaning the wound carefully.

“Next time he does that…” she began.

Jason raised an eyebrow cynically.

“What are you going to do? Call the police? Make him sleep on the couch?”

“Let me know. That’s all. Tell me. I need to know. Got it?”

Jason hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay….”

Talia sighed in relief, picking up the gauze and tape from the sink.

“Now all that’s left is the gauze…”

As she prepared the bandage, Jason watched her in silence. Then he said, in a lighter, almost casual tone:

“So… did Damian tell you about what happened in the car? You know, after I left?” 

She paused for a second. 

Her eyes lost focus, and she nodded slowly.

 “Yeah.”

 “So?” Jason asked, trying to remain nonchalant. “Are you going to do something? Not that I care about that brat.”

She looked at him sideways, with a tired smile.

“Of course I’ll do something. And you don’t have to lie to me, Jason. I know you care about him, even if you do all those things to him.”

Jason didn’t answer. He just looked away, annoyed. Maybe because she was a little right. Maybe because she was very right.

“Your father hurt him because he wanted to go to Dick’s party even though he said no,” she said, securing the gauze with the tape. “And also because Damian didn’t want to stop being friends with Dick, even though your father told him to stay away from him.”

Jason let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Of course he did.”

Talia finished the bandage gently, then stood up.

“There. I’m done.”

“Finally.”

“Wait. There’s one thing missing.”

“Ice?”

“That’s right. But that’s what I was talking about…”

She leaned over and gave her son a light kiss on his bruised nose, then pulled him into a quick but tight hug.

Jason blushed immediately.

“Mooom…”

“Shhh…” she whispered. “Let me take care of you for a while.”

He stood still for a moment, then patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m going before you get needier than me.”

He left the bathroom and headed straight for the bedroom, his hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Talia laughed softly, but the laughter died before it could even finish.

She heard the front doorknob turn with a sharp click.

The sound of keys. The weight of shoes. Heavy breathing.

She didn't need to see.

She already knew who it was.

Bruce

Talia walked down the stairs with silent but firm steps. 

Each step seemed to weigh more than the last. 

The smell of beer in the air hit her before she even reached the living room. 

When she arrived, she stopped for a moment, observing the pitiful figure in front of her. 

Bruce was slumped on the couch like a lazy corpse. 

His suit jacket hung crookedly on his shoulders, his hair was a mess, and his tie, still loosely tied, swung with the movement of the beer bottle he held in one hand. 

He looked exhausted. 

Destroyed. 

But it wasn't tiredness — it was the emptiness of someone who had already given in to his own rot.

“Talia…” she murmured, raising her eyes. They were red. “W-what time is it?”

“Almost eight at night,” she answered dryly, crossing her arms. “Where have you been?”

“Drinking,” she answered without thinking, raising the bottle to her mouth.

“Don’t tell me,” she said ironically, her gaze hard as stone. “I thought it was your new perfume.”

Bruce laughed, with a hoarse sound that sounded more like a choke.

“Why are you so serious, huh?” he asked, with that tone of drunken mockery. “Did any of our children challenge you?”

She didn’t answer. 

She just followed him as he staggered into the kitchen. 

“Bruce,” she said, pausing in the doorway, “I’ll get straight to the point. Did you hit Jason?” 

Bruce turned slowly. For a second, his eyes seemed to focus. There was a strange gleam there—somewhere between surprise and contempt

“What kind of question is that?”

 “A pointed question,” she replied, her voice shaking with suppressed anger. “Did you hurt your son?”

He frowned, took another sip from the bottle, and shrugged.

“Yes, I did. So what?”

The silence that followed was thick.

“What about Damian?” she whispered. “Did you scratch his wrist?”

Bruce hesitated for a second. Then he chuckled.

“He cried like a little girl when I squeezed his wrist. But someone needed to teach him that loyalty is to family. Not to some weird kid like Dick.”

“You’re unbelievable…” Talia muttered, shocked.

“No, Talia. I’m a realist. Unlike you, who raises these boys as if they were made of glass. Look at Jason, he thinks he’s so smart. He thinks he can smoke in the alley next to the restaurant, in secret. What do you think? And Damian… that sensitive brat, walking hand in hand with that Grayson like they were a summer couple. It’s pathetic—”

BAM!

The slap came hard, making Bruce's head spin and the bottle fall to the floor with a crash, breaking into pieces.

He was paralyzed for a second.

"Are you crazy?!?!" he shouted, holding his face

“That was for Jason,” she said with hatred, “and that…” 

She slapped him again, harder, across the face. 

“…was for Damian!” 

Bruce staggered back, his eyes full of fury. 

“You dare to attack me in my own home?”

“This house was never yours, Bruce. It was just a prison built around your ego!” 

He stepped forward and, in a brutal gesture, grabbed her hair, pulling it back hard.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN STAND UP TO ME?!?” she screamed, spitting out the words. “Who do you think you are, huh?! Drama queen? Traumatized protector of little children?

“Let go of my hair, you bastard!” she screamed, struggling.

He pulled harder.

“Are you going to cry now? Are you going to hit me again? Huh?! Want to see who has the strength here?!”

With a quick and well-practiced effort, Talia raised her knee and hit him in the stomach. 

Bruce let out a grunt and let go of her hair, doubling over with his hands on his stomach.

“You’re pathetic, Bruce,” she said breathlessly, picking up one of the shards of glass from the floor. “Look at you. A man who beats children and gets drunk to escape his own insignificance!” 

“I’m the only one still trying to keep this family together!” he shouted, coughing. 

“You’re destroying this family!” she retorted. “Do you want to hear the truth? Jason hates you! Damian is terrified of you! And Cassandra… poor thing, she still idolizes you. But that’s because she hasn’t seen the monster you are behind the mask yet!”

Bruce spat on the floor.

“And you? Who are you to lecture me now? You, who only put up with me out of convenience? Who never truly loved me?”

“You’re right. I don’t love you anymore. I loved you once, but now all that’s left is disgust and obligation. If it weren’t for the children…”

She stopped. The shard of glass trembled in her hand.

“…I would have already disappeared from this hell.”

Bruce took a step toward her.

“Take that step, Bruce,” she said coldly, “and I’ll shove this down your throat.”

They stared at each other.

Bruce saw that she wasn’t bluffing.

He took a step back, chuckling softly.

“Okay, queen of threats. I get it. I’m in no position to argue with an armed viper. I’ll be in the garage, drinking in peace… if this shithole of a house will even allow me that….”

“Bruce. Wait.” 

He turned impatiently.

 “What now?” 

“Damian told me what you said to him.” 

Bruce smiled disdainfully. 

“Oh, the sensitive little boy ran to his mommy? What a surprise.” 

“You said Dick was weird? That you were influencing him to be weird too?” 

“And isn’t that right? Maybe after this he’ll stop being weird like him.”

“You’re going to leave him alone,” Talia said, coming closer. “Dick is one of the only good things in our son’s life. And you’re not going to take that away from him. You’re not going to take Damian away from the only true friend he has.”

“What if I want to take him away from that boy?”

She stared at him with an expression of pure contempt.

“Then, if I were you, I would start paying more attention to the food. And the drinks. And whoever is serving dinner.” 

Bruce was silent for a few seconds. 

Then he laughed. 

“You are brave, Talia. But I always knew that. I only regret having wasted so many years by your side.” 

He leaned in slightly, his warm, alcoholic breath hitting her face.

“I’m going to miss dinner tonight,” he whispered cruelly. “I’ve had enough of you and the kids in my life.” 

He turned, walked to the garage, and slammed the door shut, the noise echoing through the house like an explosion. 

Talia stood there, breathing deeply, shaking, the shard still in her hand. 

That was when she heard a soft sound behind her. 

A small sigh. 

She turned around.

Damian.

He was standing at the end of the hallway, his eyes wide and wet, his body curled up.

"Damian..." she whispered, feeling her heart drop.

He ran to her without saying a word, throwing himself into her arms as if he were escaping from a nightmare.

She hugged him tightly, resting her face in his hair, whispering:

"It's okay, my love... Mommy's here..."

But inside, she knew.

Nothing was okay.

And nothing would be—as long as Bruce was still there.

“honey… how much of this did you see?” 

He didn’t answer. 

And she knew. 

He had seen it all. 

“W-why, Mommy?” he asked, voice weak, between sobs. “Why is Daddy like this? Why does he hate us?” 

She held he son close to her chest, stroking his hair.

 “He doesn’t hate you, my love. He just…” her voice broke, and for a moment, all she could do was take a deep breath.

 “He’s a sick man. Very sick. And sick people hurt others… even when they say they love them.” 

Damian sobbed again.

 “But he doesn’t love us…” she said. “He just yells. He just hurts. He hurts you… he hits Jason… and now… now he hates me too.” 

Talia pulled back a little to look at her son’s face. 

His eyes were red and puffy, his face wet with tears. 

“Don’t say that. He… he doesn’t know how to be a father. But this has nothing to do with you, okay? You are perfect. It's his problem if he can't see it”

Damian sniffed.

“He said I couldn’t go…”

“Go where?”

Damian hesitated.

“To Dick’s party…”

Talia felt her heart sink.

 “I know,dear….”

“Dick called me, Mommy… he said it would be fun… that there would be cake and toys… and I wanted to go so bad…”

He looked down.

“But Daddy said Dick was weird. That he was a ‘bad influence’ and that if I went… I would end up weird like him.”

The words came with difficulty. Talia felt the ground disappear for a moment. 

She closed her eyes, trying to contain her anger. 

But when she spoke, her voice was soft. 

“Dick is your friend, isn’t he?” 

“He’s my best friend,” Damian said, his voice almost breaking. “He… he’s the only one who really likes me besides Cassandra…” 

Talia squeezed her son’s hand. 

“I really like you.” 

“But you’re my mother,” Damian replied. “You have to like…” 

“No,” she said. “I like you because you’re good. Because you’re kind. And sweet. And full of light, even in this dark place.”

Damian stared at her for a moment. The crying had stopped, but her face still held a sadness that seemed too great for someone so small.

“I wish I could go. Just to… just to play with Dick for a while.”

“I know.”

She pulled him back into her arms and was silent for a few seconds.

“You know… maybe we can still celebrate, in another way.”

Damian looked up.

“What?”

“I can take you, Dick, and your brothers out for ice cream sometime. Just you two. It doesn’t have to be today. It doesn’t have to be at the party. But it can be special all the same. What do you think?”

Damian didn’t answer right away. He thought. His eyes filled with tears again.

“But it’ll be hidden from Dad, right? Isn’t that wrong?”

“Yes,” Talia answered sincerely. “But sometimes… protecting someone means keeping quiet. Even if it hurts.”

Damian nodded slowly.

“I don’t want him to hurt you anymore because of me…”

“Shhh…” she said, leaning her forehead against his. “No matter what he does. I’ll always be here. Always.”

Damian hugged her tightly. 

Silence settled in, heavy, dense, full of everything they couldn’t say.

“I wanted…” Damian began, but didn’t finish. The words got stuck.

“What, my love?”

“I wanted he was like the other boys’ fathers…” he said in a whisper. “I wish he would smile at me… just once.”

Talia didn’t answer. Because she wanted it too.

And because she knew that might never happen.

“Go,” she asked after a while, with a weak smile. “Go and call your brothers for dinner.”

 Damian nodded and stood up slowly. 

He looked at his mother one last time, and then said, “If one day… if one day he makes you leave… I’ll go with you.”

And then he went upstairs, alone.

Talia stood in the kitchen, staring into space. 

The silence in the house was colder now. 

More cruel. 

And for a second, she felt like she was underwater. 

Trying to breathe.

But she couldn’t drown.

The children were still here.

And as long as they were…she would fight.

Even if it was alone.

Even if it hurt.

Even if the whole world came crashing down on her.

she would protect her children….

8:00 am

The room was still dark when Dick opened his eyes. A faint ray of light escaped through the cracks in the curtains, and the silence of the house was broken only by the distant sound of a bird singing outside.

the sun shone on the calendar, revealing the date so important to Dick

March 20, 1982

his birthday

He turned over in bed, still drowsy, when he heard a soft creaking sound coming from the door. 

A figure approached with soft steps. 

Dick smelled the sweet scent before he saw it: vanilla with a hint of cinnamon

The light slowly turned on, revealing John's smiling face, with messy hair and a tender look in his eyes. 

In his hand, he held a small plate with a blue cupcake on top. 

The pink candle flickered slightly.

“Surprise!” John said softly. “Happy birthday, my little ray of sunshine!”

Dick smiled immediately, his eyes shining with sleepy joy.

“You remembered!”

“Of course I remembered.” John sat on the edge of the bed. “I spent the whole week getting the restaurant ready for the party, and besides, how could I forget the day the best boy in the world came into my life?”

Dick sat up and rubbed his eyes, laughing.

“You sound like I was delivered by a stork.”

“Almost,” John replied, feigning mystery. “Now, make a wish. It’s only valid if you promise to tell me by the end of the day if it comes true.”

Dick took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and, without thinking much, blew out the candle.

“Did you propose?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you going to tell me later?”

“If everything goes well today, I’ll tell you.”

John hugged him lightly by the shoulders and kissed the top of his head.

 “It will, Dick. It’s going to be the best birthday of your life.”

Dick laughed. “You always say that every year.”

“And so far, I’ve been lying?”

“…No,” Dick admitted with a smile.

The two shared the cupcake right there, Dick licking the frosting and John trying to keep it from getting on the bedspread.

“So…” John said, wiping Dick’s mouth with his thumb. “I have some good news and some… not so good news.”

Dick raised an eyebrow.

“Which one do you want first?”

“The bad one.”

“I need to go to the pizza place. Real quick. Just a short shift. But—”

“But it’s my birthday,” Dick said, his voice low.

“—but,” John continued, “you get to skip school today. You get to spend the whole day doing whatever you want. You can play video games, draw, watch movies, walk around the house in socks… whatever you want. And tonight…” He stood up, holding out his hand dramatically. “The big party!”

Dick looked at him with a slow smile forming.

“The big party?”

“Yeah…the one you’ve been waiting for for weeks. Everything’s ready. Sweets, decorations, the animatronics, the music you chose, the games… It’s all waiting for you.”

“Will Damian be there?!?” 

“I still don't know….His father still hasn't answered me, but let's hope, without a doubt he will be there!” 

Dick jumped out of bed and hugged John tightly, hiding his face in his father's chest.

"I love you, Father." 

"I love you too chum. Much more than you can imagine." 

They were silent for a moment, enjoying the quiet of the house, until John pulled away, squeezed his son's nose and said

"Now you're going to brush your teeth. Nobody deserves a birthday girl with cupcake breath." 

Dick laughed and ran to the bathroom, still laughing. 

John watched for a moment before leaving the room, quieter now, with a certain weight in his eyes.

Soon he had to go out to the pizzeria

Dick spent the morning in his pajamas, drawing and seeing reruns of Freddy's cartoon Fazbear on television. 

In the afternoon, he played with setting up scenes with the mounting blocks he had beaten by John, inventing stories and creating the characters with his toys.

Everything was perfect. 

The light of day came through the window as if the entire universe was conspiring for that to be, in fact, the best day of his life.

And when the sky started to get dark, he wore the new shirt that his father had given him weeks before with the theme of the bird Robin, his favorite animal, then he arranged his hair carefully and looked in the mirror with a confident smile.

Today was your day….

And everything will be perfect!

Chapter Text

Fredbear’s Family Diner was almost unrecognizable that afternoon.

The walls were covered in colorful banners, and red and yellow streamers hung from the ceiling like streamers. 

Tables had been rearranged into a dance floor, with striped tablecloths and small centerpieces featuring clown noses and miniature animatronics dressed as circus performers.

Balloons filled every corner of the room—some floating from the ceiling, others tied to chairs. 

A makeshift stage had been set up next to the arcade area, with a red curtain, where a puppet show would be held later. 

A huge banner at the back read in gold letters: “Happy Birthday, Dick!”

Bruce walked in through the back door, his eyes narrowed at the vibrant colors and the low-volume circus music playing. 

He walked slowly through the empty dining room—the pizzeria wasn't open to guests yet—taking everything in with an expression that was hard to read. 

He hated it.

The joy. The care. The energy. The attention to every detail. It all screamed “John.” That idiotic smile, that exaggerated love for his son, that need to make everything seem magical. It was pathetic.

But it was also… enviable.

Bruce took a deep breath, smelling the sweet smell of frosting mixed with pizza. 

He walked over to the counter, looked around discreetly, and, with no one around, opened a small pocket in his jacket. 

From there, he took out a small metal bottle. 

Vodka. 

Strong. 

Cheap. 

Enough.

He took a sip, then another.

“Bruce?” John’s voice came from behind him, gentle but alert. 

He was wearing a sweaty, paint-stained Freddy’s T-shirt and holding a roll of colored duct tape. Bruce rolled his eyes.

 “Oh, the head clown has shown up.” 

John ignored the provocation, smiling patiently. “Drinking? Now, you weren’t supposed to do that.” 

“this decoration wasn’t supposed to be this ridiculous, but here we are.”

John let out a short sigh, leaning the roll of tape on the counter. “You okay, man?”

Bruce gave a cynical half-smile. “I’m fine. My son hates me, my wife wants to kill me, and now my partner has decided to turn the pizzeria into a low-rent circus ring. I’ve never been better.”

“Bruce…” John stepped closer, cautiously. “This is for Dick. It’s his birthday. He picked everything out, even designed the posters.”

Bruce turned around, staring at his friend. “Of course it was him. The perfect boy. The center of everything. As always.”

John blinked, confused, then laughed, trying to ease the tension. “Are you jealous of my son?”

“You don’t understand, John!” Bruce snapped. “You have it easy. A son who loves you. Employees who respect you. Your wife who left you, but at least she doesn’t stay at your house treating you like crap. I have… this!” He gestured, spilling some of the vodka.

John stepped back a little, crossing his arms. “Look… I’ve always seen you as a friend, Bruce. We’ve created all this together. But you’re already crossing the line.”

“And you want to know the worst?” Bruce continued, stumbling over his words. “My son… the middle one, that cowardly brat… wants to be your son’s friend!. As if that would solve anything. As if he needed someone else to show him that being weird was normal!”

John scowled. “Don’t talk about Dick.”

“Why? Are you going to hit me?” Bruce teased, laughing. “Are you going to kick me out of your children’s party?”

John took a deep breath, but his gaze grew harder. “No, Bruce. But if you keep talking about my son like that, I’ll make it very clear that you’re not welcome here. At least not drunk like that.”

Bruce took a step back, shaking his head. 

Silence fell for a second, broken only by the distant sound of an animatronic being tested. 

John then approached once more, calmer, and spoke:

 “I wanted Damian to come, you know? Dick asked for him. They’re good together. When they’re together, Damian smiles. Have you ever seen him really smile, Bruce?”

“That’s none of your business.” 

“Yes, I do,” John replied. “Because I care about Damian. Just like I care about you, even when you act like an idiot. You may not see it now, but I wish you had half the relationship I have with my son. And you know why? Because you still have time.” 

Bruce remained silent, staring at the bottom of his glass, his eyes clouded over.

“Fuck off, John,” he said finally, quietly. “You and your perfect son. Do you think you’re better than me?”

“No,” John said wearily. “I just think you can be better. But if you keep this up, you’ll end up alone. And then neither the pizza place nor the whiskey nor Batsy will save you.”

Bruce dropped his glass into the sink with a thud.

“I’m going out for a real drink,” he said, staggering toward the exit.

“Bruce, wait—”

But the door had already slammed behind him, with the same force it always used to silence the world.

John stood there for a few seconds

silent

looking at the abandoned glass and the half-finished room.

John ran his hand over his face

tired

and then went back to hanging balloons

There was still a party to finish.

The house was eerily quiet that morning.

 A thick, uncomfortable silence that even the distant chirping of birds couldn’t alleviate. 

Damian sat on the floor in the hallway, his back against the cold wall, the cordless phone shaking in his small hands. 

The entire house smelled of burnt coffee and pent-up anger. 

Upstairs, the door to Bruce and Talia’s bedroom was locked. 

Talia was in the kitchen, trying to feign normalcy as she washed dishes with more force than necessary

Damian stared at the phone as if it were a trap. 

He had already dialed the number. All that was left was to press “call”.

But he was afraid.

Afraid of seeing the disappointment in Dick’s eyes, even if it was just in his voice. 

Afraid of being the reason why his friend’s easy smile would disappear. 

Afraid of not knowing how to explain that it wasn’t his fault. 

That he wanted to be there. 

More than anything.

He took a deep breath. Pressed the button.

The phone rang twice before he was answered with the energy of someone who was having the best day in the world.

“Hello?” It was Dick. His voice sounded light, excited, like he was about to jump for joy.

“Yeah… it’s me,” Damian said quietly. “D-Damian.”

“Damian! Dude, I thought you were going to call me earlier! I’m wearing the shirt my dad bought, the one with my favorite animal, remember? With the robin! Dude, it looks like the pizzeria is AMAZING. It looks like dad filled it with balloons and took the posters I drew and put it up in the pizzeria. It even has a circus decoration, seriously… Everything is… perfect.”

The word fell like lead into Damian's chest.

He bit his lip hard, trying to hold back the tears.

"D-Dick...look, I need to tell you something...I...I won't be able to go to the party."

Silence.

A silence so long that Damian thought the line had dropped.

“Oh…” was all Dick could say at first. The joy in his voice was extinguished in an instant, like a blown-out candle. “Why?” 

Damian looked down at the floor. 

The carpet beneath his feet felt rougher now. “My dad doesn’t want me to go. He said that… that you’re… weird. And that I’m not supposed to be around you…” 

More silence

And then Dick’s voice, weaker: 

“Do you think I’m weird?”

“NO!” Damian replied so forcefully that his own voice trembled. “No, Dick! I… I like you! You’re my best friend! You’re the only good thing about school! You… you make me laugh. You make me forget the bad things… I just…” 

Damian choked, and couldn’t finish. 

A tear fell without asking for permission, slowly running down his pale cheek

 “I understand…” Dick murmured. “If my father told me not to go, I wouldn’t know what to do either. But I really wish you were here. It won’t be the same without you…..”

 “I wanted to go to the party too,” Damian whispered.

The two of them were silent. A long, sad silence, full of unspoken words.

“But…” Damian tried to compose his voice. “My mom said maybe we could go to the ice cream shop, just you, me, Jason, and Cass… like, another day, to celebrate our way. We could have our own party. Just ours. What do you think?”

Dick took a while to answer. The sadness was still weighing on him.

“Just ours?”

“Just ours,” Damian confirmed. “And… and you choose the flavors. You can even make that disgusting chocolate mint and cookie mix again.”

Dick gave a weak chuckle. It wasn't a happy laugh, but it was still his.

"Okay... but only if you eat too."

"Ugh... okay. I'll eat."

Another silence, but this time lighter. Still sad, yes. But with a spark of hope.

"I'm going to miss you today," Dick said.

“Me too,” Damian replied, almost in a whisper. “But I promise we’ll celebrate. Just us.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“So… happy birthday, Dick.”

“Thanks, Dami.”

The call ended with a dry click. Damian stared at the phone for a few more seconds, as if he wanted to bring it back to life. 

As if he could cross the distance and hug his friend.

But all she could do was lean her head against the wall and let a few more tears flow.

In the kitchen, Talia watched him from afar, silently, her heart in pieces.

That wasn't the childhood she dreamed of for her children...

But, for now, it was all they could have...

the two of them, without knowing it, spoke to each other for the last time, little did they know that one of the saddest parties in town had just begun. And for two boys who only wanted to be together...it would be the last time...

The door to the pizzeria opened with a soft creak, releasing a jet of multicolored light and the muffled sound of lively music. 

Balloons danced under the ceiling of the room, banners with the phrase “Happy Birthday, Dick!” waved above the tables, and the smell of pizza and sweet frosting filled the air. 

Dick Grayson stood in front of the entrance, watching everything without moving a muscle. 

He wore the shirt his father had given him weeks before with the theme of Robin, his favorite animal, dark jeans and red sneakers. 

The clothes were new, carefully chosen by John, and did not match his mood. 

His eyes were downcast, his hands clenched together, sweaty. 

In place of the expected smile, there was only a blank, hard expression.

John, in contrast, was wearing his favorite dress shirt—the light blue one with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms—and was smiling fondly at his son. 

He was trying to hide the tiredness in his eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers from weeks of planning this party, getting everything ready behind the scenes, adjusting every detail of the decorations to make Dick feel special. 

“It’s going to be fun, son,” John said, lightly touching Dick’s shoulder. “There are games, cupcakes, that cotton candy ice cream you love… and remember the surprise I promised you? It’s inside.” 

Dick forced a smile, but the sparkle that used to fill his eyes was no longer there.

"Yeah, I know, Dad. It's all amazing..." He hesitated, clutching the gift to his chest. "But... I think maybe it was a mistake to invite my schoolmates..."

John frowned, but crouched down next to his son, at eye level. "You're talking about Wally and the others, aren't you?"

Yes, he was talking about Wally West and his gang, who were always giving Dick a hard time at school

Then Dick nodded, his head down.

"Wally, Conner... and even Donna. They... always say I'm weird. That I talk to dolls, that I'm too young for my age."

John sighed, trying to keep calm.

“Look, I know how it is. I was the ‘weird one’ in class once too. But you know what? They’re going to see today how amazing you are. This party is for you. And you’re surrounded by people who love you. That’s more than they have.”

The sentence was a bit of a lie

Most of the kids there hadn’t come for Dick…

They had come for the animatronics, and the free pizza…

Dick looked at his father, his eyes filled with tears. “It’s not just that… Damian won’t be able to come…”

That sentence pierced John like a silent arrow.

He tried to smile, even though he felt the pain throbbing deep in his chest

“Son, listen… Damian really wanted to be here. He really did. But there are things… there are adults, actually… that complicate everything.” John took a deep breath. “But you have the right to feel a little sad. You don’t have to smile just to make other people happy.

Dick nodded slowly.

“He called me earlier today…” he said in a whisper. “He said his dad wouldn’t let us. But… he said we could go get ice cream another day. That his mommy will take us…”

Dick wanted to hide the part where Bruce had called him weird

He knew it could hurt his dad

And hurting John was the last thing Dick wanted to do tonight

John ran his hand through his son’s hair, gently pulling him into a hug.

“You two are going to do it. Okay? And I’m going with you, I’m going to buy the biggest sundae ever. With three scoops of ice cream, caramel sauce and whipped cream until it overflows.”

Dick laughed softly, hiding in his father's shoulder. "You always exaggerate."

"Of course. It's my job. To exaggerate with love, ice cream... and birthday parties."

John stepped back a little and gave his son's shoulder one last squeeze.

"Shall we go in? Everyone must be waiting."

Dick took a deep breath, wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and forced a new smile, still shy, but genuine.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

The father and son then walked through the entrance together

The light, the colors and the smell of fresh pizza enveloped them like a warm hug.

But behind the joy put together with effort and affection, there was an invisible weight, a sadness contained in the eyes of a boy who, even surrounded by balloons and songs, felt that something was wrong.

Something was missing.

That night, Dick Grayson walked into his own birthday party thinking that everything, in the end, would be okay. Because his father was with him. Because he had friends, Damian, puppet and even Cassandra — even if only two of them were real.

Because, as much as he was afraid of what was to come, Dick still had hope.

And that was what made it all the more tragic.

Because, that night, amidst the music and applause, Dick still believed he would be happy.

And he never imagined that that would be his last party….

The bar was on one of the city’s forgotten streets, where the lights were always dim and the faces even dimmer. 

It was the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone had debts—to life, to drink, to the past. The dirty walls were marked by mold and old punches. 

In the back, the bathroom had been leaking for weeks. 

And the jukebox played a slow song of pain and disillusionment.

Bruce was there.

Sunk in a corner, isolated from the rest of the world, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the bar. 

The large bottle of whiskey in front of him was already more than half full, and the glass, more than a container, seemed to be the only thing keeping him together. 

The bar table was covered in cigarette burn marks and deep scratches, like scars.

His hands were shaking.

Not from fear. 

From anger.

He stared into the amber depths of the glass as if he could see all the mistakes of his life there—John, smiling in that calm way he always did. Dick's adoring gaze. 

The pizzeria full of life. 

Children laughing. 

A real childhood. 

Damian smiling because of that burden called Dick.

 A stolen moment. 

A moment that wasn't his.

“ Fuck John… fuck this ridiculous birthday… fuck all of this…“ he mumbled in a slurred voice, before downing the entire glass in one go.

The drink burned his throat, but it didn’t hurt anymore

Nothing hurt anymore…

Not even his bruised knuckles from the last time he punched the wall at home. 

Not even Talia’s angry look. 

Not Damian’s eyes, wide, confused. 

Not Jason, with his growing anger—just like his own….

He was empty.

Or maybe he was just too full.

Full of hate. Full of failure. Full of an emptiness that not even alcohol could dissolve.

“One more,” he growled at the bartender.

“That’s it, sir,” the man replied, arms crossed, glaring sternly. “You’re going to kill someone if you keep this up.”

“ I've already killed everything worth killing, Bruce replied with a crooked smile” So what difference does it make?

The bartender didn't answer. But another man, sitting at a nearby table, didn't miss the chance.

“Look at that… the rich guy drowning in his own sorrows.” He was a strong, bald guy with tattoos on his neck. “What's wrong, playboy? Did the butler take a vacation?”

Some laughed. 

Bruce didn't.

Bruce stood up.

Slowly.

A heavy silence fell over the bar. He walked to the center, his steps unsteady, but his gaze as steady as ever.

“What did you say?” he asked, glaring at the man.

“That you should shut up and leave before you pass out in your own vomit, rich kid.”

Bruce didn’t hesitate.

He threw the first punch hard—it cracked like thunder in the other’s jaw. 

The chair flew backward. 

The entire bar seemed to stop for a second, and then it was chaos.

The man fought back, shoving Bruce against the wall. 

Others stood up. 

Glasses broke. 

Tables toppled. 

Bruce fell to the ground, but got up with his eyes full of fire. 

Blood dripped from his mouth. 

He spat on the ground and advanced again. 

He wasn't a fighter now—he was a beast.

A bat

His blows were uncoordinated, but full of an ancestral fury, as if he were beating up all the ghosts in his life: his absent father, his failure as a husband, his failure as a father.

A shove threw it against the counter. 

He fell from behind, hitting his head hard. 

He stood there for a second, dizzy, watching the ceiling spin…

That's when he saw the knife….

The big blade

Well….Used to cut meat….

He took it

and got up

His breathing was labored. 

His eyes were bloodshot. 

His nose was bleeding. 

But his hand held the knife firmly, as if it had finally completed him…

“YOU WANT TO FIGHT, YOU FOOLS?!?! THEN COME ON!!!” he shouted, spinning the blade in the air.

People backed away.

 “WHAT’S UP BIG GUYS?!? SCARED OF A LITTLE KNIFE?!?!”

Now everyone could see

He was no longer a drunk man

He was a bomb about to explode

The bartender then pulled a shotgun from under the counter.

“Drop that fucking knife, man. Or you're going to leave here in a fucking coffin.”

Bruce looked at him. 

Long. 

A crooked smile appeared on his face.

“A bartender with a shotgun? I was going to say cliché, but I'm not going to waste my breath on that”

“Drop the knife and get out, now!”

Bruce laughed. 

A dry, hysterical laugh. 

Then he dropped the knife on the counter with a metallic thud. 

But his eyes were still burning.

“Fuck you.”

He turned and staggered out of the bar, leaving a trail of chaos behind him.

He then pulled into the parking lot, the cold air cutting his skin like a razor. 

Bruce unlocked the car with difficulty, opened the door and threw himself into the seat. 

He was breathing like a wounded animal.

He stood there for a few seconds, staring at the steering wheel.

And then he looked at the passenger seat

The knife.

Had he taken it back?

Maybe he hadn't even realized it.

Or maybe he'd done it on purpose.

He started the car. 

Exhaust smoke rose into the air like a warning.

“Son of a bitch… son of a bitch… son of a bitch…” he repeated, banging his bloody hands on the steering wheel, his head throbbing.

“He’s not going to take everything from me… I’m going to put an end to this farce… This shitty circus…”

He accelerated.

The tires screeched on the asphalt.

And the car disappeared into the night.

The knife gleamed on the seat next to it. 

Cold. 

Sharp. 

Waiting……

for revenge….

The rain drummed on the windows like restless fingers.

Outside, the sky had turned a heavy gray, wetting the street in front of Fredbear’s Family Diner and making the colorful tarpaulin at the entrance flap like a sodden flag.

Inside, the colorful lights still flickered, but they seemed more distant, almost indifferent.

The smell of freshly cut cake was already starting to mix with the smell of wet carpet and stagnant popcorn.

The puppet show on stage had paused, and the voices of other children echoed in the distance, as if the party were happening for someone other than Dick Grayson.

He was there, in the center of the room, in front of the Puppet box, head down, his eyes fixed on the dark polished wood.

The blue safety bracelet was tight around his thin wrist, with the small emergency button blinking faintly red. He stared at it, but didn’t have the courage to press it.

John had, moments before, bent down to speak to him, his voice full of haste and tenderness:

“Are you sure you’re okay, champ?” John had asked, his voice soft but tense with concern.

Dick had hesitated before nodding.

“Just a little tired, Dad.”

John smiled, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m going to take care of something real quick with the sound guys, okay? The stage light box had a problem and the show tape got stuck. I won’t be long. In the meantime…”

he pulled the bracelet from his pocket and carefully fastened it around Dick’s wrist.

“If anything happens, anything at all, you press this button. Then Puppet will come out of the box and keep an eye on you to protect you, I’ll be right back, got it?”

Dick nodded. John then hugged him tightly. Dick squeezed his eyes shut, holding back the sadness with effort.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Me too, champ. So much…. Happy birthday.”

John disappeared backstage, running, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps and the shadow of the promise to return.

Now, Dick felt the weight of the entire party on his shoulders.

The circus decorations that had once been beautiful and incredible seemed to mock him with their painted faces.

The other children ran from one side to the other, but none of them came to talk to him…

The cake table was beautiful, but empty…

It was as if the birthday was a play — and he was the only one who didn't know his part in the script

He sat cross-legged in front of the Puppet box, whispering:

“Can you still hear me in there?”

Silence.

“I know you might not understand me…but Daddy says you protect me, so why don’t you protect me from loneliness, right?…the truth is, I-I didn’t want to be protected, the truth…is that I just wanted Damian here…everything here feels…kind of empty without him…”

Tears threatened, but he held them back. 

He was doing his best to be strong. 

It was what John always said: “Strength is not about not feeling, it’s about continuing to feel.”

That’s when the laughter came.

Dick turned around the moment he heard them. 

Wally West appeared first. 

Disheveled red hair, fair skin marked by freckles, bright green eyes with a cruel glint. He wore a yellow shirt with a lightning bolt in the center, a worn leather jacket over it, mud-stained jeans, and worn black sneakers. He walked with the confidence of someone who knew no one would dare stop him. 

Behind him, Conner Kent, older, taller, more muscular. White, with perfectly straight black hair. Black T-shirt, dark blue jeans, impeccable blue sneakers. He didn’t laugh — he didn’t need to. His presence was enough to intimidate. 

And finally, Donna Troy, straight black hair falling over her shoulders, dark brown eyes that seemed bored with the world. Her black dress sparkled under the lights of the pizzeria, with discreet sparkles and silver details. Despite her impeccable look, she crossed her arms disdainfully.

“Hey, Grayson.” Wally’s voice cut through the air like a crack.

Dick stood up slowly, brushing off his pants and facing the group.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Hey… we came to honor the birthday boy!” Wally opened his arms. “You should be happy that we’re your only decent guests, the others only came for the pizza and the animatronics.”

“I didn’t invite you, my dad did.”

“Yeah, it’s an open house, Grayson. Everyone’s welcome. Besides… who would miss the chance to see our favorite weirdo have the “best day of their life”?

Wally walked slowly toward the Puppet box and tapped it twice with his finger.

“Look… he still plays with puppets. Is this your friend now, Grayson? A wind-up animal stuck in a box?”

Dick stood still, but his fists clenched.

“Get away from her!”

Wally smiled. An empty, sharp smile.

“Aww… how cute,” Wally scoffed. “Grayson and his pet trapped in a box.”

“She’s not my ‘pet,’ she’s my friend!”

“Seriously?”

Wally snapped his fingers.

“Conner, why don’t you do the honors?”

The tall boy walked over to a smaller box—the kind used for gifts and decorations—and slammed it down on top of the Puppet’s box, locking the animatronic in with additional weight.

The muffled thud was followed by an awkward silence.

“STOP!”

Dick ran to stop him, but was pushed back by Conner and fell to his knees on the stained carpet, followed by laughter from all three.

Wally approached slowly and crouched down in front of him.

“You know why no one likes you, Dickhead? Because you pretend to be something you’re not. You want to be important. You want to be strong. You want to be funny. But the truth…

He moved even closer, almost touching Dick’s face.

“…is that you stink of failure.”

Dick didn't answer, he just glared at the three of them.

"Did you know that failure has a smell, Dick?"

Conner laughed for the first time.

"Like wet dog." He said, "Can you smell it, Donna?"

"Yes, my nostrils are burning..." she replied, rolling her eyes.

Dick took a deep breath. He stood his ground.

“You don’t scare me.”

Wally ignored Dick's words. He saw the rain outside, which was getting heavier by the minute, as if the world was crying along with it. "Guys... I have an idea for the perfect birthday present for the boy! Let's give this weirdo a bath, guys! And wash away all his failure!"

Dick stood up quickly.

“Leave me alone.”

“Easy there, little hero,” Wally said, grabbing Dick’s arm. “We just want to help.”

Conner grabbed the other arm.

Donna watched everything with a cold smile.

“LET GO OF ME!”

“Let go of you? All dirty, smelling of failure? What kind of friends would we be, huh?”

Dick began to struggle.

“LET GO! STOP! DAD!”

He looked around.

The few adults who were still in the room were busy, distracted by the decorations or talking in the background.

No one seemed to notice.

No one listened.

Dick kicked,

struggled,

tried to bite.

But the two boys were bigger.

And the music, the damned music, drowned out his screams.

That's when the panic came

Real.

Alive.

Tearing his chest from the inside out.

"NO! NO! DAD! DON'T DO THIS! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! P-PUPPET! SOMEONE!"

They dragged him.

As they passed the Puppet's box, Dick tried to grab onto the base of it.

The wood creaked under his sweat-soaked fingers.

He then tried the bracelet

The Puppet inside the box began to struggle

Creaks

Cracks

A muffled sound coming from inside.

She felt it.

She saw it.

She wanted to get out.

But the box on top of where she was was heavy, she couldn't get out

The box shook

The light inside flickered

The Puppet was trapped

“Now the mechanical nanny won’t be able to save anyone,” Wally said, mockingly. “Come on, Dickhead. Time to get this failure out of you.”

They went to the back door, which led directly to the alley behind the restaurant.

They shoved him violently through the back door.

The rain immediately hit him full force, cold as blades cutting into his body.

Thunder boomed in the sky.

Then the metal door slammed shut with a dry, cold crack.

A click.

Locked.

Dick fell to his knees on the wet asphalt.

The rain fell like needles, heavy, insistent, soaking his clothes in seconds.

His hair, once so carefully styled, now ran down his eyes, down his lips, in wet, dirty strands.

His sneakers sparked with the cold water that rose from the ground with each misstep.

He stumbled to his feet, turned around, and began to pound on the door hard.

“PLEASE! OPEN UP! GET ME OUT OF HERE! DAD! SOMEONE!”

But the muffled music of the party playing in the distance drowned out his sound, oblivious.

He knocked harder.

“I’M HERE! I’M HERE!!!

His hands were already hurting.

The cold metal cut into his knuckles.

The safety bracelet flashed red

He pressed it

Once, twice, three times

Desperately

Inside…

The box where the Puppet rested began to shake more

The lights on the box flashed.

A low creak.

The wood stretched as if something inside was struggling hard to get out.

The smaller box that Conner had placed creaked with the pressure coming from inside.

Cracking.

A metallic sound, like claws clicking lightly, then violently.

A ghostly, hissing noise filled the stuffy air of the empty hall.

Puppet felt it. 

Knew it. 

He was in danger.

But he was trapped.

It was then that a flash of light burst through the darkness.

Headlights cut through the rain, revealing a car that zigzagged dangerously down the street before stopping abruptly a few feet away.

A cold shiver ran down Dick's spine.

The car door opened with a metallic screech and Bruce stepped out.

His bloodshot and dilated eyes reflected a maddened fury, and the forced smile, almost a grimace, was more disturbing than any expression of anger, and he smelled of alcohol.

In his hands, the sinister glint of a knife that glinted in the lightning

Dick felt a confusing mix of relief and dread.

Relief at seeing someone, dread at Bruce's distorted figure…

"Mr. Wayne! Thank God! They locked me out, they won't let me in! Can you help me?" Dick staggered a few steps toward him, a flickering flame of hope sprouting despite the fear that was eating away at him.

Bruce watched him, his smile widening into an expression that went beyond simple satisfaction. 

"Well, well, the little lost bird," Bruce drawled, his voice filled with a strange melancholy that contrasted brutally with the latent fury in his gaze. 

He raised the knife, pointing at Dick's shirt, already wrinkled and soaked. 

"Pathetic shirt, don't you think? A symbol of such a fragile animal for someone so... insignificant, when you think about it, it even suits you." 

The tension in the air was palpable, thick as the rain itself. 

Dick felt a knot in his stomach, the premonition of something terrible. 

That wasn't the voice of the man he knew. 

"Mr. Wayne... Why do you have that... that knife?"

Bruce took a step forward, the knife dancing in the air, reflecting the lightning that tore through the sky, like a macabre dance.

"You know Dick, robins are fragile creatures… Easy to break, but you know bats?... oh, bats are natural predators. They hunt the lost robin chicks, the ones that stray from the nest, the ones that get lost in the darkness. And the bats... the bats kill them. It's the law of nature, boy. The most brutal law of all. And I... I consider myself a bat…"

Those words, the way Bruce said them, the macabre analogy that echoed his own madness...

Dick's heart raced, beating like an uncontrolled drum.

He took a step back, fear turning into absolute terror. "Mr. Wayne, you're scaring me…."

Bruce's smile twisted even further, revealing a sick satisfaction that bordered on ecstasy

"Scaring? Good. It's supposed to scare... I want you to be scared, to suffer. To burn in agony... To decompose in despair...."

Before Dick could even process the horror of those words, the knife came down with brutal speed, almost invisible in the rain.

A scream of piercing, inhuman pain tore from the boy's throat as the blade pierced his left shoulder, tearing through skin, muscle, and flesh with terrifying ease....

Hot blood gushed out, splashing Dick's face, mixing with the rainwater that was running down his body....

The shock and pain paralyzed him for an instant, the air knocked from his lungs.

He staggered, his face contorted into a mask of pure agony.

Hope vanished like smoke, replaced by the most absolute fear. 

Dick tried desperately to run, but his feet were heavy, the pain holding him back. 

He stumbled, feeling weakness take over his body. 

Bruce was faster. 

The metallic cold came again, an icy and fatal shiver, and the knife dug deep into his back, piercing him with inhuman violence, hitting something vital. 

Dick roared, a guttural sound that mixed with the deafening rumble of thunder, and fell face down on the cold and filthy floor of the alley, the pain flooding every nerve, every fiber of his body, like a private hell. 

He tried to drag himself, desperately, using his elbows to push his injured body through the puddle of water and mud. 

His bloody hands scratched the rough concrete, leaving a red and viscous trail. 

Every movement was unimaginable torture.

"DADDY! PUPPET! PLEASE! HELP ME! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! PLEASE! SOMEONE! ANYONE! DAMIAN!!!"

Tears mixed with sweat and blood that flowed from his open wounds, a hot, salty torrent.

The image of his father, the vivid memory of Damian's smile, the desperate need to live so as not to leave him alone and to protect those he loved...

these thoughts pulsed in his agonizing mind, a dying flame of hope that refused to go out...

Dick writhed, choking on his own blood, his eyes wide with terror and the deepest agony.

Bruce knelt over him, his eyes fixed and troubled, without a hint of remorse, only a growing satisfaction, he smiled, almost an ecstasy

There was no longer his father's friend, only a monster.

The knife shone once more, a macabre flash in the lightning, the harbinger of death.

Dick felt the cold, sharp edge on his throat.

A last, muffled scream escaped his lips, a silent, desperate plea for life, as the blade cut his throat with chilling brutality, a final, fatal tear...

Silence filled the alley, broken only by the sound of the incessant dripping of blood and the relentless rain…. Dick convulsed one last time, his body shaking in uncontrollable spasms as the life drained from him, drop by painful drop. 

His eyes, once full of life and hope, fixed on the dark, rainy sky, the image of his loved ones fading into the thick fog of death….

 “D-Dad….” was the last word he said before choking on blood.

Blood gushed out, forming a vibrant red pool that spread into the pool of cold water around his inert body, the warmth of life dissipating into the cold of the night….

Bruce watched it all with an unbalanced smile spreading across his maniacal face, an expression of pure and undisguised delight.

He let out a laugh that started low, almost a hiss of pleasure, and grew into a hysterical, guttural laugh, a cruel sound devoid of any humanity.

It was a laugh of triumph, an ode to his own madness and the suffering he so longed to inflict. 

He laughed and laughed, the sound lost in the storm, until his voice was nothing more than a macabre echo of the tragedy he had wrought. 

The sound of a man who had finally found what the universe had seemed to be hiding from him since the day he was born. 

The sound of a man who finally seemed to have begun to feel life…

Darkness and rain continued to fall on the alley, now even colder and emptier, silent witnesses to a ruined birthday

of a life brutally cut short and the terrible rise of a limitless darkness…

Bruce got into the car laughing, taking the knife with him, and leaving Dick's now dead body behind.

he finally got it

finally got revenge

finally felt alive!

now it would happen

now John would be…. 

just like him…

The box finally gave way with a muffled crack, dragging itself a few inches across the sodden floor of the party room. 

A metallic creak cut through the silence—low, contained, like a mechanical hiccup. 

And then, it emerged.

Puppet 

She followed the signal emitted by the wristband

Its movements were slow, almost hesitant, as if every internal wire, every gear, was alerting it to what was outside. But it already knew. Even before leaving the room, even before seeing…

It already felt.

It opened the door to the alley

The rain outside roared, a cold and cruel curtain that punished the city. 

Puppet crossed the threshold of the door as if invading a nightmare. 

As soon as its feet touched the wet concrete of the alley, a horrible hiss echoed from within it. 

The water invaded its interior with the subtlety of a blade

corroding

burning

slowly killing.

“Gears… failing…”
The voice that escaped was only an electronic whisper, a distorted recording of pain.

But she didn’t stop.

Each step was an ordeal. Her body bent over, the glow of her lights flickering erratically. 

One of her arms lost its strength and fell, dangling uselessly at her side. Her right leg dragged. 

Her entire body shook, swaying, as if the world were collapsing along with her.

And it was.

The alley smelled of rust and blood. And there, lying in the thick mud and puddles, was he….

Dick

His small, broken body lay silently. The rain washed away the blood that ran from his slit throat, but it could not wash away the horror that hung there. 

His open, still eyes still reflected the sky.

 They were still searching for something. 

Someone….

Puppet fell to her knees.

Her leg gave out.

A crack.

 Then silence.

She crawled. 

There was no more logic. 

There was no more mission. 

Only the irrational urge to be with him.

To hold him one last time. 

Even if he didn't respond. 

Even if he was already cold.

Puppet's arms wrapped around him as best they could. 

Stiff, trembling, but protective. Dick's body made strange noises, like breathless sighs. 

She pressed him against her cracked chest, and there, for an instant, everything stopped….

The rain grew distant.

The world grew quiet.

And then… it happened.

It was subtle.

A faint, pale blue glow appeared in the center of the Puppet’s chest. 

The lights on her face flickered off and then on again, once, twice, until her eyes locked again…

But they weren’t hers anymore.

Those irises…

Blue

Clear

A Human glow.

Dick's eyes.

There was no sound.

 There was no heavenly light, no scream of terror. 

Only the silence of reunion. 

The rain fell like a veil, thin, now almost respectful. 

And the Puppet—no longer just the Puppet—slowly raised her face, her eyes now shining with silent recognition.

Dick did not cry.

But if he had been in his body, he would have cried….

Because something inside him still hurt.

He looked at his own distorted reflection in a puddle next to the corpse that had once been his. 

The blood mixed with the water painted the street like a memory that could never be washed away. 

And even without a mouth, even without a real voice, he wanted to scream.

But he only pressed his own body—his new body—against the one he had been. 

He hugged himself. 

As if, for a moment, he could still return. As if the warmth of death was not definitive.

No explanation. 

No logic. 

Just the soul of a child who did not want to die… 

but who refused to disappear.

The Puppet was no longer there.

And Dick…

Dick was still there….

Chapter Text

The party was already past its peak

The colored lights flashed in an uneven rhythm, now seeming more aggressive than festive, and the cheerful music echoing through the speakers sounded strangely out of place in John's heart.

He crossed the room with hurried steps, scanning the crowd of children and teenagers with his eyes, but without finding the face he was looking for

His heart beat faster with each passing second — it wasn't just a common father's concern; it was the kind of anguish that was born of instinct

Something was wrong...

"Dick?" he called for the third time, his voice already hoarse. "Son?"

Nothing.

No answer.

John walked to the souvenir table, then to the counter where the two animatronics performed in an automatic loop.

The whole place seemed to be going on as normal — and that was the problem.

Everything was too normal...

He tried to hide his nervousness when he spotted a small group near the arcade: 

Wally, Conner and Donna. 

They were talking animatedly among themselves, as if nothing in the world had happened. 

The relaxed posture, the forced smiles, Wally's laughter — everything about their attitude seemed... too clean... 

John approached. 

"Hey boys, sorry to bother you but have you seen Dick around here?" 

Wally turned around with the rehearsed speed of an actor. 

"Um... Dick? I think he was... in the bathroom, maybe? It's been a while." 

Conner shrugged, avoiding looking John directly in the eyes. 

"We haven't seen him since the rain started," Donna said, feigning concern with cruel skill. “Maybe he went looking for you, Mr. Grayson…”

John frowned

The rain outside continued, hammering the windows furiously

And Dick… Dick would never leave without saying something.

Not him

Not on his own birthday….

He walked to the back entrance of the hall. 

The emergency door was ajar, letting in a cold, damp wind, bringing with it the heavy smell of the storm—and something else. Something that made John’s stomach churn. 

The alleyway was plunged in shadow. 

The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed like dying insects. 

Each step he took was more hesitant, as if the air were getting thicker, harder to breathe.

“Dick?” he called again, his voice shaking.

He then turned into the alley, swaying slowly in the wind.

The darkness outside was broken only by the occasional flash of lightning.

And then—he saw it…

On the wet, rain-soaked ground, lit only by fleeting glimpses of the sky, lay a body. 

Tiny. 

Fragile. 

Inert. 

“No…” John whispered, but the whisper soon turned into a primal scream of denial. “DICK!” 

He ran to the body, his feet splashing through the dirty water that had already mixed with the bright red of blood. 

Dick was lying on his side, his face partially turned upward, his eyes half-open, dull. 

His soaked clothes stuck to his tiny body, bloodstains already darkening under the incessant rain. 

His lips were half-open as if still trying to say something. 

As if the last scream still echoed, lost in the night.

Beside him, kneeling, was the imposing and sad figure of the Puppet, her long, thin arms wrapped around the boy's body as if in an attempt to protect him... 

or perhaps to not leave him alone....

John fell to his knees beside the body.

His hands went to his son's neck, almost by reflex - but they were cold.

Stiff.

His chest was still.

His mouth was half open.

His eyes...

His eyes were still open.

Staring into nothingness.

John choked.

A violent sob tore from his throat, as if he were the one who had been hurt.

"No... no, no, no... Dick, please... please...!"

He pulled the body against him tightly,

ignoring the blood, ignoring the weight of death...

His hands trembled, desperate, pressing the boy against his chest, as if there was still a chance to warm him.

As if love were enough.

As if he could give him back his life by force.

“Listen to me, please… it’s okay, I’m here now, daddy’s here, it’s okay, everything will be okay, son, please… please…!”

But there was no more heartbeat.

There was no more response.

The only thing he could feel was the blood running down, still warm enough to lie there for a few seconds, until it cooled down completely — like everything else there…

John screamed

He screamed.

A raw, hurt, inconsolable scream that was lost in the thunder.

He buried his face in Dick's wet hair, rocking his body from side to side as if he were rocking a baby.

The alley smelled now of iron, rain and dead flesh.

Dick's eyes were still open, and John closed them with trembling fingers, kissing his forehead, repeatedly, between whispers and sobs.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, my son… I should have protected you… I should have taken you with me at that time… you don’t deserve this… you shouldn’t… leave so soon…”

And then he cried.

He cried like he had never cried before.

Not as a man, but as a father who had lost everything….

A man broken inside, consumed by pain, helpless in the face of the most brutal injustice the world could offer….

As Dick’s body lay still in his arms, Puppet watched him in silence with still and mysteriously different eyes, the world simply went on.

The rain fell.

The lights of the party continued to flicker.

And John, alone in the alley, with his knees sunk in the mud, knew that nothing would ever be the same again….

The door opened slowly.

It was late. 

So late that the darkness itself seemed to have already settled inside the house, nestled in the corners of the ceiling, resting on the furniture, asleep in the hallways. 

There was no sound. 

No footsteps, no voices. 

Not even the sound of the clock in the living room.

Everything was asleep.

And Bruce entered smiling.

The soft click of the doorknob echoed like a muffled sigh. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and crossed the threshold without turning on any lights. 

The heat of the night still crept along the walls, but he didn’t feel it

his blood-damp skin was beginning to cool, sticking to the fabric of his suit as if it wanted to melt into it.

That outfit

always so impeccable, so predictable

was now unrecognizable. 

The black of the fabric was soaked in large spots, where blood had run in jets. 

Greasy stains on the cuffs, splattered on the collar, dripped down to the hem of his pants. 

There was even blood on his shoes.

Bruce took a deep breath.

The smell followed him. It wasn't just the iron of dried blood. 

It was the smell of night, of fear, of the end. 

It was the smell of power.

He walked through the dark hallways with an almost choreographed calm. 

The wooden floor beneath his feet seemed to creak just for him, whispering memories of the last hour. In the living room, the switched-off television reflected his silhouette briefly as he passed. 

Cassandra's forgotten toys lay in a corner, as if they had been left there in an innocent hurry.

He smiled again. 

His eyes half-closed, filled with silent pleasure. 

There was no need to rush. 

No one would wake him. 

 He climbed the stairs slowly, without making a sound, and made his way to the upstairs bathroom.

 The mirror greeted him with the image of an unrecognizable man

the suit soaked, the tie loose, the face with a faint red splash on his chin, the shadow of a smile on his lips. 

His hair was messy, his eyes alight. 

Alive.

He carefully removed his jacket, as if he were taking off a second skin. His broad shoulders emerged stained with blood beneath the white shirt that was now almost completely red. 

Button by button, he calmly unbuttoned the shirt, revealing the clean skin beneath

the only part of him that had not yet been touched by blood.

He undressed completely. 

His pants slid to the floor next to his shoes. 

He was not wearing underwear.

He remained naked for a few moments, staring at the mirror.

Then he left.

Without a towel.

He walked through the house like that

naked

 the dried blood still stuck to parts of his arms and thighs. 

Like a predator returning to his cave.

He followed the side hallway and went down the smaller steps to the detached garage at the back of the house. 

The space was shrouded in shadows and the smell of metal. 

There, he had set up a sort of laboratory

a private workshop where he worked on the animatronic parts when he wasn't at the pizzeria. 

It was a place forbidden to children.

He turned on the light on the countertop

a yellowish light hanging from a crooked cord that flickered like a candle flame. 

He picked up a thick, transparent, industrial-style plastic bag that he kept in a box under the counter. 

He placed it carefully on the top. And then, as if handling a relic, he began to fold the suit. 

He didn’t wrinkle it. 

He didn’t throw it away carelessly. 

First the jacket. 

Folded in three parts, the shoulders aligned. 

Then the shirt, whose buttons were stained red.

 Finally the pants, carefully laid out and folded on top of the other clothes. 

The smell of blood soaked into the clothes was strong, dense—and he didn’t look away. 

He inhaled it like someone breathing in the scent of a rare flower….

And then, the knife.

It was there, on the counter beside it. 

It wasn't big. 

It wasn't flashy. 

It was a kitchen knife, the kind that no one pays attention to. 

But it now carried a weight that no weapon ever had. 

Bruce picked it up with his fingertips, as if afraid to further stain the metal already stained with blood.

He turned the blade in the yellow light. 

He could still see a tiny speck of blue

perhaps from Dick’s shirt. 

Or perhaps he was imagining it. Carefully, he placed the knife on the folded cloth. 

Right on top, like a signature. 

He closed the bag. 

He didn’t tie it—he just folded the edge in. It was his trophy. 

And like every trophy, it needed an altar.

He knelt down in front of the metal nightstand in the corner of the garage. 

His hands reached for the third drawer, where he used to keep old tools, the ones he no longer used but didn't want to throw away. 

He took out an old blowtorch, grease-stained rags, rusty screws.

He placed the bag inside, at the bottom, with an almost reverent gesture.

And covered it carefully.

He closed the drawer slowly. 

The creak of metal sounded like the end of a ritual.

When he returned to the bathroom, he took a long shower. 

The hot water ran down his body like a balm. 

With each drop that washed away the dried blood, Bruce felt lighter, cleaner—not from guilt, but from heaviness.

As if he had removed something that had been eating away at him for years.

As if he had done something that would complete him.

He soaped himself slowly, washing his arms, chest, neck, face.

He closed his eyes.

The water ran red for the first few minutes

then it became clear.

And when everything was clean, he turned off the shower, dried himself with a white towel that was stained at some edges, put on his usual pajamas, a simple gray T-shirt with black pajama pants, and then went out.

The room was dark. 

The window let in a little moonlight.

Talia was fast asleep in bed 

her body turned to the opposite side, her hair falling down the pillow.

Bruce approached silently. 

He looked at her for a moment. 

For an instant, he almost reached out to touch her hair. 

But he didn't. 

He lay down next to her. 

He closed his eyes. 

And smiled.

It was a small smile, almost invisible. 

But genuine.

A smile of someone who finally felt whole.

While the rest of the house slept in ignorance, Bruce slept in peace.

Because that night… he had done exactly what he wanted.

And nothing—no one—would ever find out.

that he had killed Dick Grayson…

The sun had already begun to rise when the house finally seemed to wake up.

The light entered through the windows in soft beams, crossing the morning air with an almost cruel delicacy

as if it didn't know what had happened, as if nothing was wrong.

The house was quiet, still silent, but now the silence was different.

It wasn't the stillness of someone sleeping.

It was the silence of something suspended in the air, about to fall.

In the kitchen, the clock read 6:42.

Talia woke up first.

She opened her eyes slowly, without knowing why.

She was lying on her side, her hair still stuck to her face, and she felt a strange cold in her stomach.

There were no sounds coming from the hallway, which should have calmed her down... but it didn't.

She turned slowly in bed. 

Bruce was beside her. 

He was fast asleep. 

His face was serene, his body still covered by the sheet up to his waist. 

He was breathing slowly and heavily, as if nothing could touch him. 

But there was something strange. The smell. 

It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. A metallic, rusty trace in the air, something that clung to her nostrils like a buried memory. 

Talia wrinkled her nose, got up from the bed carefully, and walked to the bathroom. 

The used towel was lying on the floor, damp, with pale stains that looked like… rust?

In the distance, he heard something

from the next room, a muffled scream cut through the silence of the house.

Inside, Damian was waking up.

The child had woken up with a start, panting, his body drenched in cold sweat.

He was sitting up in bed, hugging the pillow, his eyes sunken and wide.

He couldn't understand.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor, his eyes fixed on nothing.

He had woken up with his heart pounding and his eyes wet with tears.

A dream.

No

not a dream.

A nightmare.

He barely remembered the details.

But there was blood.

And a party.

And a frightening laugh...

And at the end, a shadow rising over a small body on the floor.

He saw no faces.

He heard no names.

But he felt, with every fiber of his little body, that this did not seem to be a dream…

Talia left the bathroom and crossed the hallway to the garage, guided by something irrational

a restlessness that was rising like a tide inside her.

She crossed the hallway slowly, stopping in front of Damian's bedroom door.

She thought about knocking, but something stopped her.

Maybe it was the way the silence inside seemed too dense.

She decided to leave him alone.

He hugged his knees tighter and bit his lip to keep from crying.

He didn't want Jason to hear.

He didn't want to seem weak.

But there was a hole inside him.

Like someone had ripped something out of the world….

In the next room, Jason yawned and rolled his eyes, already irritated with the morning before he even got up.

But as he passed through the hallway, he noticed Damian on the edge of the bed, motionless.

It bothered him—not because he cared, of course.

It was just… strange.

The brat wasn’t usually this quiet.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he muttered, walking past.

Damian didn’t answer.

Jason frowned and walked on, feeling a little uncomfortable, not understanding why…

Further on, Cassandra was dragging her feet down the hallway, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. 

She stopped when she saw Talia standing in front of the living room window, as if she was waiting for something…

The girl pulled the bear against her chest and whispered:

“Mommy? Is everything okay?”

Talia turned around, gently.

She smiled.

“Yes, my flower…” she said, but her voice was weak.

Cassandra hesitated, as if she didn’t believe it, but nodded and ran to the kitchen.

The sound of the kettle starting to heat up filled the silence.

A faint smell of toasted bread began to come from the toaster

Talia was finishing putting on an apron over her clothes when the landline in the living room started to ring. 

She walked over to the phone, still adjusting the collar of her apron, and answered it. 

“Hello?” There was silence on the other end of the line. 

A sigh. 

And then, John’s voice, hoarse, heavy, broken… 

“Talia… it’s John…” 

She straightened up a little, feeling goosebumps run down her arms. 

“John? Is everything okay?” More silence. 

Then, a soft, muffled sob.

“It’s about Dick…” he began, and then the silence returned, heavy, suffocating.

Tália felt the world around her slow down.

“What’s wrong with Dick?” she insisted, already clutching the phone tighter than she realized. “Is he hurt?”

“He…” John took a deep breath. It was as if he was still trying to believe the words he was about to say. “He’s dead, Talia…”

She froze.

The next few seconds were empty, as if reality had retreated from the room.

Only the sound of the wall clock insisted on continuing to tick.

“What…?”

“They found his body last night, behind the pizza place.” John’s voice was shaking now, the weight of the sentence seeming to bury each word. “I-I… I was the one who found him. I… I found my son. He was with… with Puppet. All wet. Like… like she was trying to protect him even after…”

He couldn't finish.

A muffled sob escaped, followed by a gasp of breath.

Tália clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, her face turning pale.

But she didn't cry.

Not yet.

“John…” he mumbled, trying to contain his own collapse. “Are… are you home?”

“I am. With the police. They don’t know who did it yet… but they know how it happened, it seems… that someone locked him out, he was trying to get into the party… and no one would let him. He was trapped outside. Alone. In the rain…”

Talia closed her eyes. 

The image was horrible. 

And so easy to imagine. 

Little Dick, with his gentle smile, trying to fit into a world that always seemed too cruel to him. 

“You… shouldn’t be alone right now, John,” she said, her voice choked but firm. “Do you want me to come over? Or ask Bruce to come over?”

“No, no… Not now. I just… I needed to tell you. He really liked Damian. And… I thought you guys needed to know before everyone else… not that the guests haven’t already spread the word…”

“Thank you for that,” she took a deep breath. “I… need to tell him now. But, John… listen… you’re not alone…”

On the other end of the line, John was crying. Silent, without the strength to say anything else.

Talia hung up

She stood there for a moment, staring at the emptiness of the kitchen, the cold light of dawn invading the space with a quiet sadness.

She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes before any tears could fall — not out of pride, but because she knew it wasn't time to break down yet.

She slowly climbed the stairs and went to Damian's room.

The door was ajar

She walked in and sat on the edge of the bed, gently running her hand over her son's forehead…

"Mommy…?"

“Damian… I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice calm but choked. “And I want you to listen carefully….okay?”

The boy nodded, his green eyes fixed on her, so fragile, so small in the face of the tragedy about to be revealed.

“Yesterday… something really bad happened. With Dick.”

Damian stopped

“What?!? What happened?!? I-Is he okay? Right?”

She paused, as if each word required an immense effort.

“Honey… He… had an accident. And… he’s not with us anymore.”

Silence.

Damian blinked.

His face slowly lost its neutral expression.

“What? No… no, Mom. He… not him! I talked to him yesterday! He promised me we would go to the ice cream shop on the weekend… He promised…”

“I know, my love… I know…”

“He promised!” he cried suddenly, his voice cracking with despair. “He can’t be gone! He… he can’t… he can’t go without saying goodbye!”

Talia tried to hug him, but he pulled away, his eyes flooded, his face red and contorted from crying.

“Mom…please…I need you to leave…”

Tália paused for a minute

“Honey…”

“I need to be alone” he replied “please…leave”

“Damian-“

“GET OUT!”

Before Talia had a chance to respond, Damian led her out in a hurry.

He then locked the door with a snap, leaving his mother helplessly outside…

“Damian, my love… please open the door.” Her voice was soft, but trembling.

Inside, Damian slid to the floor, his back to the door, sobbing with all his body, as if the world had collapsed all at once.

His knees were drawn up against his chest, his eyes hidden between his arms.

The tears flowed incessantly, soaking his pajamas, the carpet, everything.

“Why…?” he whispered between sobs. “Why did he…?”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The weight was too great for his small words.

At that moment, he just wanted to disappear. Go back in time. Wake up again. Or sleep forever and meet Dick again in the world of dreams.

But reality was cruel.

And now, for the first time, he understood what it was like to lose someone you truly loved.…

Chapter Text

Seven months.

That was the time that separated John from the last moment he heard Dick's laughter echoing through the hallways of the pizzeria.

Seven months since the world lost some of its color, since time began to pass in a shapeless way 

slowly, silently, as if the universe itself was in mourning…

The workshop was no longer the same

Once lively and full of laughter and ideas spoken aloud, it was now a quiet, almost sacred place. The light that came through the windows was duller with dust, the drawings on the drawing boards were unfinished, and the radio, which used to play lively music while John welded and calibrated mechanisms, had been turned off for months.

In the center of the room, kneeling on the floor next to a disassembled animatronic, John carefully tightened the screws on the joint of a metal arm. 

His hands were still steady, but his shoulders were hunched. 

Grief had carved deeper wrinkles into his face, and the cheerful glow in his eyes had been replaced by a gentle, constant sadness. 

He still worked, every day. 

But it was no longer out of the excitement of creation. 

It was out of necessity. 

Out of inertia. 

His face was illuminated only by the yellow light of the tool bench. 

In front of him, a Puppet redesign project was pinned to a bulletin board, with notes he no longer had the courage to review.

A soft click at the door made him look up.

One of the internal maintenance technicians walked in, visibly uncomfortable, with a clipboard in his hands.

“Mr. Grayson? Sorry to interrupt, but… it’s happening again…”

John slowly set the screwdriver down on the table.

“Puppet?”

The technician nodded, trying not to look scared.

“He doesn’t… he doesn’t respond to commands anymore. When we try to put him in sleep mode, he ignores us. He keeps walking in circles, staring at the wall. And he’s been talking… incoherently. As if he can’t hear us. As if he’s… somewhere else…”

John sighed and ran his hands over his face.

“What about the reset system?”

“We’ve tried it three times. It restarts, but comes back the same way. It’s not a simple technical problem… it seems like it’s… confused…”

He didn't answer right away. 

He just nodded and gestured for the boy to leave. 

Alone again, John leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on nothing. 

This wasn't the first time. 

The Puppet had been acting strangely since the day of the... event. 

The animatronic had been through the rain to the point that it had damaged the system to a level that not even John could fix. 

And, although the tests didn't point to any clear failures, there was something about him that simply... 

had changed. 

A kind of silent awareness, something that defied the logic of programming... 

But John wasn't the type to be carried away by mystical explanations. 

Or, at least, he wasn't...

Still, a part of him 

the same part that dreamed every night of Dick's cold little body in the puppet's arms 

was beginning to suspect that there was more to this machine than gears… 

"I have to do something to fix this," he muttered to himself. 

It was then that the door creaked open louder. 

"Can I come in?"

It was Bruce

He wore his usual dark suit, neat and impeccable

The same calm air as always, although his eyes

always cold and calculating

now showed a discreet concern, as if he were measuring each word before saying it.

John nodded, taking off his grease-stained gloves and setting them aside.

“Sure.”

Bruce walked in and looked at the scattered blueprints, the dismantled animatronics, the heavy atmosphere.

John nodded, taking off his grease-stained gloves and setting them aside.

“Sure.”

Bruce walked in and looked at the scattered blueprints, the dismantled animatronics, the heavy atmosphere.

"The workshop is... different."

John gave a weak smile.

"Everything is different, Bruce..."

Silence fell between them.

There was no animosity.

But there was no camaraderie either.

There was only sadness, hovering between the unspoken words.

Bruce walked over to a workbench and rested his hands on it.

“They say the Puppet is having problems again.”

“It is. It no longer obeys commands. It ignores the team. It stands still, silent… or it moves out of the box on its own, without logic.”

Bruce walked over to a workbench and rested his hands on it.

“Any system failure?”

“No. I tested everything. Circuits, connectors, the control network… nothing. Technically, it’s working. But it’s not responding.”

“It could be emotional.”

John raised an eyebrow, surprised by that sentence coming from Bruce.

“An animatronic has no emotions.”

“Sometimes, we both know that there are things that go beyond logic…..Maybe it’s time to… give him a new start.”

John was silent. Then he looked down.

“I was thinking about that…The new restaurant will open in a few months next year. I can send her with the new animatronics. Maybe…in a new place, she can “reprogram” herself on her own…”

“Do you want to send the animatronic along with the new Freddy, Chica, and also Bonnie and Foxy?”

“Yes. They are all almost ready.”

Bruce nodded.

“I think it’s a good idea. Not to mention it will be good for her. And for you too…”

John didn't answer. He just stared at the clipboard with Dick's old drawings, where the boy had scribbled cute versions of the characters with colored pencils. He ran his fingers over the lines erased by time, as if he wanted to touch him one last time.

“I don't know if it'll ever be good for me again, Bruce…”

Great, that's what Bruce wanted…

But he didn't answer. He limited himself to a slight nod, respecting the silence.

“I just… I was his favorite animatronic… saying goodbye to him feels like I'm saying goodbye to him too… and… I just don't want anyone else… to go through this,” John finished, his voice breaking.

Bruce lightly touched his shoulder.

“Then let’s make sure this new phase of the franchise…this new restaurant…is safer. And more controlled…”

John nodded slowly.

“It’s the least we can do.”

As Bruce left the room, John was alone once more.

His eyes drifted to the back of the workshop, where the Puppet, now covered in a cotton sheet, had been sitting motionless for days.

Still…he was sure she was watching him.

Or rather, that someone was watching him from there…..

John sat down, rubbing his face with his hands.

The weight on his shoulders seemed to double.

But, deep down, he had made the right decision.

Puppet needed to go.

Because, maybe… just maybe… there was still something of Dick's trauma in her…. And he couldn't leave him trapped there forever….

The change of routine, of place, must be good for puppet….

The front door closed with a soft click, muffled by the soft sound of laughter coming from the living room. 

Bruce hung his blazer on the hanger and took a deep breath. 

That house… once so oppressive, silent, unbearable with its constant shadow of mourning, now finally seemed bearable. 

This was the first time in a long time that he truly felt at home. 

Not like before, no. 

Now everything was silent. 

Real silence. 

He walked through the hallways with light steps. 

He smiled with his lips and his eyes. 

And inside his chest there was something that burned sweetly. It was pleasure. 

It was power. 

It was peace.

“Seven months,” he thought. “Seven months since the world got rid of that annoying brat.”

There was no remorse.

There was no doubt.

Just a strangely pure feeling, as if he had finally washed his soul in blood.

In the living room, Cassandra was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on the couch, smiling when she saw him arrive.

“DADDY!” she exclaimed, standing up quickly.

She ran to him and hugged him tightly.

“Wow, you look so good!”

Bruce laughed. A short, light, almost fatherly laugh.

“Yeah, Cassie… I think things are finally in place.”

She looked at him fondly.

Ever since he had started acting more cheerful

showing up more at meals, talking more, even complimenting her drawings

Cassandra had blossomed

It seemed that overnight the world had made room for Bruce to grow.

And Bruce, in turn, seemed to see only her now.

She was the daughter he wanted... 

Beautiful

Intelligent

Obedient. 

The only one who perhaps truly deserved to be loved in that place

“Are you going to stay home longer today?” she asked excitedly.

“Maybe, princess. I need to review some reports, but then I’ll stop by your room to read that new book you mentioned, okay?”

Cassandra nodded happily, then ran back to the couch.

Bruce went to the kitchen, where he found Talia, making tea once more.

She didn't smile when she saw him.

"You're early..." she said, not taking her eyes off the kettle.

“Early?” He arched an eyebrow. “It’s almost eight o’clock.” 

She turned around, crossing her arms slowly.

 “Yeah. But that was the earliest you could get here, by the way, you’ve been… present… In a weird way…” 

Bruce smiled.

“Isn’t that what you wanted? A father who was more present in the family?”

“Yeah… you’re right.” She took the cup and turned her back. But her gaze remained cold, fixed on the wall for a few seconds.

“I’m happy, my project is finally getting back on track..” he said, smiling. “John finally made the right decision. We’re going to send Puppet to the new restaurant that should open in 84.”

The sentence made Talia raise an eyebrow.

“It’s funny that you’re happy to convince John to send Puppet away,” she said. “You know that animatronic means a lot to him… especially after… the incident…”

Bruce remained silent. He just watched his wife, studying her every little gesture.

She was starting to smell something….

But it was still early….

Bruce approached, put his arm around her and kissed her on the forehead.

A gentle gesture.

But cold.

Soulless….

“I thought you would like to see me happy, Talia…” he said, with a calm that was too sweet. “Seven months ago you saw me so down. I just want to get out of this…” 

She turned with the cup in her hands, leaning against the sink. 

Her eyes looked at him steadily, but not hostilely. 

It was almost tenderness… 

but with a spark of doubt…

“Get out of this, Bruce? Our son’s best friend died. You don’t talk about it. You don’t cry over the death of a child you knew, an innocent child. Come on, will you at least try to console John for his loss?” 

Bruce shrugged lightly, as if erasing a chalkboard.

 “Grief needs to have an expiration date. Or it becomes a leash. It’s been 7 months. It’s time for John to get over it.”

Talia grunted

“I wanted to see if that would be your opinion if one of our children were in Dick’s place.”

“I would probably still have the same opinion,” he wanted to say

But he decided to keep quiet.

Talia smiled.

A pale smile.

An almost involuntary gesture.

As if her body was smiling out of habit…

but her soul was screaming in silence…

Upstairs, right in Damian's room

The door was ajar.

The dim light from the lamp cast long shadows on the walls, and the room was absurdly clean, too tidy.

Damian was sitting on the floor, drawing in silence.

The pages were covered in dark scribbles—big eyes, sad faces, and a black wooden puppet with red lines that always appeared in the corners.

The Puppet

And Dick

Longing was a ghost that lived with him….

In his room

in his head

in his chest…

Sometimes he still woke up at night crying, but he swallowed it all so as not to worry his mother.

In the last few months, he had become more polite. 

More obedient. 

More… quiet. 

“Damian?” called Talia from the hallway. 

He put down his pencil and sat on the bed, straightening his posture. 

“Come in, Mommy” 

She looked at him with affection mixed with concern. 

His face was pale, his eyes sunken. 

The boy slept badly. 

His dreams were even worse…

“You didn’t tell me how school was…”

“It was good…” he replied, forcing a weak smile.

“Did you make any new friends?”

Damian shook his head.

He picked up one of the drawings and folded it slowly…

“I don’t want new friends. Not now….”

Tália approached, sat down next to him and ran her hand through her son’s hair.

“You still think about him a lot, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “Sometimes… when I close my eyes… I hear his laugh…. But I also hear a scream. A sound… as if something had been broken forever….”

She hugged him.

Damian rested his face on his mother’s shoulder.

“I miss him so much, mom. And I still… I still can’t understand why….”

“Because you’re human, my love, a human with feelings…” Talia whispered. “But you’re not alone. Never… I’ll always be here with you…”

She kissed him on the forehead, holding back her tears….

And in the back of the house, Bruce laughed at something Cassandra said, his voice echoing lightly, happily….

Too happy….

Damian heard her.

And even without knowing why, he felt something cold run up his back.

Something he couldn't name….

But it hurt….

There was something wrong in that house…

And Talia was going to find out what it was….

Fazbear's Workshop

It was early morning

The metallic sound of the hooks clashing against the rails sounded like a muffled moan in that silent workshop…

The sun was already rising slowly beyond the dirty glass of the window, casting patches of orange and red on the chalk-scratched walls, where old calculations and sketches of animatronics were still scribbled in charcoal.

Dust floated in the air, golden, like small ashes suspended in time.

John was there.

Alone…

With his bandaged hands, dirty with grease and solder, he was finishing fitting the metal frame of one of the transport boxes.

His face was marked by deep dark circles, stubble stained his chin, and his eyes, once always full of warmth and curiosity, were now opaque.

Without light.

Like broken glass

He hadn't said anything for hours.

Silence filled everything like a second skin

At his feet, scattered tools, loose screws, pieces of synthetic fabric…

On the bench next to him, a cup of coffee that had been cold for two days.

Nothing there suggested life

except the figure standing in the corner of the shed.

The Puppet.

Tall.

Thin.

Elegant.

The same black and white harlequin paint job.

The porcelain face with purple streaks running from the eye sockets.

The same figure as always

but something had changed.

Something invisible.

Dense.

Painful.

John looked towards the animatronic, and his eyes filled with an almost infinite tiredness. 

It wasn't just physical. 

It was the weight of grief piled on top of seven months of silence, of nightmares with children's laughter, of voices that no longer responded when he called for them. 

"You were his favorite..." he murmured, his voice breaking. "I never really understood why, you know? I thought he preferred Freddy, he said you were different. That you... felt people's feelings... knew how to protect people when necessary..."

He walked slowly through the workshop, passing the boxes where the new animatronics were already packed with red ribbons and official tags of the new unit. 

Freddy was there, impeccable. 

His new hat was shiny, his body clean, without scratches. 

Painted a new color of brown. 

The microphone was carefully fitted in his right hand. 

A tag on his chest:

 “FREDDY FAZBEAR – MODEL 2-A – UNIT 007”.

Bonnie

was holding her guitar with synthetic leather clasps.

The blue paintwork shone in the late afternoon light.

Her eyes were dull

but there was a strange calm in her face.

Almost serene…

Chica

with her “LET’S EAT!!!” bib still as white as paper.

Her hands clasped over her belly, a cupcake still wrapped in plastic strapped to the tray.

And finally

Foxy

in his own isolated box

his eyepatch partially lowered

his hook wrapped in safety foam.

His smile seemed frozen in the middle of a scream

John ran his hand along the outline of the boxes.

The new animatronics were perfect.

Cold.

No past.

No soul.

No trauma…

Unlike the Puppet….

She wasn’t wrapped up yet. She was still standing, as if waiting.

As if she was aware…

Her head was slightly tilted, her long, thin hands resting at her sides.

Her dark eyes, with that deep blue reflection, stared at John in a way that almost seemed human.

“I should have fought for you to stay…” he confessed, standing in front of her. “But I can’t stand looking at you anymore… and seeing him…”

A thick silence settled in. Outside, the sound of a truck starting its engine.

The sun was slowly rising, but the world seemed to darken with it…

“I built you with my hands, you know? Every wire, every servo, every circuit. You were my masterpiece. And it was with you that he smiled for the last time…”

John lowered his head.

He closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t talk about…about the incident…”

A tear ran down his dirty face, mixing with the soot on his skin.

He approached slowly and, for the last time, hugged the animatronic.

Cold.

Silent.

But… there was something there. A presence.

A barely perceptible warmth in the metal.

“Take care. And… if by some miracle…” he hesitated, swallowing hard “if by some miracle you’re still there…aware…know that I’m sorry…. I’m sorry you had to see that scene…I see him every day too….a-and that alley…you…”

He stepped back, and for an instant, the Puppet's eyes seemed to glow brighter. 

Blue. 

Intense. 

But John blinked, and the light was gone… 

The technicians entered, opening the door to the room carefully.

“Mr. Grayson, is everything ready to load?”

John just nodded, voiceless.

They carefully fitted the Puppet, secured the locks, and labeled it with a new identity:

“PUPPET – MALE – ADVANCED MODEL – OFFICIAL TRANSFER”

The box was sealed and loaded onto the truck with the others.

John watched as the vehicle pulled away from the warehouse gate. 

Exhaust smoke drifted slowly in the warm light of the late afternoon. 

The workshop became emptier. 

Deader… 

And inside him, something was breaking again. 

Another goodbye. 

Another part of Dick he was forced to leave behind…

The metallic sound of the box being opened echoed like a forgotten whisper in a vast space.

The warehouse was cold.

The air was dry, filled with the smell of fresh paint, varnish, and electricity.

The new restaurant had not yet opened its doors.

The walls still shone with their fresh finish, and the fluorescent lights in the hallway flickered every now and then like nervous eyes.

The boxes of animatronics were stacked in a row, like soldiers about to be awakened.

One by one, they were closed, with brand-new versions of Freddy, Chica, Bonnie, and Foxy, their paint jobs impeccable, their eyes still dull, waiting for their first activation.

At the back of the warehouse, metal boxes sat silently.

They were large, heavy, with labels taped to their sides…

“Fazbear Entertainment – ​​Model Unit 1.0”

“Freddy / Bonnie / Chica / Foxy / puppet”

The Puppet box was the last one.

Tallest.

Thinnest.

Loner…

The lid had slid open with a metallic screech as two workers used levers to release it.

A cracking sound ran through the container.

Something inside moved.

Weak. 

Trembling. 

As if waking up from a dream 

or a very old nightmare... 

Then, with a sudden jerk, the Puppet came out of the box.

Her body was the same classic model from the old restaurant: 

long-limbed

with a white face with red stripes on her cheeks, purple stripes under her eyes, buttons on her chest.

But her eyes looked different now.

Empty and deep, as if something in them was searching for meaning amidst the chaos inside.

She stumbled forward.

Her joints were still stiff from transport, but her movements seemed hurried, almost anxious.

As if the puppet itself was in a hurry without realizing it.

The technicians backed away a bit, exchanging uncomfortable glances.

“Urgh, why do we have to check these things every day? They’re weird.”

“Orders from the owners, they want to make sure the animatronics are okay until the premiere in ’84, that involves a system check at least once a month.”

“Shit, are we going to have to deal with these things until ’84?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“This tall, weird guy here, did he come with the system activated?”

“It looks like it, he stood up the moment he came out of the box, but his movements are weird. He shouldn’t… act like that… like that.”

“It’s already scaring me”

“Leave it there, one of the owners said he wanted this thing to roam free for a while to get used to the environment”

“Weird…”

That was the last thing the two said before leaving, leaving puppet alone

Then he stopped in the middle of the room.

He looked around…

Slowly, his arms rose, and then he lowered them, as if testing his own body.

Then he brought one of his hands to his face.

Silence.

Then a buzzing sound.

Then fragmented memories, like shards of glass thrown to the floor and jumbled together…

“Daaamian!!!”

“You’re just in time! I have something really cool to show you. My dad gave me a present. It’s amazing!”

“What?”

“An animatronic just for me. And he’s amazing! Like...everyone’s best friend!”

"Are you sure you're okay, champ?"

“Just a little tired, Dad.”

“I'm gonna go take care of something real quick with the sound guys, okay?”

“I love you, Dad.”

“Me too, champ. So much... Happy birthday.”

“Can you still hear me in there?”

“Hey, Grayson.”

“Look... he still plays with puppets. Is that your friend now, Grayson? A wind-up animal trapped in a box?”

“Oh... how cute, Grayson and his pet trapped in a box.”

“Conner, why don’t you do the honors?”

“You stink of failure.”

“Let you go? All dirty, smelling of failure? What kind of friends would we be, huh?”

“LET GO! STOP! DAD!”

“NO! NO! DAD! DON’T DO IT! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE! P-PUPPET! SOMEONE!”

“PLEASE! OPEN UP! GET ME OUT OF HERE! DAD! SOMEONE!”

“Well, well, the lost bird…”

“Why do you have that... that knife?”

"You know, Dick, robins are fragile creatures... Easy to break, but do you know bats?..."

"DAD! PUPPET! PLEASE! HELP ME! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! PLEASE! SOMEONE! ANYONE! DAMIAN!!!"

a name came to his head… Dick?

Was it his? Was it yours?

Or… was it Puppet? Was that all he was now?

He didn't know.

All those memories danced and mixed in his head

Did he still have a head?

John, smiling with a cake.

Children running between animatronics.

Sounds of laughter, of clapping…

Those speeches…

And then… the screams….

The pain….

The confusion was unbearable.

As if he was trying to breathe, but he had no lungs.

As if he was crying, but there were no tears.

As if he was screaming

and no one could hear him…

He brought his thin hands to his face.

The cold metal….

No skin…

No warmth…

What had happened to him?

“Am I… Dick?” He thought. “Or am I… this?”

The dead boy’s mind was beating against the inner walls of the machine, trying to escape.

But the flesh was gone.

He didn’t remember things.

His heart had stopped.

And yet, the pain was there…

He stumbled to a corner.

His eyes glowed with the faint purple of synthetic life, but behind that glow was something else

a silent anguish…

He sat on the floor, knees bent, arms wrapped around himself.

His head fell.

His eyes were fixed on the floor, but he couldn't see...

"Dad... why did he put me in a box? Why did he send me here? Did I do something wrong?" He thought.

It didn't make sense.

The last thing he remembered clearly was the warmth of the workshop, John's hands, the sweet voice calling him "my son",

even when he spoke to the Puppet...he felt love coming from him

And now… 

this.

Alone. 

Abandoned.

“Did he send me away? Did he want to get rid of me?”

He moved slowly, testing his joints as if he wanted to tear that carcass off of him.

But there was no way out…

It was like an eternal nightmare

where you wake up in a body that isn't yours, with a pain that has no name, and a world that no longer recognizes you...

“W-who am...me?”

“Maybe John got tired of me…” he thought “Maybe I did something more than wrong…. Maybe… maybe I never existed?…..”

The child’s mind and the machine’s programming were in conflict.

Human emotions trying to lodge themselves in circuits that were not made to feel.

And with each passing second, the confusion grew.

He began to beat his hands on his own metal chest, weakly, as if he was trying to wake himself up from within.

“Daddy…?” Was the only thing he could mumble even with his speaker in excellent condition.

He tried to remember what happened…

But there was only darkness.

A poorly lit alley.

A man in a black suit…

Pain….

And then… nothing…

There was nothing left…of him…

The morning light filtered through the thick curtains in the room, drawing light stripes on the beige carpet.

The house was strangely calm.

Damian studied silently in his room

Jason listened to loud music with his headphones

Cassandra danced alone upstairs, as if she was the only one who didn't feel the weight of something missing in that house...

And Bruce…

Bruce was smiling.

Sitting at the kitchen table, he stirred his coffee slowly, humming an old melody, something that sounded childish, out of place.

He wore his favorite business suit,

impeccably pressed, and whistled between sips.

Joy seemed to flow through his gestures…

Talia watched him silently, sitting in front of him, with a gentle smile on her lips and the cold gaze of an eagle about to dive on its prey. 

Something was wrong. 

Very wrong…. 

Since the day Dick died, Bruce had gone through a brief mourning 

silent, controlled. 

But now, months later, he seemed lighter, more alive… 

Almost as if he had been reborn. 

And this happiness was not natural. 

Not for someone who had buried a child, the daughter of his best friend and business partner.

“Maybe… maybe he has another woman.” She thought

Maybe that’s it.

Maybe he’s cheating on Talia.

As he always cheats on everything he touches…

She didn't say anything.

She just leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek with practiced affection.

“Don't be late, okay?”

“I'll be right,” he replied, laughing lightly. “Today is going to be a productive day…”

And then she left.

Door slammed. Silence.

Talia waited ten minutes before getting up.

Firm steps.

Body straight, eyes cold.

Talia climbed the stairs slowly.

The sound of her own footsteps seemed louder than usual.

She entered the room and closed the door.

The midday sun bathed the room, making the dark wood of the floor shine.

She was alone.

The man was hiding something from her…

And she was going to find out…

She started with the drawers. 

Then the closet. 

Suit pockets. 

False bottoms in boxes. 

She tried to find something that would give away a case

notes

underwear

strange perfumes…

Nothing.

Little by little, the searches became mechanical. 

Boredom gave way to frustration, and frustration to tiredness. 

When she sat down on the edge of the bed, it was almost five in the afternoon. 

The room was turned upside down, and she had found nothing…

Talia’s gaze fell on the far wall, where a small shelf held old memories.

Among them, a pair of worn, pink slippers rested beneath a frosted glass frame.

She walked closer…

In her youth, before Bruce, before marriage, Talia had trained in ballet….

Her body had learned the language of discipline, control, and beauty.

She met Bruce at a gala, backstage at a theater in Vienna, still too young to know what he would become—what she would become….

She took the slipper off the frame with delicate fingers…

“Maybe I’m wrong…” she thought.

She touched her own shoulders, as if remembering something old…

Tália had kept those slippers since she was young.

A symbol of who she had been, before the chaos…

She bent down, picked one of them up in her hands.

She stood there for a while, just holding it.

Then she stood up with renewed energy.

“If there’s nothing here… maybe there’s something there….”

The sky was turning a deep blue as Talia walked silently across the garden to the side of the house. 

Bruce's garage-workshop looked like a cocoon of metal and concrete. 

Inside, he spent entire nights, "perfecting" the animatronics. 

The key was under the third flower pot, as always... 

The latch gave way with a metallic click. 

Talia entered.

The strong smell of grease, burnt oil and rust filled her lungs.

The yellowish light from the ceiling flickered from time to time, casting distorted shadows on the walls covered with tools, molds of mechanical faces, metal body parts and boxes stacked to the ceiling.

She felt her heart beating like it hadn't in a long time.

Fast.

Hot.

Unsteady.

The workshop seemed to be watching.

The empty eye sockets of the dismantled animatronics followed their movements.

Everything there seemed dead, and yet… too alive…

She began to rummage through.

Countertops.

Boxes.

Shelves….

Freddy's blueprints

Bonnie

Chica

Foxy.

There were animatronic molds fresh from the factory.

A giant industrial furnace

Everything in order.

Everything clean.

Everything like Bruce would do.

Meticulous.

Controlled.

Perfect…

But then 

in the background, almost invisible, camouflaged between a bench and the screw cabinet 

a dark metal nightstand, old, different from the rest. 

She approached. 

Locked…

Talia didn't hesitate. 

She opened the red box of screws in the corner of the garage, removed the false bottom she knew Bruce had... 

Then she took the key... 

The lock gave way with a dry sound. 

The rotten smell of dried blood filled the air. 

Slowly, she opened the drawer. 

There was something she hadn't expected... 

Talia thought Bruce was cheating on her... 

She expected to find some proof of her thoughts... 

But she found something worse and more frightening instead. 

It was a black plastic bag, carefully folded, sealed with duct tape. Heavy...

She pulled it out slowly.

Her fingers felt tingling.

Her heart seemed to tremble…

She opened the bag

Inside A dark suit…

the same model that Bruce always wore

but with thick, dried blood stains all over the fabric…

And next to it, wrapped in bubble wrap

a long kitchen knife, still dirty, still impregnated with traces of blood…

She fell to her knees.

Her mind was spinning.

“Oh my God… Bruce… what have you done…”

The pieces all fell into place at once.

The night Dick died.

The towel stained with blood the day after the boy’s death…

The light smile in the mornings since that day… as if life was slowly returning to Bruce…

It was him…

He killed Dick Grayson…

She stood there,

motionless,

eyes watering,

paralyzed by the truth she had just discovered…

But then…

CLACK.

The door to the workshop closed.

The light flickered.

Tália turned around in surprise.

Bruce was standing in the doorway…

He didn't smile.

He didn't say anything.

His eyes, once light, were now cold.

They watched like those of a predator who had caught his prey rummaging through the nest...

“What are you doing here, Talia?””

His voice sounded low, calm…

Like a blade passing through her skin…

She didn’t answer.

Still kneeling, with the bag in her arms, she just stared at him.

And the silence between them was so deep that you could almost hear their hearts beating…

she knew

Bruce knew.

And Bruce knew that she knew 

He kill Dick Grayson…

Chapter Text

The flickering light from the ceiling swayed above their heads, casting dancing shadows in Bruce’s eyes, which now seemed deeper, darker…

As if his humanity had faded, leaving only a reflection of who he pretended to be…

Tália was still on her knees, the plastic bag weighing down her arms like lead

The smell of dried blood was everywhere…

The knife

The suit

Everything there screamed what his mouth no longer needed to deny.

Bruce advanced slowly, his steps too silent for someone who was surrounded by sin.

“I asked you, Talia…” he repeated, his voice low, firm. “What are you doing here?”

She stared at him, and for the first time in months, she felt fear….

Real fear.

Visceral fear

“Bruce…” her voice was shaky “w-what did you do?”

The man didn’t answer.

He just stared at her…

“Y-You murdered a child…”

She struggled to her feet, as if the ground had turned hostile.

Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag tightly, as if it were her only anchor against the madness that was gathering in the center of the room.

Bruce shrugged.

Just like that.

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Murder…? Is that what you want to call it?”

“Don’t mess with me Bruce” The anger was now growing, burning “You took the life of an eight year old boy…..John’s son….The boy Damian called his friend!”

Bruce sighed. He looked around, as if he was tired of this conversation.

“I did what needed to be done Talia…”

“Needed?” Talia almost spat the word “Did you need to kill a child?”

Bruce walked slowly to the center of the workshop

Each step seemed to echo within the very madness that now overflowed from his voice…

“You don’t understand, Talia… That boy was corrupting everything… he was a virus… Gentle, delicate, friendly… but cancerous… He made John focus on stupid things. He made Damian like the same nonsense he did. Everyone… they all bowed around him, like he was a little sun… But he was no light… He was ruin… for all of us.”

Talia shook her head, taking a step back.

“That’s sick… How could you think that of a child…”

Bruce laughed.

A dry, cold sound.

His eyes glazed over…

“I could see him for what he was: an obstacle, a distraction, a burden… John was losing focus because of him. The pizzeria, the projects, the ideas… he stopped focusing on what was important. He stopped seeing. All to carry that fragile boy on his shoulders…”

“You killed him, Bruce...” Talia’s voice was now deep, almost as deep as a lament. “Worse… Did you think no one would find out? Did you think you could smile at breakfast and move on as if nothing had happened? DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU DID?!?”

Bruce didn’t blink. He just watched.

“I already told you, what I did was necessary… necessary to free us all, to free myself from all of this!”

Silence.

Tália clutched her purse to her chest.

She took a deep breath.

“I’m leaving.”

The sentence hung in the air, like a sentence.

Bruce paused for a minute.

“What?”

“I want a divorce, I’m leaving this house today! And I’m taking the kids with me!”

Bruce stood still.

Now he took a deep breath.

Just once.

Slowly.

Deeply.

And his eyes narrowed.

“No…you won’t.”

“Bruce, it’s over. We’re done. I can’t share a roof with you anymore, you’re a danger! A murderer! I’m leaving, and I’m taking Damian, Jason and Cassandra with me…. They won’t grow up in this hell you created! Never!”

“They are my children, Talia.” His voice was low, filled with restrained fury. “You will not take them anywhere!”

“They’re our children,” she replied firmly. “But they’re children. And I’m going to protect them from you!” 

Bruce laughed. 

A humorless sound, like iron breaking. 

“Protect them from me? I’m their father! I’m the pillar of this house! All of this exists only because of me!” 

“This is a prison!” she replied. “You hide behind control, behind rules, behind routines… and now, a murder…” 

“I saved our children from being contaminated by that weakness of Grayson’s useless son!” he shouted suddenly. “Did you want them to grow up like Dick would grow up? Crying for toys? Writing love letters to robots? Waking up in the middle of the night because they’re afraid of the dark?”

“Yes! Oh my God, yes!” Talia shouted back. “If it means they’ll stay children! That they have time to be fragile, sweet, human! What do you want? To turn them into machines, Bruce? Like the animatronics you mold into obedience?”

“They need to be strong.” His voice was hoarse now. An insane whisper. “They need to resist. The world will crush them if they are weak. If they have too much feeling.”

“They need love, Bruce.”

“Love…” he repeated the word as if it were poison. “Love corrupts. Love weakens. Listen, the world crushes those who have love like a sick!”

“You’re the one who’s sick, Bruce!” 

Bruce strode forward, eyes wide, jaw clenched. 

He stopped less than a meter away from her. 

And for the first time, Talia took a step back. 

“Are you threatening me?” he whispered. “Are you really going to let me… expose myself… take my children?”

 “I’m going to protect our children. From you!”

Bruce didn’t move.

“Do you really expect them to want to leave here with you?”

“Look, Cassandra may adore you…” she said, almost in lamentation. “But Jason trusts me, Damian… He needs me… I’m the only structure he has now…”

“But you Bruce….you are his fear…”

The sentence fell like a blade.

Bruce blinked.

Slowly.

And for the first time, he looked…human.

Just for a moment.

Before the shadow returned….

“You’re going to regret this, Talia.”

“Maybe,” she whispered. “But I’d rather live my life running away with our children than stay here and sink with you.”

Bruce raised his arm.

As if to reach for her.

But his hand stopped in midair.

Directionless…

The mask cracked.

And the man behind it was just madness…

The lights in the living room were on, the sound of the television filling the silence with canned laughter and vibrant Freddy cartoons. 

Three children were sitting on the floor with blankets and pillows. 

Cassandra lay down, absorbed in the television screen. 

Jason was on the couch, arms crossed and expressionless. 

Damian sat closest to the TV, a sketchbook on his lap, silently doodling the animatronics.

The door opened with a bang.

Tália came in breathless, her eyes wide, the bag clutched to her chest.

“Children…” Her voice trembled. “Grab your coats. Now. We’re going out…”

The three of them turned at the same time.

“Out where?” Cassandra asked, without taking her eyes off the screen. “I want to watch the cartoon..”

“Honey, not now,” Talia said, more firmly. “Let’s get out of this house. Now.”

Jason stood up almost immediately.

His face hardened.

“Did something happen?”

“Just do what I tell you.”

“But I want to see the cartoon!!!”

“Cassandra, get up,” Jason ordered. “Stop being dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic. I just want to see Freddy’s cartoon!”

“Now, Cassandra,” Talia said louder.

Damian was already on his feet, his eyes wide. 

He obeyed without hesitation, heading straight for the hallway. 

That was when the door behind them opened again. 

Bruce appeared. 

His presence froze the air. 

He walked in slowly, his face impassive, as if everything was perfectly under control. 

“Where are you going?”

Talia turned around, her heart beating wildly.

“I told you, we’re going away from you. I’m leaving. And they’re going with me.”

Bruce crossed his arms, his huge body blocking the exit.

“You’re not going anywhere with them.”

“Bruce…” her voice cracked “you need to listen to what you’re saying. You’re sick. You need help… And now you want to keep the kids here like nothing happened? What did you do…”

Jason then stood up

“What did he do?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at his kids.

“Nothing, now go up. All three of you. NOW!”

Cassandra hesitated.

“But Mommy said—”

“I told you to go upstairs!” Bruce shouted, with a violence that silenced the girl.

Jason clicked his tongue in irritation.

“Asshole...”

The boy stomped up the stairs.

Cassandra followed him silently, her shoulders hunched.

Damian hesitated. He looked at his mother.

“Mommy…?”

“Go, honey…” Talia whispered. “This will be over soon…”

Damian bit his lip, his eyes brimming with tears.

“But I don’t want to leave you…”

“Go, my love. Go…”

Bruce approached, like a shadow.

Damian ran away, hurrying upstairs, his sobs echoing.

As soon as the children disappeared down the hallway, Talia turned to the landline phone on the kitchen wall. 

Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear herself think. 

She dialed 911. 

Calling… 

Bruce stood still, watching. 

His head tilted slightly. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Calling the police,” she replied. “If you think I’m going to leave and then keep quiet about what you did, you’re dead wrong.”

“Are you really going to do this? Turn me in to the police?”

“Yes!” she yelled, holding the phone like a weapon. “You need to pay for what you did!”

“Talia, there’s still time for us to resolve this before things get worse for you…” His voice was strangely calm “No one needs to know…. No one needs to suffer….”

“Everyone is suffering! You destroyed everything, everything!”

The call was still ringing.

Bruce sighed

“You left me with no other choice….”

He walked over to a shelf,

picked up a dark wine bottle in his hands,

and…without hesitation,

smashed it hard against his head.

The bang was loud.

The glass exploded.

Blood ran down his forehead….

Tália screamed, backing away.

“Are you crazy!?!?”

He forced himself to fall to the ground

coughing

groaning…. 

acting.

 “AH! AH!” his blood stained the marble floor “TALIA STOP! STOP!” 

“What are you doing?!?”

“Stay away from me!”

 “What the-“ 

“PLEASE CALM DOWN TALIA!” 

The three children immediately came down at the screams, and stood watching everything through the gap in the stairs in fear.

“You can go away, Talia… just don’t resort to violence..” 

Talia then realized what he was doing. 

The phone was answered in a moment. 

“Gotham Police Station, is there a problem?” 

With a sudden movement, Bruce snatched the phone from her hand, kicking Talia’s leg in the process. She fell to the side, gasping, scared. 

“Hello, police?”

 Talia stood up, trying to take the phone from Bruce

“This is my call!” She gasped, trying to take the phone from him

Bruce just ignored her

“It’s about my wife…she’s, uh, having one of her rage episodes…and it’s starting to get really dangerous-“

“HE’S LYING!” Talia tried to call, she grabbed his shirt trying to take the phone but it was no use

She kept trying to scream to make Bruce stop talking but the man kept going

Talia was already getting desperate and losing her mind…

“H-he…is…lying…please Bruce stop…”

Tears welled up on her face without Talia noticing

But Bruce didn’t care about her suffering

“I apologize for calling you at this hour, but she is very aggressive, I think you need to come here urgently, she hit me in the head with a wine bottle, I am bleeding…”

“M-Mr. Wayne? Oh man, get away from her if you can. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“I’ll try…”

And he hung up.

Talia crawled towards him.

“You monster…what have you done?”

“I’ve changed roles,” he replied coldly, “now you’re the danger, Talia, and me? I’m just protecting my children from you.”

She cried, cowering.

“You’re not human…”

“I’m not weak like you.”

With feverish eyes, Bruce quickly snatched the bag with the suit and the knife from her hands.

Then he ran out of the kitchen.

Talia got up and ran after him to take his sack off him

But Bruce was faster

He had locked himself in the garage.

She pounded on the door, but he didn't answer

"BRUCE! OPEN THIS DOOR!"

Inside, Bruce walked to the industrial furnace in the workshop.

His eyes burned with anger and conviction

He didn't want to burn the suit and the knife

He thought the items were a reminder of the best thing he'd ever done

But they were also evidence that showed the truth about what happened in that alley on the day of Dick's murder

And he didn't risk the police finding it

He hesitated for a moment,looking at the sack containing the evidence of the murder. 

“They’ll never know.” 

He threw the sack into the furnace. 

The flames engulfed the cloth. 

The smell of burning cloth, blood, and metal filled the air.

Ashes. 

Nothing would be left of him…

Nothing…

It took less than twenty minutes for the police to arrive...

The lights of the cars bluened the sidewalk

Two police officers came down armed

Talia ran to them, desperate

But they already handcuffed her

“Mrs. Wayne, we have a call for domestic violence. You are considered a danger at this moment, you have the right to remain silent, everything you say can and will be used against you during a courtroom” 

“Please listen to me! lying! He is the danger! Let me go!” 

Then Damian ran down just to see that horror scene 

“Mom! Mom!” Tried to go through the cops.

Suddenly one of them grabbed him tightly by the arms, preventing him from moving forward.

“Let go of him! NO!” Talia screamed, struggling as she was pushed into the car.

Damian screamed, struggling.

“LET ME GO! I WANT TO GO WITH HER! I WANT TO GO WITH HER! I WANT TO GO WITH HER! STOP!”

But he didn't let go.

“Honey! Listen to me! It's going to be okay! Go to your room! I'll come back for you! For all of you!”

The screams cut through the air.

Cassandra appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes filled with tears.

She slowly came down and hugged Damian.

The boy was lying on the floor and couldn't stop crying.

Bruce was talking to the police officers, a nurse was stitching his head while one of the officers listened to him and wrote down everything he said on a notepad.

“Can you continue your statement, Mr. Wayne?”

“Sure, I wanted to say that this was an isolated event… but this?”

He said, pointing to his own head.

“She’s been this aggressive since the incident involving my work partner’s son, John Grayson. We tried to medicate her, we visited doctors…”

It was one lie after another, but the police officers didn’t even suspect it.

“The doctors decided to give her tricylic, but as you can see, it didn’t help much… honestly, the medication doesn’t work with her BPD.”

“What?” the police officer asked. 

“Borderline personality disorder.” Bruce replied. 

“Ha! Back in my day we called that a standard wife.”

Bruce just ignored the comment and looked at the police car, seeing Talia, 

Desperately, 

begging for her to be let go. 

Panicked. 

He didn’t feel sorry for her.

“Well…she’s not a typical wife, she’s more than that…she’s sick…look, I know this is excessive but-“

“Really? ‘Excessive’ I’m still impressed that a woman could blow you away like that”

“Yeah, yeah…but was it really necessary to handcuff her?”

It wasn’t that the man cared, but it was drawing too much attention

“I have a job to do, Mr. Wayne, and she hurt you pretty bad Bruce. At this point, this incident is most likely to be classified as domestic violence, and we can’t ignore that”

“I see…”

“I really apologize, Mr. Wayne. You deserve better after all this—”

Another police officer quickly cut in, leaving Bruce’s house.

“We’re done searching the house.”

Bruce sighed.

Talia still told them about the suit and the knife.

How he had killed Dick…

The police officers decided to search the house.

But Bruce already knew they wouldn’t find anything.

“And?”

“We didn’t find anything, the house is completely clean, there’s no blood on any suit, much less a knife from the crime Miss Wayne mentioned. With all due respect, Mr. Wayne’s biggest crime is having those robots in the garage that give me the creeps.”

“They’re some prototypes of the restaurant with animatronics that I own.”

“I imagined that, my son usually goes crazy when we go there, especially with that bat animatronic. I imagine he wouldn’t be happy to see what it looks like underneath. Ha! Ha!”

“Okay, thanks for the report, Bullock. You can go.”

Jason watched everything outside through the window

Cold eyes

Silent

“What the hell…”

Cassandra, still comforting her brother, looked at Jason

“Is she…going to jail?”

“This smells like shit to me.”

“Hey! Daddy said not to say that!”

“ “Daddy” also told us not to lie.”

“And what’s wrong?”

“Do you really think Mom hit him? Our Mom?”

Cassandra didn’t answer, she just went back to comforting Damian…

The police then left, taking Talia with them.

Bruce entered the house

Locked the door

He had a gauze bandage on his blood-stained head.

He didn't say anything, he just looked at his children.

“What’s going on?” Jason asked.

“Nothing, other than your mother and I are getting a divorce.”

Damian paused for a minute.

“W-what?”

“Did I stutter?”

“He wants to know why this is happening, to tell you the truth, what just happened? Why did the police take Mom?”

Bruce sighed, as if the answer was obvious

“Listen, your mother and I argued, I got tired of everything and filed for divorce, she went crazy wanting to take you away and I knew she was planning something very dangerous for you and I stopped her, then she broke a wine bottle over my head and tried to kill me.”

Jason exploded

“That’s a lie! She would never do that! You were more likely to do that.”

“Believe it or not, that’s what happened.”

Then there was silence

The only sound that came out was Damian's moans

“If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do” was the only thing Bruce said before he left.

Leaving the children alone

With no one to help them

Without Talia…

It had been a few hours since the police had taken Talia

Bruce was in his office planning what to do

What should be his next step?

I know

The court...

Talia would probably be released soon, she would try to tell the truth to the police

For John

He couldn't let this get out

He had to make everyone believe he was innocent and that Talia was crazy

Then, he had to get a good divorce settlement

Full custody of the children

No chance of visitation from Talia

He'll need a good lawyer

He already had one in mind

Lucius Fox

An old friend of his who was studying law, Bruce had heard that he was great at turning any client into a victim

It was perfect

He would probably be free from any suspicion

But to leave Talia with no chance of custody he needed to make her look like a bad mother

The worst of all

But for that he needed one of the children to testify in his favor

A child who would lie for him…

That he was totally loyal to him….

Cassandra

Speaking of her…

The girl appeared at the door silently.

As if the universe had called her.

She was in her pajamas, her face haggard, her hair still tied up in a badly done updo.

She hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the open door.

Bruce glanced over his shoulder.

He was sitting in his armchair, a glass of whiskey beside him, reading documents that seemed too important for that hour.

But when he saw her, he smiled.

“Come in, princess…”

She walked slowly, her bare feet making a slight noise against the wooden floor.

Her eyes were swollen from crying so much.

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure,” Bruce replied, straightening his posture with feigned patience. “You can ask whatever you want, Cass. You know that…”

She stopped in front of him, nervous.

“What you told us… was it true?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“About your mother?”

“Yeah…” Cassandra murmured, her voice weak. “The part about her being… dangerous. You said she was crazy… But she was never like that with me. Never with Damian… She took care of us… She always did…”

Bruce sighed as if it was painful even for him.

But it never was

“I know it’s hard to hear this, my love. Believe me… it’s not easy for me either… But the truth is that sometimes… the people we love only show a part of who they are…”

“But… she made breakfast the way I like it,” Cassandra said, her eyes welling up. “She let me pick the music in the car… she taught me how to draw a kitten’s face. When Damian got sick, she slept on his bedroom floor all night until he got better…” 

Bruce stood up and bent down to his daughter’s level. 

He placed his hands on her shoulders, his expression compassionate and measured.

“I know. She knew how to pretend to be sweet. She was good at it. But, Cassandra… sometimes sweet people hide who they really are. And the truth is, your mother… controlled everything. Even your feelings. You remember that, don’t you?”

“I remember… sometimes she wouldn’t let us eat candy before lunch… or she’d tell us to turn off the TV…”

“Remember how she would scold you if you threw a tantrum at the grocery store? Or if you wanted to take a toy and she said no? Even when you’d been behaving yourself all week? Remember how she told you that throwing a tantrum wouldn’t solve anything?”

“But… she was just teaching me…”

Bruce tilted his head, feigning empathy, but his voice was cold inside.

“She taught you that your feelings were wrong, Cassandra. That you had to hide what you felt, that you couldn’t want too much. Do you know what that does to a child?”

She hesitated.

“But… you also get angry when Damian cries… and you hit Jason that time last week…”

Bruce gave a short laugh.

Then he touched her nose gently.

“I do get angry. But never with you…. And never unfairly…. When I say ‘no’, I explain. When you want something, I listen. I’m your father. And you know how much I love you, don’t you?”

Cassandra nodded slowly, almost smugly.

“I… know.”

Bruce smiled.

“That’s why I did what I did today. To protect you…. To protect your brothers. This is the end of your mother Cassandra’s reign of terror. It’s over. She’s not coming back….”

Cassandra’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“She went too far,” he said, now more firmly. “I tried to help. I gave her chances. I waited. But she was… unstable. Controlling. Toxic. And honestly? She had already crossed all the lines. I will not allow her to set foot in here again. This house is ours alone now. And I will take care of you the way you deserve. With love. Freedom. Truth.”

The girl remained silent, confused, crushed between missing her mother and her father's apparent security. 

Bruce saw the conflict in her eyes and squeezed her shoulder lightly. 

"I know you're scared. But you trust me, don't you?" 

"I trust you..." she murmured, almost in a whisper.

“Then trust me. Your mother was a complicated woman. And sometimes, the best thing a father can do… is protect his children, even from their own mother…”

Cassandra nodded, swallowing her doubts with a lump in her throat.

She leaned over and hugged him.

Bruce hugged her back with firm arms. 

But his eyes, above his daughter's head, were cold. 

Empty. 

Without a hint of emotion. 

In truth, he didn't care about Cassandra. 

She was useful. 

They and their siblings were perfect pieces for the image of the "devoted family man" he needed. 

Cassandra was a living, articulated doll who could smile in photos and feign happiness in front of the press and the court.

He didn't keep his children out of love.

He stayed because he needed them.

Children were completely useless to him in the grand scheme of things.

But children kept up appearances.

They were shields against suspicion.

Tools of emotional manipulation.

Shields against external judgments….

A perfect disguise…

And in Damian's case… there was even more value.

Damian was special….

Alone.

Fragile.

Scared.

With eyes that are too big and not enough confidence…

A perfect guinea pig for him

Alone.

Apart.

Vulnerable.

With a fear so evident it was almost palpable….

Simply perfect.

Bruce had been watching him for months since Dick's death. 

Measuring reactions. 

Analyzing triggers…

But now there was something else.

A chemical compound.

A gas.

He had created it.

It was odorless. 

Invisible. 

And it induced hallucinations based on the user's greatest fear. 

Bruce called it NEURO-FX-07. 

But in his head, it already had a more poetic nickname: fear gas.

Bruce created fear gas not just as an experiment, but as a definitive tool for psychological mastery.

He believes that fear is the most powerful primal emotion, the one that breaks down defenses, that reveals the true self of people, that erases courage, rebellion and self-will.

For Bruce, whoever masters fear masters people….

He doesn’t just want to control his children. 

He wants a mechanism of absolute obedience. 

A way to ensure that everyone

 allies, enemies, even the public, stays exactly where he wants them, thinking exactly what he wants them to think. 

And what’s more, he wants to prove that fear can be replicated, induced, and personalized, like a custom-made disease.

He had already tested it on rats, and the results were perfect

But now he needed to test it on humans.

He couldn't test it on adults.

Not now.

It would have to be a child.

That's why Damian was ideal.

No one would believe him if he told them.

“Oh, you saw monsters?”

Nonsense

“Oh, you heard voices?”

Lie

“Are you seeing things that aren’t there?”

He’s crazy

All they had to do was say that the boy was sensitive.

That he was emotionally shaken by his mother's departure.

That he needed medication.

Or some time alone.

It was the perfect plan.

Bruce didn't need love.

He needed results.

He needed to prove that fear could be shaped.

That it could be used as a tool.

As a weapon.

And Damian?

Damian was his perfect instrument for this.

As he hugged Cassandra, Bruce closed his eyes

not out of emotion,

but out of calculation.

She was convinced.

One was already on his side.

Now the others were missing.

And he was in no hurry…

Chapter Text

The cold light of the police station flickered over the grimy tiles. 

Humidity dripped down the walls like old sweat from so many other forgotten dramas there. 

Talia walked in silence, her slow and elegant steps contrasting with the metallic sound of the handcuff chains swinging on her wrists. 

Her low-heeled shoes echoed like muffled gunshots in that place of worn concrete.

Her dress

a deep green

elegant

sober

was wrinkled

wine-stained at the shoulder, and there was dried blood on the hem, the result of the bottle that had shattered over Bruce's head. 

That had been intentional. 

Not on her part, but on his. 

He hit himself. 

Talia wanted to scream, run away, protect her children. 

But now she was the woman who had almost killed her husband with a bottle. 

The assailant

The police officer escorting her didn't even look her in the eye.

“Go to cell 3. You can sit down. You'll get your call soon,” she said indifferently.

Tália entered the cell without protesting.

It was small, with no windows.

A concrete bench stuck to the wall, a cold floor and the smell of disinfected vomit.

She sat up straight, as if she still wanted to preserve the last line of dignity within those walls.

She closed her eyes for a moment. 

She tried to think of her children

but all she could see was Damian's face

crying

begging her not to be taken away. 

The metal door creaked.

 "You have the right to one phone call." 

She stood up slowly, guided to the phone fixed to the wall of the reception area. 

The eyes of a young police officer watched her suspiciously. 

Talia ignored him. 

She picked up the phone. 

She dialed firmly.

Three rings.

“Harvey Dent”

“Harvey… it’s me”

“…Talia?”

The silence on the other end was almost crueler than the words.

“I’m at the central police station. I need help. Bruce… Bruce framed me. Said I assaulted him. That I broke a wine bottle on him. They arrested me.”

“Wait,” he interrupted, his voice firm and collected now. “Are you telling me you’re under arrest for assaulting your husband?”

“He set it up. He broke the damn bottle all over himself. There was enough blood to make it look like a serious assault, so he blamed it all on me. And he… he had the audacity to look at the police and say he was trying to stop me from having a fit.
He said I was unstable. That I wanted to take the kids away from him.”

“This is crazy.”

“And they believed him. The police believed him. He was calm. Persuasive. And here I was, covered in blood, with my dress torn, screaming for my children.”

“Damn…”

Harvey took a deep breath.

Now his tone was different

professional.

Calculated.

“Which police station are you in?”

“Central police station. Small cell. One of those used for drunks and troublemakers.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“Only my pride. But… Damian saw everything. He was there. He tried to run to me, and one of the police officers held him back. He kept screaming. I heard his voice until the door closed…”

Harvey was silent for a moment, heavy.

“What do you want me to do, Talia?”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t hesitate.

“I want out of here. And I want my children. I want full custody. I want to disappear from his life. I never asked for revenge, Harvey.
I just want to protect them. Damian… he’s breaking inside. You know how he is. And Cassandra… Jason… they’re all in danger. If I don’t act now, I’ll lose them. Not to another country, or school… but to this… this soulless hole that Bruce has become.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Not yet. But I’ll get it. I just need to get out of here. I need time.”

“And money?”

“I have enough to pay you and get the three of you away. I don’t care if Bruce sees me as an enemy now. I just want my children. I want to… live. Start over.”

Harvey remained silent for a few more seconds, absorbing each word carefully.

When he spoke again, his voice was steely.

“I’m going to get you out of there. Today. I’m going to file a writ of habeas corpus. What Bruce did is supported only by reports and appearances, and appearances are dispelled by reliable testimony. As soon as you’re out, we’ll start the custody process. We’ll show that he’s unstable, controlling, aggressive. There’s no need for scandal, just truth.”

“Thank you…”

“Don’t thank me. Not yet. This is going to be a war. And you’re going to have to be stronger than ever…”

She smiled sideways, the first human gesture since entering that cell.

“Hold on tight. I’m on my way.”

The call ended.

Tália put the phone back on the hook, her hands still shaking.

She wasn't crying anymore.

But her gaze... her gaze was made of wrought iron.

She wasn't a defeated woman.

She was a mother at war.

The station smelled of burnt coffee, mold, and old papers. 

Fluorescent lights flickered above police files and tired men with badges. 

Outside, the early morning sky was a starless gray blanket, heavy as lead. Gotham slept. 

But Harvey Dent did not. 

The doors to the station creaked open. 

Harvey stormed in silently. 

His expensive shoes clicked on the linoleum floor with surgical precision. 

He held a black leather briefcase with documents inside, and his dark eyes burned with determination.

He went straight to the counter. A fat police officer with a scruffy mustache looked up from the file he was reading.

“Can I help you?”

“Harvey Dent. I’m Mrs. Talia Wayne Al Ghul’s lawyer. I’m here to get her out of the cell where she was placed in a completely irregular manner,” he said, without losing his cold tone.

“Mrs. Al Ghul was arrested for domestic assault,” the officer replied, crossing his arms. “Bodily assault. A broken wine bottle. We have a witness. And an injury to her husband as evidence.”

Harvey gave him a look that could have cut steel.

“The injury was self-inflicted. The police report is based on a shoddy fabrication. The ‘husband’ in question has a history of coercive, deceitful, and manipulative behavior, with past reports filed away for… convenience.” Harvey pulled an envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the counter. “Here is a writ of habeas corpus signed by Judge Patterson. I want her out of that cell immediately.”

The policeman took the documents and quickly leafed through them. He swallowed hard.

“Yeah… I’d better call the commissioner.”

“Do that. And tell him that if he doesn’t comply with the order in five minutes, I’ll file a formal complaint against this department for unlawful arrest. It’ll be in the Gotham Gazette before breakfast.”

 The officer disappeared down a hallway.

Harvey remained motionless, impassive, until a female officer appeared minutes later, asking him to follow her.

The cell was small, cold, and poorly lit.

Typical of those used for drunks or petty criminals.

But the woman inside was far from ordinary.

Talia Al Ghul sat on the concrete bench, her legs crossed, her light blue linen dress now dirty, wrinkled, and with dark marks on the cuffs and shoulders.

Her eyes were sunken with weariness, but there was something about her

an old, constant fire

that never went out.

Hearing the door open, she immediately stood up.

“Harvey.”

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said, coming closer. “But it’s done. You’re free. For now.”

She let out a breath as if she had been holding it in for hours.

“How did you do it?”

“I played dirty. Patterson owed me a favor,” she replied bluntly. “They had no legal basis for keeping her here. The police report was flimsy. I knew Bruce wouldn’t be able to sustain that story for long.”

Talia walked towards him, her steps still firm, despite her evident fatigue. 

She picked up her bag that was lying in the corner of the cell. 

The mirror on the wall reflected her pale face, her disheveled hair. 

But her eyes… her eyes were pure steel. 

“Thank you for coming. I knew you were the only one who would answer. All the other lawyers… are afraid of him.”

“And rightly so,” Harvey said, already following her into the hallway. “Bruce is smart. Calculating. And now he knows you want to leave him.”

“I never hid the fact that I wanted to leave. But this? I didn’t think he was… capable of doing what he did… Accusing me of assaulting him?” She laughed humorlessly. “Arrest me? Separate me from my children?”

“He doesn’t want you out of the house. He wants you out of their lives. Forever. And if he can do that by looking like the victim, he’ll use any tactic.”

They walked through the damp corridors of the police station

Tália looked around

absorbing the weight of the moment.

“Harvey… I don’t want any more war. I don’t want to put my children in court. I don’t want dirty laundry aired in the press. I just want custody. I just want them with me. And I want to leave. Away from him.”

Harvey stopped, looking her in the eyes seriously.

“If you really want to get out of this with your children, Talia… you’re going to have to be tougher than ever. Bruce won’t give up. He doesn’t want the boys because he loves them. He wants them for pride. Image. Control.”

She nodded, dropping her gaze for a second.

“I know. He never looked at them as people. Always as… parts. Tools.”

“And you know what he’s capable of. So we’re going to do everything within the law. Reports. Witnesses. Any trace of his unstable behavior that we can prove. I’ll file the emergency custody petition tomorrow morning. But you need to be prepared.”

Talia raised her face again, her chin firm.

“I’m ready. For them, I am.”

Harvey opened the car door for her. The dawn was swallowing Gotham with its usual darkness.

But there, between the smoke and the fear, Talia still resisted.

The city seemed dead as Harvey's car drove through the silent streets of Gotham.

A light rain was beginning to fall, almost timidly, as if even the weather was afraid to make noise that night.

Tália remained silent in the passenger seat.

Her hands were resting in her lap, still trembling.

Her wrinkled dress clung to her skin, damp with sweat and tension.

She kept her eyes fixed on the window, watching the dark city slide past streetlights and corners.

A place that, just a few hours ago, was her home.

A place where her children were now sleeping

or perhaps awake, confused, scared...

alone.

Harvey watched her from time to time. 

He knew she needed silence more than words at the moment. 

Finally, he turned onto a quiet, uncrowded street lined with old, dark brick houses and small gardens damp from the drizzle. 

He stopped the car in front of one of them. 

“We’re here,” he said softly.

Talia simply nodded and opened the door. 

She leaned lightly against the car as she got out. 

Her heels were worn and her ankles ached. 

But she walked with dignity to the front door. 

Harvey opened the door for her. 

The interior was sober and clean, with dark furniture and shelves full of law books. 

The yellow light from the living room warmed the room, and a faint aroma of stale coffee and polished wood hung in the air.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the couch. “I’ll get you something warm.”

Tália sat up slowly, as if the weight of the entire night was sinking into her joints.

The room was silent.

For the first time in hours, she felt…

safe

But not relieved.

Harvey returned with a steaming mug.

“Tea. It’s not the best, but it helps calm you down.”

She took the mug, saying nothing for a moment.

Then she took a deep breath.

“Harvey… what do I do now?”

He sat down across from her, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie.

“Now, you rest. Tomorrow morning, we’ll officially file for temporary custody and divorce. I’ll attach your account of the night, contest the report Bruce forged, and start pulling up any prior history we can use. Is there anything he’s done to the kids…any behavior we can prove was dangerous?”

Talia hesitated. 

She looked at the mug, then at him.

“He’s been physically aggressive with them for a few months now. Especially with Jason… and Damian… he treated them like thorns in his side… And with Cassandra… he pretends to love them. But everything had a reason. He never protected them. He only molded them. His coldness… it’s the kind that makes a child stop crying not for comfort, but for fear.”

Harvey nodded seriously.

“That might be helpful. But we need more. Depositions. School records. Maybe someone at the pizza place saw something. Employees. Even John Grayson. Does he still work for you guys?”

“Yeah. He’s Bruce’s best friend. But… after what happened to his son…” her voice wavered. “I don’t know how he’ll react.”

Harvey leaned in a little.

“Talia, you are waging war against a man who can lie better than most criminals I have ever defended,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “But he is not invincible. And you are not alone anymore. Tomorrow we will begin to dismantle the image he has created. Brick by brick.”

She looked at him. 

For the first time, her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry. 

She just nodded. 

“Thank you, Harvey…. For believing in me.” 

“I always did. Even when I was a prosecutor, even when Bruce was offering me a fake handshake and pretending to be the perfect father. I knew something was wrong.”

“And what did you see?”

Harvey rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“A hollow man. An actor. A predator who needed to keep his mask on.” He looked up at her. “And you… you’re one of the few people who saw what was behind it and is still here.”

Talia smiled, a barely visible smile.

“I still am.”

Harvey stood up.

“There’s a room ready upstairs. Clean clothes. Towel. Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real work begins.”

She stood up, walking slowly toward the stairs. Before she went upstairs, she looked at him one more time.

“If I don’t get custody… he’ll destroy my children.”

“Then we won’t let that happen,” Harvey replied with firm conviction. “I promise.”

The sun had not yet fully risen in the sky.

The house was silent, enveloped by that pale, blue light of early morning.

Damian was still asleep, curled up in the bedroom, clutching the pillow.

Cassandra, already awake, sat on the living room rug, absentmindedly fiddling with a sketchbook, her eyes sunken and dull.

In the kitchen, Bruce Wayne was pouring his own coffee. 

His jacket was neatly pressed, his hair impeccable, as if the previous night had not disrupted his routine at all. 

The phone rested next to the steaming cup. 

He waited.

And then it rang.

Bruce answered on the first ring, already anticipating who it would be.

“Speak.”

Lucius Fox’s deep, professional voice answered on the other end of the line

“The request has been filed. She filed for divorce and full custody of the children as soon as she left the police station. She’s with Harvey Dent. They’re moving fast.”

Bruce let out a soft “hmm,” without any trace of surprise.

He took a calm sip of his coffee, staring at the distance in front of him.

“As I imagined. She never knew how to lose,” he said with a slight smile on the corner of his lips. “Harvey is still predictable. A good guard dog. He just needs a little mud on his paws to be discredited.”

“What about Talia?” Lucius asked. “Are you really willing to go through with this?”

Bruce walked slowly into the living room, watching Cassandra sitting on the floor.

His daughter stared at him for a moment, trying to read her father’s gaze.

He responded with a gentle smile and a wink.

She looked down again.

“She dug her own grave,” Bruce replied calmly. “I’m just finishing covering it with dirt.”

“Are you going to fight back?” Lucius asked, his tone more cautious.

Bruce smiled.

“I’m already attacking.”

He slowly bent down next to Cassandra, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a light, fatherly gesture.

“She still trusts me. Cassandra loves me. That’s enough.”

Lucius hesitated before speaking.

“Bruce… we’re talking about children. Are you really going to involve her in this?”

“Lucius, you know better than anyone… the world belongs to those who are willing to do what others won’t. The image I’ve built as an exemplary father needs to be protected. If Talia wins, she’ll not only take away my children, she’ll take away the only thing that still sustains me socially: respect.”

“And what exactly do you intend to do?”

Bruce stood up and walked towards the window, looking at the still gray sky.

“Cassandra has already begun to doubt her mother. One more push, and she’ll believe she was attacked too. We just need her to say the right thing, at the right time. Crying, of course. Crying children convince jurors. I’ll say she had a panic attack after the fight, that she didn’t tell anyone before because she was afraid… all well scripted.”

Lucius took a deep breath on the other end of the line, but didn’t argue.

He knew who he was dealing with.

“I can prepare the documents for a legal counterattack, but if you’re going to go down that road… you’ll have to make sure she says exactly what she needs to say. And that her response is convincing.”

Bruce nodded, as if he had every detail already committed to memory.

“Leave it to me. Cassandra is needy. Her mother “abandoned” her, as I would say. She will listen to me. She has always wanted to please me, Lucius. Always. I just need to use it.”

“What about Damian?”

Bruce slowly turned his face toward the upstairs, where the boy still slept.

“He’s not a problem. He’s too broken to fight back. Fear is in his control. And that… will come in handy soon,” he said, his tone so calm it gave her chills. “But first, I’ll take down Talia. Then… I’ll start what I’ve planned with him.”

Lucius was silent for a moment.

“The fear gas…”

“It’s still being tested, but it will work. And who better to test it on than a child who no one listens to? An isolated, anxious, fearful boy… no one would believe him if he said he saw monsters.”

“What if Talia finds out?”

Bruce smiled bitterly.

“Find out what? That she lost everything to a game she never knew how to play? That she was naive enough to run out of the house without a plan? She’s done for. The only thing left for her to do… is watch what’s left of her family fall apart.”

Lucius replied quietly,

“You’re going too far, Bruce.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘too far’ when it comes to maintaining control.”

He hung up the phone without another word.

He walked back into the living room and crouched down next to Cassandra again.

The girl was sitting on the carpet, her sketchbook on her lap.

The bear on the paper had a complete body now, but its eyes were blurred, with repeated and heavy lines as if she no longer knew how to make it smile.

Bruce approached with slow, careful steps, as if he didn't want to scare a wounded animal.

He sat down on the couch behind her, then leaned forward slightly.

“This drawing… is darker than the others,” he commented in a low voice, almost affectionately. “Is everything okay, baby?”

She shrugged

not looking at him. 

Bruce waited. 

He knew how to wait. 

He knew that with Cassandra, silence was part of the language. 

“The house feels weird,” she murmured finally. “It feels… smaller.”

“That’s because she really did stay. When someone leaves, it seems like there’s room left in everything… even inside us.”

“Mommy didn’t leave. She was taken.”

Bruce tilted his head, with a dramatic, studied sigh.

“I know. And that’s what makes me sad. I wish it were different. But what happened yesterday… Cass, she could have really hurt someone. You saw what she did with the bottle… To me.”

She bit her lip.

She didn’t say anything.

Bruce leaned down closer, his face close to hers, as if they were sharing a secret.

“You know what’s hardest for me?” she whispered. “Explaining this to others. Because Mommy… always seems so calm, so nice. And she has this sweet way with you guys. It’s just… no one sees what happens when the doors are closed.”

She bit her lip.

She didn’t say anything.

Bruce leaned down closer, his face close to hers, as if they were sharing a secret.

“You know what’s hardest for me?” she whispered. “Explaining this to others. Because Mommy… always seems so calm, so nice. And she has this sweet way with you guys. It’s just… no one sees what happens when the doors are closed.”

Cassandra finally looked at him, her eyes full of questions, fear, guilt.

“She was good to me…”

Bruce nodded.

“I know. Pancakes for breakfast, bedtime stories… All of that was real. But… do you remember what happened when she wouldn’t let you watch TV after dinner?”

“She said it was too late…”

“And when you cried about it, what did she say?”

“That I was spoiled.”

Bruce pursed his lips in a gesture of disguised disapproval.

“Yeah. Sometimes we just wanted some time together… and she would cut it short. She would say ‘no’ too much. Have you noticed that?”

Cassandra hesitated.

Then she nodded.

Very slightly.

He smiled.

A subtle, practiced smile.

“I don’t want you to think badly of her, Cassandra. She’s your mother. She always will be. But sometimes… even good people make mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes hurt the ones we love the most.” 

She seemed to waver. 

A small piece of her certainty was starting to crack.

 “I don’t want to choose sides,” she said weakly. “I love you both.” 

Bruce stroked her hair with careful fingers, as if she were made of porcelain.

“And you don’t have to choose. You just have to help me… fix things. Can I trust you with that?”

She looked into his eyes.

Those cold eyes behind the practiced sweetness.

“You can…”

He smiled

but not with his lips

with his eyes

with the tone of his voice

with the false confidence of a man who already knows he’s won.

There's just one little thing.

A little favor I wanted to ask you.

Cassandra shrank back a little, confused.

"What favor?"

Bruce changed his tone.

Now he spoke more quietly, more intimately, like a secret between father and daughter.

“There will be a conversation soon. A place with many serious people, some wearing suits, others with papers and pens. They will ask you questions… about what happened here at home.”

The girl nodded slowly.

“I just want you to tell the truth. Your truth, Cass. What you felt. What you saw. No embellishments, no complications. Just… what’s in your heart, okay?”

She took a while to answer. Then she said:

“Okay.”

“And remember: you are brave. And no one knows what happened better than you. Sometimes people get confused, they believe the wrong versions… so it’s important that you speak firmly. With conviction.”

Cassandra looked at the floor.

“What if I forget something?”

“Then you pretend to remember,” he said in a tone too soft for the weight of the words. “Sometimes the heart remembers better than the head.”

She nodded hesitantly.

Bruce hugged her.

“You’re the best part of me, you know? You always have been. That’s why I trust you so much. You’re going to help keep this family together.”

And while Cassandra rested her head on her father's chest, trying to convince herself that this was the right thing to do, Bruce just looked ahead, his eyes dry, calculating, his mind already on the next steps on the board.

The lie would be told.

Tália would be painted as a monster.

And he, as the perfect father.

Everything would go... as he wanted.

Talia was in Harvey's office

The tall windows filtered the evening light through the closed blinds.

The smell of stale coffee mingled with the paper and tension in the air.

She sat in the brown leather chair facing Harvey Dent’s dark wood desk.

She still wore the wrinkled dress from the night before.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few loose strands framing her tired but firm face.

Harvey was studying a stack of documents before him with stern attention. 

He was wearing only a shirt and vest, his tie already removed, his sleeves rolled up. 

His face was hard, meticulous, the expression of a man who knew well the weight of the scales of justice and knew how cruel it could be.

“I’ve reviewed everything I’ve gathered since yesterday, Talia,” he began, running his fingers over the paper. “The situation isn’t just bad. It’s… surgically engineered.”

She stared at him silently, her jaw set.

“His record is clean. There’s no mention of abusive or neglectful behavior. And the boy’s death.” Harvey hesitated. “There’s no evidence whatsoever that he had any involvement in the crime. None. The collective testimony from the party maintains that he wasn’t there. But a bartender at a seedy bar he goes to confirmed that Bruce was there during the murder. He did everything right.”

“Of course he did,” Talia whispered. “He always knows what to do.”

“And you…” Harvey continued, his tone now more serious, “spent the night at the police station for alleged domestic violence. You were booked, arrested. And Bruce has already given a statement describing you as emotionally unstable, volatile, aggressive. And you know how the system treats this type of profile when it involves minors.”

Talia looked away. Embarrassment was secondary to what she felt: fear. An old fear, now uncontrollable.

“They’ll think I’m a risk, won’t they?”

Harvey sighed, pushing the paperwork aside.

“At this point… they’ll do more than that. They’ll assume you lost control after years of being disappointed in your marriage to Bruce, that you suddenly started taking it out on him, or even on the kids.”

Talia ran her hands over her face, taking a deep breath.

“I can’t leave Damian, Jason, much less Cassandra with him. I can’t. Did you see how Damian was when they took me to the police station? He almost threw himself on the ground when they took me. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he feels the danger.”

Harvey leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“The judge will look at your record and will not give you custody of any of them, Talia. Not Cassandra, not Jason, and honestly… not Damian. Even though he is the middle one, and the one who is more vulnerable.”

“So…” she leaned forward, determined, “we need to be strategic. If I try to take them all now, I’ll lose them all. But if I start with Damian… if I can protect him first, create a stable environment… I can use that later to ask for custody of the other two.”

Harvey frowned suspiciously.

“Asking for custody of just one child… it might sound like abandonment of the others. Or favoritism. I don’t know if the court would like that.”

“It’s not favoritism. It’s survival,” she replied firmly. “Jason is older, tougher, and he knows how to stand up to Bruce. And Cassandra… she knows how to keep him in check. But Damian… he’s small. He’s quiet. He’s afraid of everything. And Bruce knows that. He’ll use that. I don’t want to have to choose between them, but I need to get him out of there before it’s too late.”

Harvey looked at the woman before him. 

Even exhausted, dirty, and in tatters, she still spoke with the strength of someone who was unwilling to give in. 

“Do you think he’s going to hurt Damian?” 

Talia hesitated. 

She looked down at her hands. 

Then, in a low voice

“Not in the obvious way. Bruce is more… refined. He doesn’t want to hurt his children. He wants to use them. Control them. Show them that they are his property. And with Damian… I feel like there’s something darker going on. Like he’s waiting for the right moment to do something. I don’t know what. But I know my son is in danger.”

Harvey nodded slowly.

“Then let’s get started. I’ll prepare the request for temporary custody of Damian, based on the boy’s emotional state, his emotional ties to you, and the risk he poses in a potentially manipulative environment. It’s going to be difficult, but if I’m lucky… maybe the judge will at least grant an emergency hearing.”

Talia nodded, relieved.

“Thank you, Harvey.”

He stood up and walked to the window.

He crossed his arms, looking out at the darkening horizon, the city lights starting to come on.

“But be prepared, Talia. This trial will consume you. He will tarnish your name, turn your children against you, and play the victim until the end. He will fight as if you were the enemy.”

I know.

Harvey turned back to her, serious.

“And you’re going to have to stand up. Flawless. Strong. Even when he comes at you with everything. Can you do that?”

Tália stood up too.

The wrinkled dress didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“If it’s for Damian, for Jason, for Cassandra… I’ll do whatever it takes.”

They exchanged a silent look. Accomplices.

Preparing for a cold war, full of lawsuits, lies and memories.

Little did they know what awaited them on the other side of the city.

Sunlight filtered softly through the heavy curtains of the office. 

The walls were paneled in dark wood, and the unlit fireplace still gave off the faint smell of ashes from the night before. 

A cup of coffee was steaming on the desk next to a newly opened folder of legal documents. 

Bruce stood, impeccably dressed in a perfectly pressed white shirt, the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. 

It had been two days since Talia had left. 

And there was still one day left until the court session. 

He read the contents of the folder with a slight smile on his lips. 

Lucius Fox, sitting in front of him, adjusted his glasses as he studied the same sheets with a clinical eye. 

“So… she moved faster than we thought,” Lucius commented, his voice low and unsurprised.

“It was predictable,” Bruce replied calmly, as if he had already seen the scene dozens of times in his head. “She’s a mother. And like all desperate mothers, she’s convinced she can save her son from something she doesn’t understand.” 

He turned one of the pages carefully, as if he were leafing through an old book, not a custody case.

“Harvey Dent is with her. That complicates things,” Lucius added.

“It complicates things for her. Dent is rigid, moralistic… he still thinks the world is black and white. But the courtroom is no stage for heroes,” Bruce said, smiling cynically. “It’s a game. And I know how to play.”

Lucius crossed his arms, considering.

“Her request is for temporary custody of Damian. Only him.”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “She knows she can’t get all three. So she’s going to attack the weakest link. The fragile, shy, scared boy. She thinks she can protect him. Create a new life with him. And maybe, one day, win back the other two.”

Bruce leaned back in the chair behind the desk, folding his hands in front of his face.

“But that’s where she’s wrong. Damian…” he smiled with quiet cruelty “…is too loyal.”

Lucius watched him silently.

He knew that smile.

It was the same one Bruce wore when he was on the verge of checkmate.

“Are you going to bench him?”

“Not directly,” Bruce replied. “But I will make sure he is there. That he hears everything. And when the time is right… when the judge asks, when it seems like he has something to say… he will tell exactly what he ‘saw’ that night.”

Lucius stared at him. 

“And are you sure he will follow the script?” 

 "Damian is afraid. Deep fear. And more than that: he's to blame. He thinks that somehow his friend's death was his fault. I planted it carefully. invisible currents.”

“What if he breaks down?”

“He won’t. Not in front of strangers. He may tremble, cry… but he will speak… he will say what he saw and, deep down, he will believe he is telling the truth. That’s how I built the lie. Brick by brick, planted in fear.” Bruce stood up, walking towards the window. “All he needs to remember is that he saw Talia hitting me. That he heard me scream. That the wine bottle broke on my head… and that his mother freaked out. The rest… is just details.”

Lucius took a deep breath.

“Using the boy like this…”

“I’m just using the tools the situation has given me. She chose the game. And now we’re playing it.”

“What if the court orders a psychological evaluation of Damian?”

Bruce turned, still smiling.

“Let them ask. A shy boy, with traumas, seeing his mother arrested… of course he’s going to look shaken. The report will confirm that he needs a stable environment. And who represents stability, Lucius?”

“…You.”

“Exactly.”

Lucius stared at the paper in his hands for a moment longer.

Then he looked up.

“What if Talia tries to reverse this later? If she finds out the truth?”

Bruce approached him calmly.

“No one will believe an unstable woman, arrested for assault, trying to reverse her own son’s testimony. She won’t get custody. Not from Damian, not from anyone. Not while I have control of the pieces.”

There was a tense silence between the two.

“What if the boy breaks, Bruce? What if he starts to suspect the truth?”

Bruce just smiled.

A hollow smile, devoid of any affection.

“Then he will be useful in other ways. Damian… he is the most valuable piece on the board. A pure mind. Fragile. And exactly because of that… perfect for what is to come…”

Lucius remained silent. 

For the first time, his eyes wavered. 

Bruce returned to the table, gathered the documents and said, as calmly as before: 

“Get everything ready. Lawyers, psychologists, simulated environment. The court day will be my stage. And Damian… after Cassandra, will be my best witness.”

The light rain drummed persistently on the window. 

Damian's room was almost completely dark, except for the cold light from the hallway, which filtered through the crack in the door. 

Damian had been awake for hours. 

He had the blanket pulled up to his chin, his eyes lost in the emptiness of the ceiling. 

His body was still, as if it were part of the bed. 

He didn't know if it was fear, sadness or just the exhaustion of not knowing what to feel anymore.

The doorknob turned slowly. The door swung open, and Bruce appeared like a tall, meticulously controlled shadow.

He entered without a word, closed the door softly behind him, and walked to the center of the room, his steps too calm to be innocent.

“Still awake?” he asked, his voice too low and gentle.

As if he were worried.

Damian didn't answer.

He didn't even move.

His body curled up under the covers was the only defense he knew.

Bruce pulled out his desk chair and sat down next to the bed.

He watched his son in silence for a moment, then let out a small, almost theatrical sigh.

“I know. Everything is a mess right now, isn’t it?” he said, running his fingers through his hair, as if he was exhausted. “It’s hard when the people you trust hurt you.”

The boy’s silence was absolute. 

But there was a tension in the air, like the breath caught before crying. 

“You saw what happened, Damian. You saw it. There’s no way to forget it. That night… the way she screamed… how she tried to attack me…” Bruce paused sharply. “I never meant for things to come to this. But your mother… she lost control.”

Damian turned his face away, as if that could make him disappear.

Bruce leaned forward, his face still calm, but his eyes sharp as broken glass.

“I tried. I really did. But she started saying she was going to take you. All of you. Away from me. She said I was a monster… that I should disappear. But you know I’m not going to disappear, don’t you?”

Damian squeezed his eyes shut.

“Daddy… I don’t understand…”

Bruce touched his son’s face with a warm, firm palm. A gentle touch, but controlling. He turned the boy’s face toward him gently.

“You don’t have to understand everything right now, son. You just have to trust me. I’m protecting you. Cassandra. Even Jason. That’s what parents do.”

His voice grew more intense with each word, his eyes fixed on Damian as if seeking to pierce through any resistance.

“That night, she freaked out. She said she was going to destroy our family. I said enough was enough. I wanted a divorce. And that’s when…” Bruce made a subtle gesture to his head, as if reliving the scene “that’s when she picked up the bottle. You heard the sound, didn’t you? When she broke that wine bottle over my head?”

Damian clenched his fists under the blanket.

“You remember, don’t you?”

The boy nodded slowly, almost hypnotized.

“I could have died. In front of you,” Bruce continued, his voice deepening, controlling each syllable. “But I resisted. For you. Because I knew… that if she stayed, you would end up like her. A failure. A mistake. And you’re not that. Not yet.”

Bruce stood up, walked to the window, and stood there in silence for a while, watching the rain. Then he turned back around and sat on the edge of the bed.

“You know there’s going to be a trial, don’t you?”

Damian looked at him with wet eyes.

He blinked slowly, his breath coming in short gasps.

The boy nodded, a hollow, defeated gesture.

Bruce smiled calmly.

But the smile was not happy.

It was that of a satisfied predator.

“Very well, my son. Very well.”

He bent down and hugged Damian, a hug that seemed affectionate but felt more like a chain tightening.

Then he lifted the boy’s chin once more.

“If you say anything different… if you waver… people will think you’re lying. They’ll take you away from me. And…” he paused, his voice dropping to an icy pitch, “if that happens, I won’t be able to protect you. And then you’ll become a failure. Like her… and you won’t be part of the family anymore.”

Damian didn’t answer. 

His breathing was shaky. 

His eyes were watery, his face white. 

“But if you do everything right… I promise that later we’ll buy you all the toys you want. All those stuffed toys of Freddy, Foxy, Chica… even Bonnie. You’ll have them all. You’ll be able to sleep surrounded by them. Safe. With your friends by your side. Proud of you.”

Bruce calmly got up, turned off the bedside lamp and went to the door.

Before leaving, he said:

“I knew I could count on you”

And closed the door.

Damian stood there, alone in the dark.

The tears flowed silently, but he didn't make a sound.

He just hugged his own body, trying to convince himself that all of this would pass.

That maybe… he really was doing the right thing.

He just had to tell what he saw

And obey his father

But deep down, he knew he was being swallowed by something he didn't understand.

And there was no one by his side to save him.

Not Dick

Not Talia

Nobody

He was alone….

The sky was overcast, gray as wet concrete, as if the world itself were holding its breath. 

The courthouse stood imposingly, with its austere columns and wide staircases, like an altar to truth or whoever manipulated it best. 

The black car pulled up slowly in front. The door opened, and Talia stepped out firmly. 

Her dark green dress contrasted with her pale skin and fiery gaze. Her firm heels echoed on the cold marble steps as she climbed up beside Harvey Dent. 

He was in a gray suit, elegant and pragmatic, with the hard expression of someone who knew he was going to war.

“Remember, Talia. They’re going to play dirty,” Harvey muttered as they climbed up. “And they won’t stop until they get what they want.”

“I won’t stop until I get what I want either, Harvey.” Her gaze was sharp. “He’s not going to get my kids. Ever.”

Across the street, another car pulled up. 

Bruce got out first, adjusting his black suit with practiced coolness. 

His dark eyes swept the courthouse steps with almost blasé calm. 

Beside him stood Lucius Fox, sober and composed, a leather briefcase in his arms and a faint smile of confidence.

The children followed.

Damian walked in silence, his eyes fixed on the steps, each step heavy, as if he were walking towards the abyss.

He was wearing a black suit, a little too big for his age.

His hands were shaking slightly. 

Bruce squeezed his son's shoulder as if guiding a piece on a chessboard.

Cassandra walked beside him, wearing a pearly white dress, braided hair and a confused gleam in her eyes

lost between guilt

longing for her mother, and obedience to her father. 

Jason, on the other hand, looked like a bomb about to explode. 

In a dark suit, his tie loosened, and his jaw clenched in anger. 

He walked a little behind

clearly on Talia's side, although forced to accompany Bruce.

He glanced at his father.

Bruce didn't even look at him.

He just kept climbing, his step firm, his expression serene.

He had already calculated everything.

Damian's testimony.

The false narrative.

The manipulated evidence.

Public perception.

The theater was already set.

At the top of the stairs, the two sides finally met.

Tália stood before Bruce.

The wind ruffled her dark hair, and her eyes seemed to hold all the pain of the past few days, transformed into pure steel.

“You’re going to regret all of this, Bruce,” she said coldly.

“I already regret it, Talia. For letting you get close to them.” He smiled cynically. “Nice lawyer, how many times do I have to sleep with him to get paid for the service?”

Tália raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face.

“You worm.”

Bruce just turned his face away from the impact.

Then he looked back at her with that same venomous smile.

“Are you going to do this in front of the children? Violent as always.”

Harvey stepped forward, but Lucius stepped between them.

“This is a courtroom, Dent, not a ring.”

“Don’t worry, Fox,” Harvey said, with a cold smile. “Justice still knows the difference between a father and a manipulator with psychopathic traits.”

The two men stared at each other with visible tension.

On the other side, Jason was holding Cassandra's hand, who was tense, scared.

Damian just stared at the floor, his throat dry, his heart clenched in an unbearable knot.

“Mom…” he whispered, not daring to call her.

Tália looked at him in pain, but kept her composure.

Only her eyes showed how devastated she was to see her son so psychologically hurt.

“It’s going to start…” Cassandra murmured.

The doors to the court opened. A guard directed them to enter.

Inside the main room, the silence was piercing.

Everyone present stood up as a man with an austere expression, dark skin and discreet glasses, entered the room with his robe over his shoulders.

Judge Doug Thomas

sat down gravely.

“All rise,” the officer announced. “Gotham Family Court. Judge Doug Thomas presiding. Session now called to order.”

The two sides lined up. Bruce, with Lucius on the left. 

Talia and Harvey on the right. 

The children were positioned in the center, between the two, as if they were prizes fought over by monsters disguised as adults.

The silence was absolute.

Doug Thomas straightened the papers in front of him.

Then he looked at the people involved.

His gaze stopped briefly on Damian, and the boy shivered.

“Let’s get started”

Chapter Text

The courtroom was silent, but the air seemed to vibrate with electricity.

The smell of polished wood, the rustle of papers, the steady footsteps on the marble

it all sounded like part of some grand and cruel performance.

The children sat on the reserved bench between the two sides of the case.

Jason stared angrily at the floor.

Cassandra trembled, her small hands clutching the hem of her pale dress.

Damian didn’t blink, as if keeping his eyes open was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

Across the room, Bruce looked like a statue in mourning. 

Dark suit, impassive expression. 

Beside him, Lucius Fox leafed through his notes with calculated calm. 

Across the room, Talia stood erect, fury controlled in every muscle of her face. 

Beside her, Harvey Dent was already on his feet. 

Judge Doug Thomas, a man with a stern expression and a deep voice, adjusted his glasses before speaking.

The first phase of the trial begins.

Mr. Fox, you may present the arguments on behalf of Mr. Bruce Wayne.

Lucius stood. His tone was calm but sharp.

“Your Honor, gentlemen. We are here today to discuss the welfare of three children. And while the context is fraught with tragedy, we must remain focused: this trial is about legal custody, not theories, grudges, or baseless accusations.”

He took a deep breath, stepping forward.

“Bruce Wayne is a man who has suffered losses. He recently witnessed the brutal murder of Richard Grayson, the son of his business partner and friend, John Grayson, inside the family restaurant. He lost more than just an employee: he lost a boy who grew up alongside his children. And yet, Bruce kept the business running, kept the house standing. He kept the children fed, attended school, and received medical and psychological care.”

Lucius turned slightly to the jury.

“Contrary to what my defense colleague will suggest, Ms. Talia al Ghul is not a victim here. My client was falsely accused of being Dick Grayson’s murderer, a serious, unfounded accusation, without evidence. And worse: used as a ploy to discredit him as a father.”

Talia lifted her chin, but remained silent.

Harvey was still waiting, with the patience of a man who knew his turn would come.

Lucius opened a folder and held up a photo of Bruce, covered in blood.

“This image, taken at the crime scene, shows Bruce with head injuries. Ms. al Ghul claims that my client faked the injury. But the facts show otherwise: Bruce was alone. She found him and, in a fit of rage, attacked him with a bottle. Blood does not lie.”

The judge watched without showing any reaction.

Lucius closed the file firmly.

“Bruce is the pillar these children have left. To deny him custody would be to take away the only stability they have left.”

With that, he sat down. The silence was thick.

“Mr. Dent, your turn,” the judge said.

Harvey stood, with a slight skeptical smile.

“Thank you, Your Honor. Let’s get to the point.”

He stepped forward, his voice firm.

“Tallia al Ghul is not perfect. She’s not trying to be. She’s a grieving mother. A woman who watched her children drift away, not by choice, but by the systematic manipulation of a powerful man.”

She pointed at Bruce coldly.

“A man who used tragedy to position himself as a hero. A man who, when Richard Grayson was murdered, wasted no time in positioning himself as a protector. But what’s not being talked about here… is that Talia herself denounced Bruce Wayne as the prime suspect in the case.”

The murmur in the courtroom was muffled.

The judge banged his gavel, but did not interrupt.

“Yes, your honor. Mrs. al Ghul filed a formal complaint. The police investigated. But as this court already knows…” He looked at the jurors, then at Damian, “the key piece of evidence never came forward.”

He holds up his fingers, one by one.

“The dark, bloodstained suit Bruce was supposedly wearing the night he was killed? Missing.
The knife that caused Dick Grayson’s wounds? Never found. Witnesses? None. The cameras in the restaurant? They didn’t pick up the alley where the crime took place.”

Harvey approached the bench.

“And yet, the most scandalous thing was what was omitted: John Grayson, the father of the murdered boy, was never informed that Bruce had been investigated. Never. Because if he had been… this trial wouldn’t be taking place behind closed doors. It would be in the headlines all over town.”

Doug finally intervened.

“Mr. Dent, the prosecution has dismissed the case. Bruce Wayne is not considered a suspect at this time, due to lack of evidence.”

“Exactly,” Harvey replied. “Lack of evidence. It’s not the same as innocence.”

Bruce’s eyes finally narrowed, but he remained still. 

Talia didn’t blink. 

Harvey turned to the children, still sitting.

 “And here, in the center of it all, are three children who have watched their world fall apart. Cassandra, torn. Jason, angry. And Damian…” he hesitated, lowering his voice “…a broken boy, slowly being forced to forget his mother. To accept lies as truth.”

Damian shrank back into his seat. Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. Again. As a reminder.

Harvey continued:

“This is a mother’s fight to save her children from manipulation. And a man’s fight to maintain control at any cost. The court will decide. But time… time will show who is who.”

He sat down.

Judge Doug Thomas looked both ways.

“The court will now hear the psychological reports and the social worker’s report. And, if necessary, the children’s statements. For now, the hearing is adjourned for ten minutes.”

The sound of the hammer echoed like thunder.

Everyone stood up.

Tália finally looked at Damian.

He looked away.

Jason looked at Bruce as if he were facing a monster.

And the man just straightened his jacket.

As if everything was still under his control.

The courtroom was dead silent when Judge Doug Thomas returned to the room. 

His face was impassive, but his eyes conveyed the gravity of what was to come.

 “We will now proceed with the psychological reports of the three children involved. Enter Dr. Leslie Thompkins, forensic psychologist for the Gotham Juvenile Justice Department.”

A middle-aged woman with thin glasses and a tired expression stepped up to the podium with controlled steps. 

She carried a sheaf of papers neatly stapled together. 

Her voice when she spoke was clear, steady, and without melodrama, like someone who had dealt with many broken families.

“Your Honor, members of the court. Over the past three weeks, I have interviewed Jason Todd, Damian al Ghul Wayne, and Cassandra al Ghul Wayne individually, in supervised sessions and without interference from any of their parents or legal guardians.”

She paused.

She looked both ways

Bruce and Talia

as if assessing the damage before describing the battlefield.

“I began with Jason Todd, age thirteen. Mr. Todd demonstrated strong resistance to his father figure. He expressed chronic distrust, traits of poorly managed anger, and episodes of anxiety triggered by mentions of male authority.”

Jason looked away.

Bruce did not react.

“During the sessions, Jason stated that his mother, Thalia al Ghul, was the victim of repeated abuse by Mr. Bruce Wayne. He stated clearly that Bruce “screamed, humiliated, and instilled fear” in both his children and his wife. According to him, his mother would never harm anyone unless it was in self-defense.”

Talia clenched her fists. 

Harvey, beside her, nodded slowly. 

Bruce stood still, but Lucius watched him warily.

 “Jason refused to stay at his father’s house and expressed an explicit desire to live with his mother. He was the most assertive of the three.”

The doctor then turned the page.

“The second case, Damian Thomas Wayne al Ghul, six years old. The child showed clear signs of post-traumatic stress, fear associated with environments with animatronics, and intense anxiety when talking about the house where he currently lives with his father.”

Damian lowered his head.

“The boy seemed divided at times, but ended his sessions stating that he wanted to live with his mother. He described Mr. Bruce Wayne as someone “very angry, who fights a lot and doesn’t like to hug”. He also mentioned that he was afraid to say certain things in front of his father for fear of “being punished” by him.”

The judge frowned, writing something down. Bruce clenched his jaw.

“Damian has expressed affection for his mother figure and relief on the few occasions he has seen her since the separation. He has expressed regret for not having defended her sooner.”

Harvey gave Talia a satisfied look, but her posture remained firm, but her eyes filled with tears for a brief moment.

The doctor paused again.

“Finally, Cassandra Cain Wayne, age nine. Ms. Cassandra has displayed unusual behavior compared to her siblings. She has staunchly defended Mr. Bruce Wayne as “the only trusted adult” in her life. When confronted with reports of aggression or abuse, she has responded that “people exaggerate” and that “sometimes Mommy would get out of control,” which seems worrisome at best.”

Talia raised her hand to her lips. Harvey discreetly grabbed her arm.

“Cassandra said she feels safe with her father and uncomfortable with the idea of ​​returning to her mother’s custody. She said that Talia “is not trustworthy” and that she “has hurt her with ugly words and threats” several times.”

Bruce finally lifted his chin, as if he had been expecting exactly that. The silent victory in his eyes was subtle, but it did not go unnoticed by Talia.

“In short,” Leslie concluded, “we have a clear division: two of the three minors, Jason and Damian, express a desire to live with their mother, demonstrating traumas associated with living with their father. The third, Cassandra, expresses the opposite, revealing rejection of the maternal figure and loyalty to her father.”

She took a deep breath, concluding:

“The clinical picture is serious. There are signs of ongoing parental alienation on both sides. I strongly recommend an immediate precautionary measure of separation between the children and their parents, with temporary custody delegated to a neutral guardian while the investigations and evaluations continue. There is no emotionally stable environment at this time for either child.”

Judge Doug Thomas leaned forward tensely.

“Thank you, Dr. Thompson. The reports will be attached to the case file.”

The room fell silent.

Bruce and Talia didn’t look at each other.

Jason lowered his head.

Damian seemed to have shrunk even further in his seat.

Cassandra looked only at Bruce, as if he were her only beacon of light amidst the chaos.

The judge slowly looked over everyone there.

“The next step will involve the social worker’s reports, followed, if necessary, by direct statements from the children.”

He banged the gavel.

“Hearing adjourned for fifteen minutes.”

The sound echoed through the room like a muffled gunshot.

And no one stood up immediately.

As if no one knew where to go….

The courtroom had been temporarily emptied.

The heavy doors were ajar, the empty benches still warm with tension.

Outside, the sky was beginning to darken, as if time were bending to the gravity of that day.

Tália sat on a bench in a secluded hallway, her eyes fixed somewhere between the ground and nothingness.

Her elegant posture hid a pain that not even pride could mask.

She stood firm, but inside, she was fragmented.

“She looked at me like I was… a stranger,” her voice came out low, hoarse. “Like everything I did meant nothing.”

Harvey sat down next to her, slowly, his elbows on his knees.

 His tone was softer than usual. 

“Cassandra is in survival mode, Talia. She’s trapped in a maze he built from the beginning. This isn’t about you. It’s about who he made her believe you are.” 

“But she’s my daughter.” The sentence escaped in an almost childish whisper. “She was the one who wrote me notes, who told me I was her best friend. She let me braid her hair. Now she won’t even look at my face.”

Harvey stared straight ahead, his jaw set.

“He knows how to play with this. He’s good. A natural manipulator. He plays with guilt, with fear, with need… and turns it into love. A sick love that feels safe. He’s using this girl as a mirror—to show the court the perfect father he pretends to be.”

Talia lowered her face, her fingers tightening on her arms.

“I’m not perfect, Harvey. But I’ve never used my children as shields.”

Harvey nodded slowly.

“And that’s why you still have salvation. Because you truly love them. And not as an extension of your ego.”

At the other end of the courtroom, Bruce was closing the door to a private room behind him.

Lucius stood beside the table, reviewing the documents with mathematical care.

There was a silence here, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was clinical.

Professional.

Cold.

“Jason is emotionally useless,” Bruce said, opening a water bottle with a sharp snap. “Impulsive, disorganized, lacking credibility. He’s a good destabilizing factor, but nothing more.”

“And Damian?” Lucius asked, without looking up.

“He’s falling apart. He can still be contained. The guilt will consume him before he can accuse me of anything more direct. Cassandra, though…” Bruce paused briefly, like a chess player adjusting the right piece. “Cassandra is still the key. The emotional balance of the family. The face people believe in. And most of all, the one who trusts me.”

Lucius finally looked at him.

“Do you really trust? Or have you just not learned to doubt?”

Bruce looked at him with a half smile.

“At this point, it’s all the same.”

Cassandra sat alone in another room, her arms crossed in her lap, her legs swinging slowly, nervously. 

Her eyes were on the floor, but her mind was elsewhere. 

When the door opened, she flinched a little, but relaxed when she saw Bruce. 

He smiled, with that false calm that confused security with control.

“Hey baby. Is everything okay?”

She hesitated.

Then she nodded softly.

Bruce came over and knelt in front of her, his eyes level with hers.

He took her hands in his with studied tenderness.

“I know this is hard. You’ve been so strong, Cassie. Strong beyond your years. And I… I’m so grateful to have you by my side.”

She looked away.

“I don’t want to badmouth Mom…”

“You don’t have to.” His voice was smooth as silk. “Just tell me what you saw. What you felt. What scared you. Because, you see, the court needs to know the truth. And the truth is… you feel safe with me, right?”

She hesitated. 

The silence stretched. 

“I… I feel safer here, yes… but…”

Bruce brought one of her hands to his chest. 

“You are my heart, Cassandra. And whatever you say, whatever you do… I will be here, protecting you. Always. But if you want your brothers to be safe… if you want no one to get hurt anymore… then you have to trust me. Like you always have.”

Cassandra closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, there were tears contained, but also fear. And guilt.

“I don’t want anyone to be mad at me…”

Bruce smiled, and kissed her forehead with icy tenderness.

“No one will be. You are perfect, my angel. And everyone will understand. They just need to hear it from you… what really matters.”

She nodded, very slowly.

“Okay…”

Bruce stood up and fixed his daughter’s hair with an almost theatrical gesture.

He left the room with the same smile on his face

but his eyes were sharp as razors.

Lucius was waiting outside.

“So?”

“She’ll talk.” Bruce walked past him calmly. “And when she does… Talia won’t have anything left to hold on to.”

Outside, Judge Doug Thomas was receiving notification that the courthouse was ready to reopen.

The doors would open in a few minutes.

The pieces were in place.

And the next move would decide everything.

The courtroom doors opened again, and the audience was ushered back to their seats.

The atmosphere was already more tense than before.

Tália sat with her jaw clenched, trying to maintain her composure.

Bruce straightened his jacket with practiced calm.

Cassandra remained seated next to him, her eyes downcast.

Lucius calmly stood up and motioned to the judge.

“Your Honor, before the next scheduled witness, the defense requests that Jason Todd be called to the stand.”

Beside Talia, Harvey immediately stood up, indignant.

“Objection, Your Honor. Jason is a minor, and we all know that forcing him onto the witness stand could affect his psychological state. There has been enough emotional exposure today. We are talking about a wounded teenager, in an environment that will only retraumatize him.”

Lucius remained impassive.

“With all due respect, Your Honor, Jason Todd is not just the son of the parties involved. He is one of the central witnesses to the family dynamics. His accounts have been presented in documents and partial statements. The court needs to hear from him directly, without third-party interpretation. Our interest is the truth.”

Judge Doug Thomas studied the two attorneys closely. 

He scanned his notes, then looked directly at Jason, who sat with his arms crossed, looking visibly irritated.

“The decision is not simple,” the judge said slowly. “But the court believes that the young man’s testimony can shed light on serious allegations made by both parties. The testimony will be allowed, with subsequent psychological counseling if necessary.”

Talia closed her eyes in anguish.

Harvey sighed.

Jason rolled his eyes and stood up, kicking his chair back slightly as he walked to the witness stand.

He sat with his body hunched over and his shoulders tense.

Anger and discomfort were etched in his every gesture.

Lucius approached, opening his arms cordially.

“Jason… I know you didn’t want to be here. We appreciate your willingness to speak honestly. All we want to do is hear your side of the story. Can you start by telling us what your life with your parents was like?”

Jason looked down at the floor, took a deep breath, then looked up. His gaze was direct. Painful.

“It was shit.” The words came out dry. “For as long as I can remember, everything was about control. Everything had to be his way. Bruce’s way.”

Lucius remained calm.

“Could you specify?”

Jason nodded, his voice cracking briefly.

“He would yell. Sometimes he would break things. When he drank…he drank a lot, it got even worse. He would never accept it when I made mistakes. I had to be the perfect son. When I wasn’t, he would…beat me.”

A murmur went through the courtroom.

Harvey looked at Talia, and she looked away, biting her lip.

“Hit me how?”

“Punched me. Slapped me. Shoved me. He threw me against the wall once because I got a bad grade. I was ten.” Jason shook his head, his eyes shining. “He was always like that. But no one saw it. Because he was ‘Bruce Wayne.’ And everyone bought into this image of a good father, an exemplary businessman. But at home, he was a tyrant.”

Lucius stepped aside, his grace restrained.

“Have you ever witnessed violent behavior from your mother?”

Jason looked directly at him.

“No. Never. Mom yelled, yes, especially when she was desperate about what he was doing. But she never raised a hand to me. Never. She took care of me. She was the one who put me to bed when he disappeared for days. She was the one who held my hand when I cried after being beaten. I want… I need to be with her. I can’t stand living with him anymore.”

Lucius paused briefly. 

His expression was calm, almost understanding, but his eyes were ready to attack. 

“Jason, we recognize the pain you’re expressing. But let me ask you: in the last few months, after the tragedy with Dick Grayson… have you noticed any change in your father’s behavior?” 

Jason frowned, irritated. 

“He’s been quieter. He’s calmer now. He’s always controlling himself…” 

Lucius walked closer to the judge, then turned back to Jason. 

“There’s been no more aggression?”

Jason hesitated.

“No. Not physical. But he’s still manipulating everything. Especially Cassie and Damian.”

“And your mother?” Lucius didn’t miss a beat. “Do you think she’s maintained the same emotional balance these past few months?”

Jason was silent.

“Jason, is it true that your mother has been having a breakdown lately? That she has been seen arguing in public, crying, threatening to leave the house with you and not come back?”

Harvey stood up.

“Objection. You are attempting to misrepresent the mother’s suffering.”

“Partially sustained,” the judge said. “Restate.”

Lucius nodded, calm as ever.

“Jason, do you think your mother is in better emotional shape today than your father?”

Jason hesitated again.

As much as he hated Bruce, as much as he wanted to return to his mother’s arms, he knew that Talia had been emotionally distraught.

And Lucius knew exactly where to put it.

“She’s… tired. But only because she’s fighting for us.”

“So you recognize that she is emotionally unstable?”

“I recognize that she is destroyed because she is losing and is being forced to deal with this monster!”

Lucius merely nodded, keeping his tone calm.

“But the ‘monster’ you describe… has been sober for months. He’s been in therapy. He’s been praised by teachers and psychologists for his care of Cassandra. He’s present. Stable. While your mother is unstable. Right?”

Jason gritted his teeth.

“That doesn’t erase what he did!”

“But the court isn’t judging the past, Jason. It’s judging the present. What’s best for you today. And even with how you feel, and I respect that, wouldn’t it be fair to admit that, at least in the last few months, your father has been more stable than your mother?”

Jason lowered his head.

For a moment, the silence in the room was deafening.

Each breath felt like it weighed a ton.

When he answered, his voice was weaker.

“I just want to be with my mother. That’s it.”

Lucius stepped away. The wound had been exposed

and, in the process, turned into an argument in favor of the defense.

The judge thanked Jason for his testimony.

Harvey put his hand on the boy's shoulder as he stepped down from the witness stand, trying to comfort him.

On the other side, Bruce kept the same discreet smile.

His image remained intact.

And the blow, even though painful, was beginning to have an effect.

The courtroom had fallen into an uncomfortable silence after Jason's testimony. 

Harvey stood up slowly. 

He adjusted his tie, took a deep breath, and walked with firm steps to the center of the room. 

Talia watched him from the defense table, her eyes still red but maintaining a dignified posture. 

She was clearly shaken, but determined. 

Cassandra avoided her. 

Bruce, on the other side, maintained his immaculate facade of serenity. 

Harvey stood before the judge.

“Your Honor, with your permission, the defense would like to present its first formal argument on behalf of Ms. Thalia al Ghul.”

The judge nodded.

Harvey then turned to the jury, his eyes moving one by one over the attentive faces.

“Everyone here has heard Jason Todd’s testimony. A thirteen-year-old boy, forced to sit on this bench and relive wounds that should never have been opened. Not for lack of love. But because, over the years, he was silenced. His pain was covered by charisma, by influence, by power.”

He paused firmly.

“Bruce Wayne’s defense wants this court to believe a convenient narrative: that of a man who suddenly “changed” after the tragedy that took Dick Grayson’s life. But let me ask you: why did it take the death of a child for Bruce Wayne to start acting like a father?”

A few members of the jury shifted. Bruce kept his expression impassive, but he clasped his hands tighter.

Harvey pointed toward Talia.

“Mrs. al Ghul is not perfect. She is not cold. She is not calculating. She is not deceitful. She does not wear expensive suits or make measured speeches. She is human. A mother who loved, protected and supported her children with all her strength, while being isolated, discredited, emotionally manipulated by a man who knew how to hide his own abuses under a mask of philanthropy and social graces.”

He approached the jury box, more subdued now.

“Tallia al Ghul was accused. Yes. By Bruce. And by her daughter Cassandra, whose loyalty to her father figure is well known, even by social workers. But there was no evidence. No murder weapon. No bloodstained suit, as she reported. No evidence. Nothing to link her to Dick Grayson’s murder. Nothing. On the contrary: it was proven that the evidence mysteriously disappeared from the Wayne house before it could be analyzed.”

Harvey stopped before the substitute judge, but spoke to everyone:

“What happened, gentlemen, was an attempt to turn a mother’s pain into guilt. Because it’s easier to blame the unstable woman than to question the influential man. The same man who, for years, was denounced by Talia for violent behavior. The same man who, today, Jason confirmed that he was abusive.”

Lucius shifted, but Harvey was already looking at him.

“Prosecutor Lucius Fox will try, and has already tried, to use these young men’s emotions against them. He wants you to believe that because Bruce seems like a better father now, that erases everything that happened before. But I ask you: would you accept leaving a child with someone who only controls himself when he’s being watched?”

He turned to the jury.

“Cassandra is with her father. Yes. But that doesn’t invalidate the truth about the other children. Damian stayed with his mother, and he keeps asking for her. Jason is pleading for her. And even when he despairs, even when he wavers, he keeps telling himself the same thing: she cared for him. She loved him. And no amount of false change or recent sobriety can erase that bond.”

Harvey slowly returned to his seat.

“The defense will demonstrate, with statements, documents, psychological reports and more testimonies, that Bruce Wayne is, in fact, manipulative, violent and dangerous, and that his current appearance as a good father is an image construct. While Talia, even hurt, even defamed, continues to be the only one between the two who has never stopped loving her children. Thank you.”

The silence in the courtroom was different now.

More tense.

More inclined toward discomfort than certainty.

Talia blinked several times, choking back tears.

Harvey gave her a small nod.

She clenched her fists in her lap, gathering strength.

Bruce just leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth slightly curved.

But his eyes were darker.

He knew the war had truly begun.

Judge Doug Thomas gave a slight nod, and Harvey Dent stood up once more.

“The defense requests the testimony of Detective Harvey Bullock.”

Bullock entered the courtroom with the same tired, cynical energy as ever.

His rumpled overcoat was at odds with the polished atmosphere of the courtroom.

He chewed gum and tipped his hat respectfully to the judge, but his eyes swept the room like someone who had seen too much to be impressed by rich people.

“Detective Bullock, please identify yourself for the court.”

“Detective Harvey Bullock. Gotham Police Department. Over twenty years of service.”

Harvey walked up to him.

“You were involved in the investigation of Bruce Wayne’s residence the night Talia al Ghul accused him of involvement in Dick Grayson’s murder and was also arrested for the assault, correct?”

“Yes. My partner Montoya and I were the first to arrive at the mansion, after a formal complaint was filed by Mrs. Wayne.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing. We looked for any trace of blood, any clothing with traces of a weapon, any sign of suspicious activity. Everything was clean. Almost too clean, to be honest.” Bullock scratched his beard. “The house looked freshly cleaned. Like someone had taken the time to set the scene.”

Harvey turned to the judge.

“That’s the time Mr. Wayne had. Confirmed by the call recordings. It was forty-seven minutes between the report and the arrival of the patrol car.”

He then walked back to the detective.

“Would you say that in that time it would be possible for someone to… hide, destroy, or even burn evidence?”

The courtroom froze.

Bruce, who had kept his hands firmly clasped on his knees, shifted abruptly.

A sudden tension passed through his jaw.

He didn’t look at anyone, just stared blankly, as if trying to stifle an impulse.

Bullock raised an eyebrow and looked straight at Lucius Fox, as if guessing his next attempt at objection.

“Possible?” Bullock repeated, staring at Harvey. “Absolutely. We’re talking about a two-story property, a staff trained to maintain secrecy, and an owner who knows every corner of that place better than anyone. And yes, if someone wanted to burn something in there, they could. There’s an industrial oven in the garage wing. I know each one. It’s easier to hide a body there than a glass of wine in a kitchenette.”

Lucius stood up.

“Objection, speculation.”

Doug nodded, but hesitantly.

“Partially supported. Detective, please stick to the facts.”

Bullock held up his hands, as if he didn’t want to fight.

“Fact is, when we got there, the house was clean. So clean it looked freshly washed.”

Harvey then approached the jury, his voice controlled.

“No evidence. No weapons. No bloodstained suits. No knives. Nothing. The question is not whether Talia was lying. The question is: why was none of this found?”

He slowly turned his head, looking at Bruce.

“Because someone rushed to erase the crime before the police could see it.”

Bruce clenched his fingers so tightly that the knuckles turned white.

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

Talia looked at him for the first time in a long time

and recognized it.

That little tremor.

That jaw twitch.

She had seen it before.

It was what Bruce did when someone talked too much.

Jason, from the back row, whispered to Damian,

“He’s shaking.”

Damian stared, silent.

His brow furrowed.

Confirmation came with the silence.

Bruce knew the accusation wasn’t just rhetoric.

The judge interjected:

“Mr. Dent, do you have any further questions?”

“No, Your Honor. I thank Detective Bullock.”

Bullock walked slowly away, his hat back on his head, without looking at Bruce.

He had read that expression before.

He knew what it meant.

Lucius was writing something down quickly. 

Bruce sat back, but his fingers still drummed softly on the arm of his chair, a mechanical, repetitive beat. 

A man trying to maintain control. But the courtroom was beginning to see the cracks.

The clock was almost four in the afternoon when Judge Doug Thomas returned from recess, his eyes heavy with fatigue. 

Tension was still present in the air, after Detective Bullock's testimony and the brief pause in which Harvey and Talia spoke separately, and Bruce manipulated Cassandra in a low voice. 

Lucius Fox stood up with firm posture, walking to the center of the room. 

His gaze was cold, his voice polished like a sharp blade. 

"Your Honor, the prosecution would like to resume its defense of Mr. Wayne, now with evidence and arguments that deconstruct the emotional instability and inconsistencies in Ms. Talia al Ghul's speech."

Harvey looked up, visibly tense.

Lucius walked over to the digital screen next to the judge.

“Clinical evidence indicates that Mrs. al Ghul has been diagnosed with intermittent complex post-traumatic stress disorder, a diagnosis obtained after the events of Dick Grayson’s death, who, as everyone here knows, was not the son of either party involved.”

Talia clenched her fists.

“The recordings from the night of the complaint, partially recovered by the police security system, show Bruce Wayne with visibly agitated behavior, yes, but they also show that there was no evidence of physical aggression against the minors. None. Not even marks. Not even subsequent medical reports proved otherwise.”

Harvey shifted, but remained silent.

Lucius then took another step forward.

“The records of Bruce Wayne’s emotional rehabilitation in the last few months, after the tragedy, indicate constant participation in therapy sessions, impulse control programs, and parental support. In addition, witnesses saw him, repeatedly, showing care for Cassandra and Damian. This shows evolution, commitment, and stability.”

“However, an important piece of the puzzle has not yet been heard. Someone who was present on the night of the incident. Someone who saw, even partially, what happened. I request the testimony of Damian Wayne.”

The room fell silent.

Talia, sitting next to Harvey, widened her eyes.

Her body leaned forward in an involuntary, protective gesture.

Harvey stood up, his voice thick with indignation.

“Your Honor, this is absurd! Damian is only six years old. He doesn’t even fully understand what’s at stake here. Using a child like this is cruel, it’s inhumane!”

The judge hesitated. 

It took him several seconds to answer.

 “I understand your concern, Mr. Dent… but if the witness, even a minor, witnessed part of what happened, the court has an obligation to listen to him. With caution. With supervision. But he must listen to him.” 

Talia put her hand to her mouth. 

Her eyes filled with tears immediately.

 “He doesn’t understand… he’s just a boy…” 

Bruce, on the opposite bench, remained still. 

Cold. 

His fingers drummed slowly on his knee. 

He didn’t even blink.

Outside the room, Damian was called.

The boy entered with small, dragging steps, his shoulders hunched and his eyes fixed on the floor.

He was pale.

His black suit seemed too big, as if it were swallowing him.

His eyes were sunken, red from crying.

When he looked at his mother, for a second, his lips moved

but no words came out…

Bruce just watched.

Every reaction.

Every detail.

Like someone calculating a chess game with absolute precision.

Damian was positioned in front of the judge, with an official at his side to ensure he didn’t feel alone. 

But he was alone. 

And he knew it. 

Lucius bent down to the boy’s level, with studied, almost clinical gentleness. 

“Damian… good afternoon. Are you feeling well?” 

The boy nodded almost imperceptibly. 

He didn’t answer out loud.

Lucius continued, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Damian, do you remember the night your parents fought?”

Silence.

“Can you tell me what you saw?”

Damian pressed his lips together.

Tears filled his eyes, but he fought them back.

The voice that came out of him was so low that the microphone barely picked it up.

“I… came downstairs… because I heard screaming…”

Lucius stood close, looking encouragingly.

“Please continue.”

“Daddy was… on the floor. His head was bleeding…. There was screaming. He yelled at Mommy… her eyes were… strange… with fear.”

Talia brought her hand to her face, tears streaming down her face.

Harvey grabbed her shoulder.

“Damian, were you scared?”

The boy hesitated.

“Y-Yes.”

Lucius walked back to the center of the room, projecting his voice:

“Did you see your father get hurt?”

“I-I… I don’t know.”

“Was he hurt?”

“He looked like he was…”

“What about your mother? Did she protect you?”

Damian breathed heavily.

“She…seemed…kind of scared and-and desperate…”

Harvey stood up again.

“I object! This line of questioning is predatory!”

The judge hesitated… but allowed it a little longer. 

Bruce kept his gaze fixed on the boy. 

Like an invisible rope pulling Damian deeper into the abyss. 

Lucius then hardened his tone. 

His eyes were now cold, pointed. 

“Damian… do you love your father?” 

“Y-Yes…” 

“Has he ever hit you?” 

Damian hesitated. 

A lump in his throat. 

His eyes jumped to his father. 

Bruce briefly met his eyes. 

And smiled. 

Almost imperceptibly.

Damian froze.

“No… he… only hurt my wrist once…”

“Hurt me how?”

“He… squeezed my wrist… really hard. But he didn’t… he didn’t hit me…”

“And your mother?”

“She…yelled at my brothers once. But it’s only sometimes and I…hide when that happens.”

Lucius leaned in.

“Are you afraid of your mother, Damian?”

“I-I’m not—”

Lucius’s tone rose.

More pointed.

More cruel.

“Did you see your mother hurt your father?”

“I don’t know!” the boy cried finally. “I don’t know anything! Please stop!”

And then he collapsed, his body shaking and sobs tearing from his throat.

“I just want… to go home… I don’t want to choose… please…”

Tália stood up desperately, but was restrained.

The judge stood up soon after.

“Statement closed. Take the boy to the support room. Immediately.”

From the bench, Bruce closed his eyes for a second.

Inside, he smiled.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

Damian had been taken by a social worker to the support room. 

He was still crying. 

His trembling hands gripped his knees. 

He wanted his mother. 

He wanted her to be around. 

But everything seemed confusing, broken. 

As if loving them both was wrong. 

As if the blame lay with him. 

Outside, in the side hallway where the parties awaited the next steps, Talia was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, her head down, her eyes swollen. 

She tried to breathe deeply, to maintain some dignity, but her gaze was lost 

as if something inside her had been ripped out.

Harvey Dent stood beside him, his jacket draped over his arm, his jaw set. 

He tried to hide his discomfort. 

He knew he was a man of the law, he knew he had to remain rational… but this had been too much. 

“He’s just a kid,” Harvey finally muttered. “They used him as a weapon.”

Talia didn’t answer. The words didn’t seem to make sense. She had been silent for minutes.

“Cassandra…” she whispered finally. “She wants to be with him. With him. After everything. She looks at me like I’m a monster. Like I’m… dangerous. My daughter thinks I’m a danger.”

Harvey looked at her with regret.

“It’s not your fault. He shaped Cassandra. He used her. This man manipulates everything around him like he’s moving pieces on a chessboard. And now, with Damian… this was emotional torture disguised as testimony.”

“I should have stopped him,” Talia whispered. “I should have done something. He… he looked at me before he started to answer. Looking for permission. Looking for salvation.”

She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

“And I just sat there. Watched. As he fell apart.”

Harvey took a deep breath, gripping her shoulder.

“Hey. Listen. We’re going to fix this. We’re going to dismantle this act of his. Everything. The good father act, the controlled tone, the pretty words. He’s going to get lost in his own trap.”

She shook her head, her voice cracking.

“What… if it’s too late?”

Across the courtroom, in a private room, Bruce Wayne stood next to Lucius Fox. 

He was calmly drinking a glass of water, as if nothing had happened. 

His face was a mask of serenity. 

His absolute control of the environment was palpable. 

Lucius, standing next to him, was looking at a series of documents on the table

transcripts of the depositions, psychological reports, photos from the night of the crime.

 “The boy’s emotional breakdown worked better than expected,” Lucius commented, without emotion. “The judge saw a confused, stressed, and scared boy. But to the jury… he seemed afraid of his mother. You get more points.”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“He hesitated over the right words. He reinforced his doubt. And he ended up crying. It was perfect.”

Lucius looked at him.

“Don’t you feel… the slightest bit guilty?”

Bruce turned slowly, a slight smile on the corner of his lips.

“Guilt is for the weak. I give my children what they need. Direction. Stability. They will either love me for it or fear me. In the end, the result is the same.”

Lucius looked away, silent. He knew Bruce was irreparably broken inside.

But now was not the time to think about that.

There was one more piece to move.

“Time to talk to Cassandra,” Bruce said, pulling on his jacket and squaring his shoulders. “We just need to make sure the last piece fits.”

Cassandra was sitting alone in a chair near the water fountain. 

The five-year-old girl swung her feet slightly in the air, her hands clasped in her lap. 

Her eyes were downcast. 

She didn’t seem as confident as before. 

Bruce approached slowly, kneeling in front of her. 

“Cassie.” 

She looked at him. 

There was doubt in the girl’s eyes. 

Fear.

 But also attachment. 

“Daddy… I don’t like it when you and Mom fight because of me.” 

Bruce placed his hand gently over hers.

 “I know, angel. But you’re doing the right thing. You’re strong. Brave. Unlike them. They want to tear our family apart. But we… we’re better than that, aren’t we?” 

She hesitated. 

“And if I make a mistake, what will I say?”

Bruce smiled gently.

“You won’t make a mistake. You’ll just tell the truth, like we agreed. That your mother sometimes yells. That she scares you. That you feel safer with me. That’s all.”

She pressed her lips together.

“But Mommy…”

“Mommy’s sick, Cassie. She needs help. But that’s not your fault. Your job now is to protect Damian. And me. Jason. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded, almost mesmerized.

“Yes…”

Bruce stroked her face, soft, fatherly, full of sweetness.

A caress enhanced by layers of manipulation so subtle that even she didn’t notice.

“Good girl. I’m so proud of you.”

She smiled, even with the fear still in her eyes.

Bruce stood up, adjusting the cuffs of his suit.

The next piece was ready.

The courtroom was silent as everyone returned to their seats. 

Harvey Dent straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and walked with firm steps to the center of the courtroom. 

His expression was more serious than ever. 

When he looked up, his eyes met the judge’s, and then Talia’s, sitting at the defense table, still visibly shaken. 

Harvey didn’t hesitate.

 “Your Honor,” he began, his voice ringing clear and strong, “the testimony of the previous child should never have been allowed. And what happened there was not justice, it was emotional manipulation.”

The judge raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“Damian Wayne,” Harvey continued, turning to the jury, “did not have the emotional maturity to be on that bench. And yet he was put there, pressured by aggressive questioning, intimidation tactics, and the weight of conflict between his own parents. And why?”

He pointed discreetly in Bruce's direction.

"Because your father knows exactly how to break the people around him. Because Bruce Wayne isn't trying to prove himself innocent; he's trying to win. At any cost."

A murmur ran through the audience.

“Let’s get to the facts. Damian has tearfully stated that he loves his mother. He has stated that she protects him. He has stated that while he also loves his father, he can be… dangerous. He used that word. Dangerous. This is not a child lying. This is a child in conflict, trying to please two sides and failing because only one side will truly listen to him.” 

Harvey then turned directly to the jury. 

“And the manipulation doesn’t stop there. Cassandra, Bruce’s adopted daughter, is now his direct guardian. She was raised by him. Educated by him. And yet, until recently, she had contact with her mother. I ask you: what has this girl seen? What has she heard? How many times has she been trained, molded, manipulated into repeating sweet words that sound perfect for a courtroom?”

He paused strategically.

“We’ve heard from two children. Two. Both, despite their fear, despite their confusion, have pointed to the same truth: Talia Al Ghul Wayne is a good mother. Present. Protective. And Bruce Wayne is a man these children, even though they love him, clearly fear him.”

He crossed his arms

“Anyone with a modicum of empathy would understand that this is enough. That no more children should be drawn into this game. But I suspect that Mr. Fox would disagree.”

And he took two steps back, silent.

The judge then turned to Lucius.

“Mr. Fox?”

Lucius adjusted his glasses calmly, walking to the center as if preparing a technical report.

Cold.

Precise.

Impartial only in appearance.

“Your Honor, members of the jury, I regret that Mr. Dent confuses legal strategy with manipulation. The truth is that the court needs to hear from these children. They lived with both guardians. They are the only direct witnesses to what the family environment was really like.” 

He glanced briefly at Harvey, then turned back to the judge. 

“If Mr. Dent believes that Mrs. Al Ghul’s children were used by Bruce Wayne, then I propose that we confirm that in the most logical way possible by hearing from the other child involved.”

Harvey stood up immediately, indignant.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, this is absurd! We are talking about a girl even younger than Damian. A five-year-old child!”

Lucius replied without changing his tone.

“A child who lives with Bruce Wayne on a daily basis. Who, according to the defense, was manipulated and trained. If this is true, she will confirm what Mr. Dent said. But if it is a lie… the jury will see for themselves.”

The judge hesitated. 

He was clearly uncomfortable. 

But, under pressure from both sides, he sighed deeply. 

“I accept the request. The girl may testify. But the time will be reduced, and the questions will be controlled. No intimidation.” 

Lucius gave a slight nod of satisfaction. 

“I thank you, Your Honor.” 

He then turned, heading back to the prosecution table. 

He made a subtle gesture to a court officer. 

“Call Cassandra Cain Wayne.”

The courtroom remained in almost absolute silence. 

Every breath seemed to echo between the walls, every movement generated an attentive look. 

When the side door opened and Cassandra was led to the witness stand, the atmosphere seemed to freeze. 

The girl walked with short, controlled steps. 

The white dress she wore contrasted with the paleness of her skin and her hair perfectly tied in a ponytail. 

Her face? Expressionless. 

Talia, on the other side of the room, shivered when she saw her. 

Her daughter. 

Cold as marble. 

Like her father 

Cassandra sat down. 

The judge asked her to swear to tell the truth, and she just nodded, eyes fixed straight ahead, without looking anywhere. 

As if she had erased the rest of the world.

Lucius Fox approached the witness stand with his usual composure, his steps precise, his hands behind his back. 

His eyes were calm but attentive. 

He didn't need to improvise. 

All of this had been rehearsed before. 

Several times.

 "Cassandra," he began softly, "can you tell me your age?" 

"Five years old," the girl replied, her voice firm but emotionless.

And where do you live now?

“With my father, Bruce Wayne.”

“Do you like living with him?”

“Yes. He takes care of me.”

Lucius nodded, feigning a slight air of satisfaction, but not deviating from the script.

“And what was your routine like with your mother when she lived with you?”

The girl hesitated for a split second.

Then she answered, still looking straight ahead, without meeting anyone’s eyes.

“It was… difficult.”

“Can you explain?”

“She got nervous easily. She told me I needed to be more of an adult and stop acting like a child. That I shouldn’t throw tantrums. Sometimes she would scream. Sometimes… she would break things.”

Talia shifted in her chair, as if she had been slapped in the face. The tightness in her chest grew with each word.

Lucius continued with the same studied calm.

“Did you feel safe with your mother?”

“No. Almost never.”

“Why?”

“She… said I was the only thing she had. But she also said I couldn’t let her down. One day, I accidentally tore a page out of a book and she screamed for a long time.”

Tália closed her eyes. The memory, distorted, cut like a knife. The truth wasn’t like that. None of it was like that.

Lucius took a small step forward, his voice even lower.

“And with your father… do you feel safe?”

“Yes. He listens to me. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t make me afraid.”

“Has he ever raised his hand to you?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever locked you up somewhere? Has he ever made you feel guilty for making a mistake?”

“No. He always explains things to me. He understands me.”

Lucius took a deep breath and moved a little closer, as if he wanted to end the situation with certainty.

“Cassandra… who do you feel safer with? Your mother… or your father?”

The girl looked at him for the first time.

Her eyes were dry.

Cold.

Almost trained.

“With my father.”

Lucius nodded, satisfied.

“Thank you, Cassandra. No more questions.”

He walked away, leaving a deathly silence in the room.

On the defense bench, Harvey watched with narrowed eyes.

The jury exchanged discreet glances. Talia lowered her face for a moment.

And finally, Bruce… Bruce just smiled.

Not a big smile. Nothing that drew attention.

Just a slight curve of the lips.

Discreet.

Controlled.

Almost imperceptible.

Like someone watching a play unfold exactly as it was rehearsed.

The judge nodded curtly, allowing the defense to question the witness.

Harvey Dent stood with a soft sigh, tugging at his suspenders with his thumbs before releasing his hands and walking toward Cassandra.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t try to lighten the mood with jokes or informality.

He just stared at her for a few seconds, as if trying to see beyond the surface.

“Cassandra,” he said finally, his voice firm but gentle, “can I ask you a few questions?”

The girl nodded, impassive.

“I don’t want you to think that anyone here is against you, okay? My job is just to understand you better. Deal?”

She just stared.

Harvey took a deep breath.

“You said that your mother got nervous sometimes. And that she would yell. Do you remember how old that was?”

“Four,” she answered promptly.

“Right. You said she screamed… when she was disappointed in you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember her ever physically hurting you?”

The girl hesitated.

But not because of the content of the question

but because that was not part of the script.

She then shook her head.

“So… she never hit you?”

“No.”

“She never pushed you, or pulled you hard?”

“No.”

“So all you’re saying about her is that she yelled… once when she was angry?”

“Yes.”

Harvey stepped a little closer.

“Cassandra, you know… sometimes parents make mistakes. Sometimes they lose control. But that doesn’t make them monsters. Do you think your mother is a monster?”

Bruce, across the room, frowned slightly.

The question hadn’t been part of the plan.

Cassandra looked at Harvey.

For a moment, it seemed like she would answer differently.

But then, something in her eyes seemed to freeze again.

“I’m afraid of her.”

“Afraid… because of a yelling match? Because of a punishment?”

Lucius stood up, his tone sharp.

“Objection. You are pressuring the witness.”

The judge hesitated for a second, then waved his hand.

“Hold the line, Mr. Dent.”

Harvey sighed and nodded.

“Of course, your honor. Cassandra,” he turned to her again, “you said your father never yells, never scares you, always listens to you. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Do you remember, then, when was the last time you saw your father… angry?”

The girl bit the corner of her mouth slightly.

The court noticed the tension.

“I don’t remember,” she replied after a moment.

“Have you ever seen him angry with anyone? Not even with your brother, Jason?”

Lucius protested again

“Relevant?”

“I’m trying to understand the children’s home environment, your honor.”

The judge allowed it.

Cassandra swallowed.

“He got angry sometimes… with Jason. But… nothing major.”

Harvey took a subtle step forward.

“Cassandra… you’re here today because you want the truth to be told. Right?”

She nodded.

“And are you telling the truth for yourself… or because your father told you what to say?”

Silence.

The entire courtroom seemed to hold its breath.

Bruce stared at his daughter.

Not with threat.

But with a kind of quiet expectation that was all too familiar to her.

The girl took a moment to answer. She looked at Harvey, then at the judge, then back at the blank wall in front of her.

“I’m telling the truth.”

Harvey backed away.

He knew he couldn’t get any further.

She was too closed off.

Too trained.

But he knew what the jury had seen

a girl who didn't look like a child.

Who spoke like an adult.

Who hid her feelings.

And sometimes, what is left unsaid...speaks louder than what is said.

He nodded and turned to the judge.

"No more questions."

Cassandra was dismissed.

And as she stepped down from the witness stand, for a moment, she met Talia's gaze.

She didn't say anything.

But her mother read there

behind her dull eyes

a silent plea for help that the girl didn't yet know how to make.

Harvey walked to the center of the courtroom with the slow, steady steps of someone who carries weight

but also truth.

He looked at the jury with a restrained expression, but his eyes lit up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his deep voice filling the room, “much has been said. Much has been insinuated. But now is the time to look at everything we have seen, heard, and felt during this trial… and separate the facts from the appearances.”

He paused, gesturing lightly.

“Talia al Ghul is a mother. A woman. A person who, like any human being, has moments of pain, anger, failure. But what we have not seen, what no one has been able to prove, is that she is violent, unstable, or dangerous.”

He turned to the jury with more intensity.

“Jason Todd. Damian Wayne. Two sons. Two shaken young men. They could have kept quiet. They could have been neutral. But they both said, before this court: ‘My mother never hurt me.’ And what’s more: ‘My father has hurt me.’”

He paused.

“Jason, with courage, told about the yelling, the slapping, the punching. About the alcohol. About the constant fear. About how he only found safety and comfort with his mother.”

“Damian, still so young, was placed in this courtroom, trembling, vulnerable, facing aggressive questions… and yet he said, ‘I love my mother. She’s a good mother.’ He said his father is sometimes dangerous. That there was fear.”

He turned and pointed, with a restrained but firm gesture, in the direction where Bruce sat, cold as ever.

“And then we saw Cassandra. The daughter Bruce claims to love. A girl who repeats phrases like someone studying for a test. Who answers appropriately. Who says she fears her mother, but can’t explain why. Who doesn’t remember any violent incidents. Who denies any physical aggression. Who speaks like someone who memorized it, and not like someone who lived it.”

Harvey got a little closer to the jury, in a more personal tone.

“I’m not saying Bruce Wayne is a monster all the time. He’s a powerful, influential man with an impeccable public image. But that’s precisely the danger. Because a smart manipulator… doesn’t throw punches in public. He doesn’t yell in front of the cameras. He smiles. He hugs. He cries at the right time. And behind the scenes… he controls, suffocates, and guides what his children should say.”

He paused for a long moment.

“Bruce’s children”—all but Cassandra—“say the same thing: ‘My father hurt us. My mother didn’t.’ And yet, it was TALIA who became the target. The woman labeled unstable. Dangerous. Why? Because she screamed once? Without violence?”

Harvey now turned to the judge.

“Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury… if we scream at a child in a moment of despair, we have failed. But we have not become monsters.”

“A monster is someone who hides behind well-pressed suits. Behind well-paid lawyers. Behind fabricated narratives, where the only ones who suffer are those with the least voice: the children.”

He looked back at the jury one last time.

“I ask you to look into the eyes of these children. At the fear they carry. At the confusion. At the coherence among those who have not been molded. And I ask… that you give Talia al Ghul the right to be what she has always been: a mother.”

Harvey then slowly walked away, sitting next to Talia, who had tears in her eyes but her chin held high.

Lucius stood calmly. 

He adjusted his tie, picked up some papers from the bench in front of him, and walked gracefully to the center of the room. 

His steps were measured, his posture erect. 

In contrast to the emotional charge of Harvey’s earlier speech, he radiated calm and control.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, without raising his voice, “do not let yourselves be seduced by pretty words. Or by tears. This is a court of law. And here, what matters… is the truth.”

He turned to the jury, hands clasped in front of him.

“The truth is that Talia al Ghul is not being accused of a lack of love. No. The problem here is imbalance. Emotional instability. An inability to provide a healthy environment for three children—one of whom has a history of trauma.”

He turned slightly, now facing the judge, but still speaking to the jury.

“Jason Todd is a teenager marked by rebelliousness, aggressive behavior and episodes of violence recorded in school and psychological documents. Damian Wayne is six years old and has been diagnosed with severe anxiety, night terrors and difficulty trusting adults. And Cassandra… Cassandra is the only one who still maintains emotional stability and full trust in one of her parents.”

Lucius looked directly at Talia for a brief moment, before continuing

“The defense tries to paint Mr. Wayne as a manipulative man. A cold-blooded monster. A cinematic archetype of an abusive father. But where are the records? Where are the medical records? Where is the evidence? And as for the alleged murder of Richard Grayson… again: no evidence, no knife, no blood on his suit. Nothing. Just a desperate accusation made by an emotionally distraught woman and confirmed as false by the police investigation itself.”

He paused briefly, letting the weight of those words sink in.

“Do you know what’s in the records? There are months of stable behavior, sessions with social workers, psychological reports attesting that Bruce Wayne, after a profound tragedy, committed to change. To building a new home. To finding balance.”

Lucius walked a little closer to the jury, his eyes piercing.

“What we saw with Cassandra Cain was clarity. Truth. Coherence. She did not hesitate. She did not contradict herself. She did not cry in fear. She did not lock herself in silence. Because you know, ladies and gentlemen… children are often a reflection of the environment they inhabit.”

He paused, raising one hand, almost as a final gesture.

“This trial is not about punishing a parent. It is about protecting three lives that can still be saved from instability. This trial is not about what Jason or Damian feels, but about what they need. And what they need is structure. Balance. Someone who knows how to stay sane even when the world is falling apart.”

He turned to the judge with respect.

“Bruce Wayne suffered. He lost a child who was not his biological son, but for whom he had great affection. And even with the grief, even with the pain, he remained standing. He worked. He participated in his children’s lives. He sought help. He organized a home. That is what a father does.”

Lucius returned to his seat without another word.

The silence in the courtroom was deathly. The judge took a deep breath, his face visibly shaken by the complexity of the situation.

“Based on the closing arguments presented, this court will now recess for deliberation. The jury will be led into the private room. The verdict will be announced as soon as it is reached.”

The muffled sound of the crowd whispering, the lawyers gathering their papers, Talia with shaking hands trying to maintain her composure, and Bruce just watching, in absolute silence, with a slight trace of controlled satisfaction on his lips.

The silence in that room was almost oppressive.

A heavy, dense silence that seemed to stick to the skin like a wet blanket.

Each second slipped by slowly, dragging along under the muffled sound of the distant ticking of an old clock.

The closed windows let in only timid streaks of afternoon light, creating long shadows on the gray carpet.

Talia al Ghul was sitting on one of the padded benches near the wall. Her shoulders were shaking slightly, as if her spine could no longer bear the weight of the fear that was crushing her insides.

Her teary eyes fixed on the floor, her hands clenched around a crumpled white handkerchief.

To her right, Damian remained in absolute silence, curled up, his eyes still red from the tears he had been unable to contain during the testimony.

Her small fingers were intertwined nervously on her knees

Up ahead, Harvey Dent paced compulsively, leafing through the papers in his briefcase as if each reading could alter the destiny already written.

His jacket was wrinkled, his tie slightly askew, his face sweaty.

“It’s taking too long… damn hung jury… That’s never good.” 

He stopped in front of Talia, bending down a little to be at her level. His voice, despite its uneasiness, was gentle. 

“They saw it all. Jason’s testimony, Damian’s breakdown, the contradictions… It’s not just evidence. It’s human. Real. That counts.”

“She… she looked at me so coldly…”

She looked up at Harvey. Dark, broken eyes.

“My daughter. My baby. I held that little girl in my arms. I… I sang her to sleep. And now… she repeats his words. As if I were a threat. As if it was all made up….s-she…is becoming more and more like him.”

“That’s what he does. He plants fear, guilt, twists the truth until it becomes a weapon. It’s not about who you are, Talia. It’s about who he’s made everyone believe you are.” 

Across the room, Bruce stood motionless. 

His shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a random spot on the wall. A man carved from ice. 

His crossed arms seemed to form a natural barrier between him and the rest of the world.

Lucius approached with two coffees in his hands. 

He handed one to Bruce, who didn’t even look at him. 

“There’s still time to back away. To try… to protect the children from the trauma.” 

“Trauma shapes character, Lucius. I survived mine. They’ll survive theirs.”

 “You don’t seem concerned about what they’ll decide.” 

Bruce finally turned to face him, his eyes impassive.

“Worry is a waste of energy. I built the narrative. I controlled the witnesses. Cassandra was flawless. Damian broke at the exact moment. They’re not going to take the kids away from me. The doubt is on her side, not mine.”

Lucius hesitated, his gaze wavering. He didn't answer.

Cassandra was sitting on a lonely bench, arms crossed, face down.

Her fingers were playing with her fists, silent.

Jason stared at her from afar, until, irritated, he walked over to her.

"Are you going to keep pretending that all that came out of you?"

Cassandra didn't look up.

“I told you what I saw. What I lived.”

“You said what he told you to say. And you know that, Cass. Deep down, you know.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, clasping her hands together, but she didn’t answer.

Her silence said more than any words.

In the corner, Damian finally broke the silence.

“What if… what if they send me to stay with Daddy?”

Tália pulled him closer, hugging her son tenderly, as if she could protect him with her arms.

“That won’t happen, my love. I swear. I’m here. You’re safe with me.”

Jason, who had been listening from afar, approached and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“We’ll get through this. Together. He won’t hurt anyone anymore.”

The door to the courtroom opened.

A neutral-looking officer with a formal posture addressed everyone.

“The jury has concluded its deliberations. The judge has requested that everyone return to the courtroom.”

For a moment, no one moved.

The air grew thicker.

Tália closed her eyes.

Bruce adjusted his jacket with a methodical gesture.

Jason snapped his fingers uneasily.

Harvey cleared his throat, trying to disguise the lump in his throat.

Bruce approached Cassandra and murmured something close to her ear, his tone too soft for the situation.

“Whatever they say in there… you were perfect, princess. Daddy is proud of you.”

Cassandra nodded slightly, but didn’t smile.

Tália watched the scene with teary eyes. Harvey helped her to her feet.

“Go ahead now. Whatever the decision, you will continue to fight for them.”

Everyone headed for the door.

Their footsteps sounded like echoes in a crypt.

The fate of the children… was about to be sealed.

The clock read 6:47 p.m. Dusk was already casting shadows across the high windows of the courthouse, painting the floor with patches of gold and gray.

 The courtroom, which had been filled with heated arguments and moving testimony, was now enveloped in an almost reverential silence. 

The jury had already delivered its recommendation. 

Lawyers, parents, and children waited with a tension that seemed to devour the oxygen in the air. 

The benches creaked as the mourners settled in, but no one spoke. 

No one dared to move too much. 

It was like being inside a church before a funeral.

Damian, curled up on the bench next to Talia, stared at the floor without blinking. 

Jason kept his arm extended behind his brother's chair, as if he wanted to protect him from something he didn't even know could be avoided. 

Talia couldn't hide the tremor in her fingers. 

She had cried silently before, but now she just seemed... empty.

On the other side, Bruce maintained his usual composure

his hands clasped in his lap, his face rigid, his expression unreadable. 

Cassandra, beside him, remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the judge, almost as if she were hypnotized. 

Lucius murmured something to Bruce in a low voice. 

Bruce nodded, but didn't look at him. 

He just waited. 

Harvey was breathing deeply, leaning against the defense bench, like an exhausted boxer who knew the last punch had already been thrown. 

Now all he had to do was wait for the bell.

It was then that the judge entered

The back door of the courtroom creaked open.

The judge strode across the room.

Doug was tall, dark, with hard eyes and a voice respected throughout Gotham.

He sat down calmly, arranged the papers in front of him, looked around

first at Bruce, then at Talia

and finally addressed the jury and the public.

The silence was absolute.

He cleared his throat slightly.

“The court thanks the prosecution, the defense, the witnesses, and the jury for their dedication throughout this delicate, complex… and deeply sad process.”

He paused.

Damian looked up with effort.

Jason, tense, clenched his jaw.

Talia held her breath.

Cassandra remained unmoved.

Bruce didn’t blink.

“This court has been confronted with profoundly different stories… and contrasting versions of what it means to be a good father. Or a good mother.” 

He looked directly at Bruce, then at Talia. 

“These have been difficult days. And above all, we must remember that the focus of this trial is not just on the past… but on the future of three children who deserve, more than anything, peace.” 

The judge then straightened. He placed a hand on the printed verdict in front of him.

Damian squeezed his mother's hand tightly. 

Cassandra crossed her legs. 

Jason leaned forward slightly, as if he wanted to stand up, as if his body was on the verge of pushing off. 

Harvey bit his lip. Lucius held his breath. 

The judge then announced, in a firm voice

“After full consideration of the facts, the statements given, the psychological evaluations, and the legal recommendations…”

His hand moved over the paper.

All eyes were on him.

The entire room seemed to stop.

“…this court has ruled that sole custody of the children shall be granted to…”

The entire courtroom stopped at the name that would follow

“Bruce Wayne”

Chapter Text

The entire courtroom seemed to hold its breath.

The silence that preceded the decision was almost palpable

as if every wall, every chair, every held breath waited, tensely, for the inevitable outcome.

Judge Douglas Thomas adjusted his glasses, looking seriously at the faces before him.

His tone was serious, formal, but loaded with a weight that even he could not disguise.

“After considering the testimony, the evidence presented, and the well-being of the children involved in this case…” he began, his eyes roaming alternately between the parents “…the court has reached a decision.”

Talia closed her eyes tightly. 

Her hands were shaking in her lap. 

Harvey, beside her, was swallowing hard. 

Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, was motionless. 

His posture was erect, his face serene. 

His fingers interlaced on the table as if he was calmly awaiting the announcement of an investment stock market. 

But deep in his eyes, 

there, deep inside, 

there was a dark spark, of victory about to be savored. 

The judge took a deep breath, then said: 

“The final and exclusive custody of Damian Wayne, Jason Todd Wayne and Cassandra Cain Wayne will be granted to Mr. Bruce Wayne.”

It was as if the ceiling had caved in on half the room.

Tália al Ghul’s world shattered at that sentence. In an instant, she leaned forward, her teary eyes fixed on the judge, as if she could undo the words with a single desperate look.

“No… no… this can’t be right…” she whispered, choking on her own air.

Bruce remained silent. Only his lips curved 

discreetly 

coldly 

in a restrained smile. 

He had won. 

Once again. 

With strategy, patience and control. 

Tália rose from her chair in a shaky movement, her eyes wide. 

Her voice broke the silence with a tearing pain. 

“They are my children! They can’t take them away from me!” she screamed, almost stumbling as she took a step forward, before Harvey grabbed her firmly by the arms.

“Tália, please… calm down. We’re going to appeal. We’re going to appeal…” he repeated, his voice low and distressed.

But she didn’t listen.

Her gaze was fixed on the judge, begging for mercy, for logic, for anything.

“You don’t understand… he’s not safe! He manipulates them! He lies!”

Damian, sitting in the front row, watched everything with wide eyes.

A tremor took over his small body.

When he heard his father’s name as the new guardian, he cringed, as if trying to disappear from reality.

“No…” he murmured. “I don’t want… I don’t want to go with him…”

Jason stood up abruptly, his hands clenched and his eyes moist, fixed on Bruce.

“This is sick.” His voice was low and full of hatred.

Bruce looked at him lightly.

That expression that was never anger or aggression.

It was worse: superiority.

As if Jason were a flawed piece on his board, but still part of the game.

“Everything I do is for your own good,” he replied calmly. “In the long run, you’ll understand.”

Jason seemed on the verge of exploding, but was interrupted by the sound of a loud sob.

Damian had run into his mother’s arms, burying himself against her chest in desperation.

“Mommy… don’t let him take us… please…” he cried, holding on tightly, as if trying to merge with her, in a last act of emotional survival.

Talia held him with both hands, one behind his head, the other on his back, trying to protect him from the world, from his father, from the sentence. But there was no shield left.

“My love… I’m so sorry… I tried… I swear to God I tried…” she whispered, as tears ran freely down her face.”

The judge, with regret in his eyes, continued, impassive:

“Mrs. Talia al Ghul will have until the end of tomorrow to remove her belongings from Mr. Wayne’s residence and say goodbye to the minors. After that, communication will only be permitted with judicial authorization.”

Harvey turned to the judge, indignant.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, this is unacceptable. These children are emotionally unstable—”

“Decision made, Dr. Dent,” the judge said firmly. “Appeals may be filed, but the sentence is effective immediately.”

Cassandra, sitting next to Bruce, was pale.

Her hands were clenched in her dress, her eyes distant, avoiding looking at her mother.

Perhaps she was trying to convince herself that she had done the right thing.

But there was a twinge of doubt growing inside her.

And fear.

Bruce slowly approached his children.

“Come on, Damian.” His voice was soft. Artificially sweet. “It’s okay now. We’re going home.”

Damian didn’t move.

“I don’t want to go… I don’t want to go with him… I don’t want to…” he repeated, his pleading eyes fixed on Talia as court agents began to approach.

Jason looked at the scene, disgusted.

“This is torture,” he muttered. “You’re not a father. You’re a prison sentence with an expensive suit on.”

Bruce ignored him.

He knelt down beside Damian and, with an almost fatherly smile, touched the boy’s shoulder.

“Shhh… Daddy’s here. Everything will be okay. Trust me.”

Damian let out a cry of emotional pain so high-pitched that it shattered the silence of the room.

Two officers had to pull him from his mother's arms.

Tália fought until the end, trying to hold him, but the system's strength was greater.

Harvey tried to contain the chaos.

Jason was punching the wall in the background.

And Bruce... Bruce just watched.

His game was over.

And he had won.

Lucius Fox arrived at his side, handing over the decision documents.

"Everything signed. The press doesn't even know what happened, much less John. But we're still going to keep up the narrative of a responsible and rehabilitated father."

Bruce nodded, his eyes still on his children.

“It’s only a matter of time before everyone forgets about the rest.”

Cassandra slowly stood up.

She took one last look at her mother, and what she saw was devastating

a broken woman.

Kneeling on the courtroom floor, her eyes empty, as if everything that gave her life meaning had been ripped away.

She said nothing.

None of them did.

They just followed Bruce.

Like obedient prisoners.

And he walked before them like a general leaving a battle

not with glory, but with the certainty that he had destroyed everything he needed to in order to win.

And no one in that room would ever forget the sound of Damian's cries as he was carried away.

Pain

Suffering

Something that would be marked like the beginning of that year

1983

The house was strangely silent.

A silence filled with echoes, as if the furniture, the walls, and even the floor knew that this was no ordinary day

it was the end.

Tália walked slowly down the upstairs hallway, her hands absently caressing the dark wooden banister.

Her eyes wandered over the details: the paintings she had never liked, the expensive rug Bruce had insisted on keeping, the mirror she cleaned herself every morning with her fingertips.

Nothing else mattered now.

Her suitcase was open on the bed in the old guest room.

The clothes were being folded with an almost ritualistic slowness.

But more than clothes, Talia was collecting pieces of the life she had built there

pieces that were now being ripped away from her.

On the dresser, she found a picture frame hidden under a pile of books.

 It was a simple photo. 

Damian, small, in her arms; Jason, still with a frown but smiling sideways; and Cassandra, her face hidden behind a sketchbook. 

Bruce was not in the picture. 

She touched the frame with trembling fingers and placed it in her bag as if it were a treasure.

The sound of the suitcase being dragged echoed down the cold marble of the stairs. 

Each step Talia took seemed slower, heavier. 

As if, unconsciously, she was trying to delay the inevitable. 

She had spent the morning gathering her things in silence, alone in the guest room where Bruce had made her sleep since the legal proceedings had begun. 

None of the furniture was hers. 

No decorative pieces belonged to her. 

Only the small objects held some truth 

the photo frames hidden among the drawers, Damian's drawings kept with care, the scarf embroidered by Cassandra when she was still a shy little girl who ran into his arms. 

Memories that weighed more than any physical baggage.

In the living room, Jason was already waiting. 

Sitting sideways on the arm of the couch, his fists clenched and his jaw tense, he looked like a bomb about to explode. 

But he said nothing. 

Words, he knew, would do no good. 

Damian, on the other hand, was kneeling on the floor near the door, his hands gripping the stair railing as if he could stop his mother from leaving with the strength of his fingers. 

His face was devastated, his eyes puffy, his breath caught in silent sobs. 

He wasn't crying anymore, 

he just looked empty. 

Destroyed.

Cassandra stood near the kitchen, watching from afar. 

Her arms crossed, her expression neutral, trying to hide any sign of emotion. 

But there was something in her eyes… hesitation, perhaps even remorse. 

Talia stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at each of them in turn. 

Her heart was pounding hard, as if it wanted to escape her chest.

 And yet, she took a deep breath, tried to straighten her shoulders for them. 

Only for them. 

Damian was the first to break the silence.

“Please, Mommy… don’t leave me here. I… I’ll go with you. I can run away, I… I’ll hide in the car, no one will see…” he said desperately, pulling on the sleeve of her coat. “Take me away… take me, please! I don’t want to be with him, I don’t want to!”

Talia fell to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around him tightly, as if she could protect him from the entire world. 

The boy sobbed against her chest, his small shoulders shaking so much it seemed like he would collapse right there. 

“Shhh, my love… I wish I could take you, I wish I could…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You are my life, Damian. You and your brothers always will be. But now… now Mommy needs to trust that you will be strong.”

“But I am not strong! I am weak without you!” he cried, lifting his tear-stained face. “I hate him! I hate this place!”

Talia cried with him. 

He wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, but he didn’t believe it. 

There was no lie he could tell now. 

Jason, swallowing his anger, approached. 

He touched his brother’s shoulder gently. 

“You’re not alone, kid. We’re in this together,” he said, but his voice was hard, broken. He turned to his mother. “They made a mistake. They’re going to pay for this, Mom. All of them. And he…”

“No, Jason…” Talia cut him off softly. “You can’t live with anger. I know it hurts, my son. But don’t let him change you. You’re better than him.”

Jason lowered his eyes, his fists shaking.

He didn’t trust his own voice.

It was then that the library door opened.

Bruce walked in with the calm of someone who had just closed a profitable deal.

He was wearing a dark suit, his tie knotted perfectly.

Beside him, Lucius maintained a discreet, almost absent posture, but with that clinical gaze that never failed to analyze the scene around him.

“Talia,” Bruce said coldly. “The driver is already at the gate. The judge’s decision was clear: you have until the end of the day to gather your belongings and say goodbye. Let’s not overstep that limit, okay?”

Talia stood up slowly, not looking at him. 

Bruce then turned to his children. 

His voice softened as if changing masks. 

“Cassandra, my dear, help your mother with what’s left. Jason, stay with Damian, please. You’ll have plenty of time to get organized. Now… it’s important that everything ends in a civilized manner.” 

Damian shouted

 “CIVILIZED?! YOU ROBBED ME OF MY MOTHER!”

 “Damian,” Bruce replied, with an authoritative tone. “You still don’t understand. I’m saving you.”

“LIE! You’ve been lying since the beginning!”

Bruce bent down to look at him, his eyes piercing.

He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder

a gentle gesture for those watching, but there was a hardness in the pressure of his fingers.

“You’ll understand. One day. I’m the only one who can prepare you for what’s coming.”

Damian paled, stifling his tears, cringing.

He looked at his mother in panic, as if asking for help with his eyes.

But all Talia could do was open her arms and wrap him in a last hug.

“I love you, my little one… all of you… never doubt that. Never.” she whispered.

She pulled away with tears streaming down her face, lightly touching Jason’s hand and Cassandra’s shoulder.

The latter hesitated, her eyes fixed on her mother for a second too long. But she didn’t move.

She didn’t hug.

She didn’t cry.

Bruce was watching.

When Talia walked through the front door, the air seemed to freeze.

Jason went to the window, watching the car disappear through the gates.

Damian was still kneeling on the ground, in shock.

It wasn’t until the door closed behind her that he truly broke down, crying as if a part of his soul had been ripped out.

Bruce, in contrast, turned calmly on his heel. 

He glanced at Lucius and exchanged a brief nod. 

Everything had gone as planned. 

He then headed upstairs, and before going up, he took one last look at his children. 

“Tomorrow will be a new beginning for all of us. I hope you know how to seize the opportunity that has been given to you.” 

His tone was one of triumph disguised as paternalism. 

As if he were the hero of his own story.

Cassandra watched in silence.

A weight sank into her chest, but her expression remained neutral.

She had won the game, yes.

But at what cost?

Jason sat on the floor next to Damian, who was now shaking like a leaf.

He said nothing.

He just stood there.

In the house in silence.

In the absence of the only person who loved them without masks.

And in the distance, in the cold hallways of the house, Bruce's footsteps echoed like a sentence

The taxi moved slowly along the long, tree-lined road that led to the gates of Wayne Manor.

The trees around it seemed taller than ever, as if they formed a corridor of shadows, following the car until it disappeared from the place she had called home for years.

Tália kept her eyes fixed on the window the whole time.

She didn't have the courage to look back.

She knew... she knew that if she looked, if she allowed herself that last glimpse, she would lose what little emotional control she had left.

But even without looking, the image of the house, the image of her children crying, Damian's last words, Cassandra's silence, and Jason's furious gaze were all there, stuck in her head, spinning like a storm.

The tears flowed without asking for permission.

Silent, bitter.

Tália didn't even bother to wipe them.

The driver, a man with a tired expression, respected the silence, as if he understood that any attempt at conversation at that moment would be cruel.

The suitcase, small and discreet, was in the trunk.

It was ridiculous to think that an entire life could fit in so little space now.

Photos, small personal objects, some clothes...

she had left everything else.

The children's rooms, Damian's toys, Cassandra's books, Jason's notebooks...

They were all left behind.

Along with her own children.

The taste of defeat was acidic, suffocating.

She remembered the judge’s words

“You have twenty-four hours to gather your belongings and vacate the residence.”

“Full custody of the children now belongs to Mr. Wayne.”

Memories of the court sessions came back to her like knives.

Lucius’s manipulative questions, Bruce’s cold performance, Cassandra following the script her father had drilled into her head…

and Damian’s crying, his face in pure terror.

Talia squeezed her eyes shut.

“I failed them…”

That sentence kept echoing.

A constant hammering.

She remembered all the nights she had cradled Damian in her arms after a nightmare.

The long conversations with Jason, trying to pull him back when he started to close himself off from the world.

She remembered when Cassandra was too young to speak and Talia would spend hours with her, teaching her to trust, to open up, to smile.

Now…

Now the three of them were in the hands of a man she knew was capable of destroying every bit of happiness they had left.

With every kilometer the taxi drove, she felt further away from them.

As if the car wasn't just crossing the city, but pushing her into an abyss where she would never reach them again.

Her fingers tightly gripped the strap of her bag on her lap, as if that useless gesture would be enough to contain the pain.

But it wasn't.

Her throat burned, her chest felt like it was about to collapse.

She leaned forward a little, breathing hard.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” the driver asked, breaking the silence for the first time, cautiously.

Tália just shook her head in a vague gesture.

An obvious lie.

But it was all she could do.

The view of the city began to appear in the distance.

The lights of the buildings, the busy streets, people coming and going without knowing that, at that very moment, a mother was leaving her children behind, forced, defeated.

“I should have fought harder,” she thought. “I should have protected them better. How could I have let this happen?”

The lump in her throat tightened even more.

She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the window, letting the tears continue to fall.

The taxi turned right, heading towards the small temporary apartment Harvey had found for her near the city center.

It wasn’t a house.

It wasn’t a home.

It was just an empty space… like she was now.

But at that moment, no matter how hard she tried to breathe, the feeling of helplessness was devastating.

Perhaps the worst she had ever felt.

She lost

Lost everything….

Damian’s room felt smaller that night. 

The air was heavy, as if the space itself knew of the absence that lingered in the rooms. 

The barely closed curtains let the light from Gotham’s streetlights streak the carpet like a pale scar. 

Outside, the sound of horns and sirens continued as always… 

indifferent to the fact that a child’s world had just fallen apart. 

Damian was curled up in a corner of the bed, his legs folded against his chest, his face wet with tears that no longer made a sound as they fell. 

His sobs had turned into shaky, irregular breathing. 

His small hands trembled as he stared at one of the pillows, as if it were the last anchor of reality he had left. 

“She’s gone…” He whispered to himself, his voice hoarse, barely audible. “She’s gone and she’s not coming back…”

His eyes burned, his nose was stuffy, and every time he tried to take a deep breath, his chest hurt in a way he couldn't describe.

It was like he was gasping for air... as if his whole body was rejecting this new reality.

The door creaked.

Damian froze.

He didn't have the strength to move, he just stood there, hugging himself, as he listened to the slow, careful footsteps crossing the carpet.

“Damian…” Bruce’s voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.

The boy closed his eyes tightly.

He wanted to disappear.

Disappear in that instant.

But the footsteps continued…

all the way to the edge of the bed.

Bruce stopped there, standing up. He observed his son for a few seconds, with that rehearsed calm…

a look of a predator about to attack, but wearing a mask of paternal concern.

“I don’t like seeing you like this, son.” His voice was low, velvety… almost too sweet to be real. “I know today was hard. I know how unfair all of this seems to you…”

Damian bit his lip, the tears streaming down his face again. He didn’t answer. 

Bruce sat down next to the bed, a subtle weight that made the mattress sink. 

He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder with studied gentleness, his fingers cool but firm. 

“I know how much you love your mother,” he said, his tone understanding and sounding rehearsed word for word. “But… sometimes, the people we love… make mistakes. And sometimes, those mistakes hurt the people they’re supposed to protect the most.”

Damian squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

“She… she didn’t…” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Bruce smiled slightly.

A small, discreet smile…

but with that venomous edge that he always hid under his teeth.

“No… I know she tried, in every way, to be a good mother.” Bruce sighed, as if he was also suffering. “But… the reality, Damian… is that she lost control. You saw what she did. You saw how she put us in this situation. She… almost killed me that night, remember? She broke a bottle over my head. You saw the blood… remember?”

Damian shivered.

The images of that night were blurred in his memory.

The screams, the broken glass, the blood…

it all jumbled together like a nightmare.

“But…” Bruce continued, squeezing his son’s shoulder a little tighter. “I’m not mad at you. I know this is all confusing for you. You don’t have to choose sides, not now. You just have to trust me… trust that I’ll take care of you.”

He paused carefully, then stood up and walked to the corner of the room where he had left something.

“I brought you something.”

Damian turned his head, still crying

but curious enough to open his eyes a little.

Bruce came back with a large bag in his hands.

A dark plastic bag with the pizza shop logo on it.

“I thought maybe… you might like having new friends around.”

Carefully, Bruce took the plushies out of the bag one by one.

First came Chica.

Yellow, with big eyes and a bib that said “Let’s Eat!”.

Then came Bonnie, with purple fur and a slightly crooked look.

Foxy came right after, with a felt eye patch and a smile with sewn teeth.

“They’re yours now, Damian.” Bruce said, placing the plushies on the bed, near the boy. “your new friends”

Damian, even with his hands shaking, stretched out his fingers and pulled Foxy close to his chest, hugging him tightly.

As if that piece of cloth was capable of warding off the pain that tore at his chest.

But Bruce wasn't finished.

He took two more stuffed animals out of the bag.

One was the traditional Freddy...

brown, with a black hat, black bow. His eyes were round and friendly.

The other...

the other was different.

“This one…” Bruce said, holding the yellow plush in his hands as if it were special. “This one is exclusive. They don’t make it anymore.” 

Damian looked up at the strange figure with his puffy eyes. 

It was a Freddy… but in a burnt yellow. 

His bow tie and top hat were purple. 

There was something wrong with the glass eyes… 

they seemed sunken in… 

as if they were set further away from the fabric of his face. 

Even the weight of the plush was different. 

A little heavier than the others. 

As if… there was something inside.

Damian frowned, running his fingers over the plush's eyes.

"Why is he... like that?" he asked softly, his voice choked with sobs.

Bruce bent down again, placing a loving hand on his son's head.

"Because he's special... just like you." he replied with a smile that hid much more than it revealed. "He'll keep an eye on you, to make sure everything is okay."

Damian hugged the yellow plush toy along with the others, clutching it to his chest with a desperate grip.

Bruce stood up, satisfied, observing the result of his work.

The most fragile son, the most manipulable…

now isolated, destroyed…

and emotionally dependent on him.

“Try to get some rest,” Bruce said, heading towards the door. “I’m so proud of you, Damian. And… I love you.”

The words came out with artificial sweetness, but Damian… hungry for any crumb of comfort… 

believed them.

“I… I love you too, Dad…” he replied with a choked voice.

The door closed softly.

Outside, Bruce walked down the hallway with a cold smile on his face.

The game was won.

Every piece in place.

In his room, Damian cried, hugging his new cloth companions…

without knowing that one of them was watching him back…

with glass eyes.

The glass of a camera

A tiny camera, hidden inside the yellow plush’s head…

on and working…

transmitting every sound…

every tear…

every whispered word.

The manipulation had only just begun

For weeks, Bruce Wayne had been planning the new family photo. 

It wouldn’t be a casual session, nor a spontaneous keepsake. 

It was a symbol. 

A milestone. 

A visual record of the beginning of a new era: an era without Talia. 

Deep down, Bruce didn’t just want a picture. 

He wanted a trophy. 

He gave advance notice. 

He made sure his children knew. 

Every single one of them. 

Jason learned of the announcement during dinner, when Bruce casually informed him that a professional photography crew would be coming to the mansion in a few weeks.

“Let’s take a new family photo. It’s about time we updated it,” he said, cutting the meat with surgical calm, as if he were talking about something as banal as changing the curtains in the living room.

Jason dropped his cutlery with a thud.

“Update? Really?” His voice was thick with contempt. “Because, of course… ripping our mother out of our lives wasn’t enough. Now you want to pretend she never existed?”

Bruce just looked at him over the rim of his wine glass.

The subtle smile, the practiced patience.

“You can take it however you want, Jason. But the session will happen. And you will be there.”

Jason kicked his chair back and left the room without touching his food.

Damian listened to everything in silence.

His eyes were lowered.

His stomach was churning with anxiety.

The mention of the new photo sounded like a nightmare slowly materializing.

He knew what Bruce wanted with it.

He knew it meant erasing his mother’s image once and for all.

Cassandra, on the other hand, accepted her father’s request almost automatically.

“Sure, Dad. It’ll be nice to have a new photo. It makes sense.” Her smile was forced, but she held it with military discipline.

She’d always been good at that.

The day of the photo shoot arrived.

The photography team was setting up the mansion's main hall.

Tripods, artificial lights, blue-gray backdrops, all positioned with precision.

The photographer was a friendly man, but there was something in the air that made him uncomfortable.

The energy in the room was suffocating. As if an explosion could happen at any moment.

Bruce looked impeccable in a dark suit, purple tie tied in a perfect knot.

Hair slicked back. Statuesque posture.

Cassandra appeared first, wearing a black dress, gold shoes, and a yellow ribbon holding her hair back. 

She walked down the stairs with measured steps, stopping next to her father like a programmed shadow. 

Jason took longer. 

With each step, he seemed to be fighting an internal battle. 

He wore a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black pants, and dark shoes. 

His face was a mask of pure hatred. 

His gaze was fixed and sharp as a blade. 

He kept his arms crossed the entire time, his jaw clenched, and he refused to look directly at Bruce.

Damian was the last.

He came down slowly, his eyes puffy from crying so much the night before.

He was wearing what Bruce had picked out

a white dress shirt, a black tie, dark gray pants, and the light green vest

just like the one on the boy in the old photo Bruce had shown him as “inspiration.”

And of course… the yellow Freddy was with him.

Cushioned to his chest, as always.

Damian kept his gaze downcast, as if he were being dragged to a funeral.

The photographer called them to the first position. 

Bruce sat on a chair in the center, his hands resting on his knees, his expression hard, just a trace of a cynical smile on the corner of his lips. 

Damian stood on the right side, rigid, holding the stuffed animal. He was shaking slightly. 

His eyes were wide, as if the very act of breathing was already an effort. 

Cassandra positioned herself on Bruce's left, with her hands crossed in front of her, smiling... or at least trying to. 

Jason was placed on the other end, standing, with his arms crossed, his gaze furious. 

Each click of the camera seemed to torture him even more.

“Okay, let’s go,” the photographer said, trying to lighten the mood. “Now, please… a smile. All together!”

No one moved.

Jason kept his face hard.

Hatred pulsed in every muscle.

Damian… tried. He forced a shy smile, which looked more like a panicked grimace.

His gaze remained fixed on the plush.

Cassandra, trained as she was, gave a polite smile.

Bruce… just kept his expression cold.

A barely perceptible wrinkle of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

“Come on…” Bruce said, his voice low but firm. “Smile, children. Smile for the future. Because this year…”

He paused, looking directly into the camera lens.

“This year will bring nothing but glory to our family.”

Jason gritted his teeth.

He almost rushed at his father at that moment.

He only held himself back by a thread of self-control.

The photographer clicked the image.

The moment was immortalized.

A portrait of a family that only seemed united.

Hours later, the photo was already being printed in Bruce's office.

The man looked at the proof of the image with a satisfied, almost predatory smile.

“Perfect…” he murmured. “Just as I wanted.”

He ignored Jason’s angry look.

He ignored the terror in Damian’s eyes.

He ignored even Cassandra’s mechanical expression.

What mattered was what the photo would convey to others:

Stability.

Control.

Victory.

Because now…

Talia was gone.

And they…

were his alone.

Now the new family photo was placed on the wall

If only they had known it was the last

The last before the year 1983

fulfilled its promise

not of glory

but of tragedy….

Chapter Text

It had been 3 months since Talia left the house. 

The nights in the house without her were long. 

Too long for a six-year-old boy

Long, cold... 

and filled with a silence that seemed to breathe. 

Damian stayed awake even when his body asked for sleep. 

He would stay there... lying down... hugging the yellow Fredbear... 

his eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling of the room. 

The ticking of the clock on the wall marked the time in an irritating, almost cruel way, as if each second was a small provocation. The air smelled of dust, old wood and something he couldn't name. 

A smell that seemed old... worn... sad. 

The shadows danced across the walls, moving as the headlights of the cars passed outside, crossing the crooked window blind.

At school, Damian didn't talk to anyone. 

He walked through the hallways with his books hugged to his chest, as if that could create an invisible wall between him and the rest of the world. 

The voices of his classmates were just a distant background. 

Laughter that wasn't meant for him. 

Calls that didn't include him. 

At the dinner table... Bruce insisted on acting it out.

 "It's going to be okay, kids..." he said, with that rehearsed, forced smile, as if he were reading a script that no longer made sense. "You just need to get used to it... it's a difficult phase... it'll pass soon."

But it didn't go away.

Nothing went away.

Jason, who used to yell, curse, push, provoke...

now simply ignored his existence.

He walked right past, as if Damian were just another piece of furniture in the house.

Jason's glances...

when they existed...

were quick.

Tired.

Filled with anger...

or pity...

or something in between.

But never...

never affection.

Cassandra was a ghost.

An absent presence.

Always busy...

always far away.

Bruce was the same

And Talia...

Talia.....was miles away.

Now… he was alone.

Alone…

except for the stuffed animals.

They were all lined up, carefully aligned at the foot of the bed, like little cloth soldiers.

Blue Bonnie with her eyes sewn back on after an old tear.

Chica with her beak crushed from being squeezed so much.

Foxy, with her ear drooping and her fur faded.

And in the middle of them all…

him.

Yellow Freddy.

Fredbear.

His fabric had an aged golden tone, with stains that looked old, as if that bear had lived much longer than the other stuffed animals.

The purple bow around his neck was crooked.

His plastic eyes had a strange glow…

as if they were looking back.

Damian couldn't explain it… but there was something… alive… in that stuffed animal.

He would spend hours just hugging him. He held on tightly, as if the whole world would explode if he let go.

The smell of the old fabric was comforting…

but sometimes…

it felt strange.

As if it wasn’t just the smell of cloth.

Something else…

Its yellowed fabric was no longer as soft as it used to be after months. 

It was rough in some places… 

it smelled like a mix of old cloth and… 

something strange. 

A mix of dust, old sweat and… 

maybe… 

tears. 

Damian would spend hours hugging it. 

Sometimes… he would just hold it so tightly that his fingers would hurt. 

As if… 

if he let go… something terrible would happen. 

And that night… at that moment when the clock showed 02:47… everything changed. 

It came first as a whisper. 

Almost inaudible. 

Almost… a thought.

“Hey…”

Damian froze.

His entire body froze.

His eyes widened.

His mouth went dry.

He stood still, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape through his ribs.

The silence returned…

heavy…suffocating.

And then…again.

Clearer.

More real.

More…impossible.

“Hey, shorty… I’m talking to you…”

The voice.

It came from beneath him.

From the plush.

From Fredbear.

Damian dropped the bear in a jump, as if he’d been shocked.

His breath caught.

The room seemed to spin.

His fingers trembled.

The bear lay there.

Motionless.

Falling on its side on the sheets.

His button eyes…

fixed…as always.

But the voice…

“Uh… he went white with fright…” said Fredbear, with a tone somewhere between mockery and false concern. “Calm down… you don’t have to look at me like that, I don’t bite… I think.”

Damian swallowed hard.

His throat was scratchy.

“W-w-w… w-w-w…” he tried to speak… but all that came out was air.

He looked around.

The walls.

The ceiling.

The floor.

He looked for… 

a hidden recorder… 

a radio… 

anything.

Nothing.

Just him… 

the room… 

and the bear.

“This… you can look…” the voice continued, now sweeter… more seductive… almost like a lullaby. “I’m talking to you.” 

Damian reached out… 

slowly… 

with trembling fingers… 

and picked up the bear again. 

He shook it. 

He squeezed it. 

He turned it upside down. 

He tried to find a secret compartment… 

a button… 

a speaker. 

Nothing. 

Just the old fabric… the crumpled stuffing… and that strange smell.

Damian’s throat was dry. 

His hands were shaking. 

His breath came in short gasps, as if there was no more air in his small lungs. 

“H-h-h-how…?” he managed to stammer. “How… are… you… talking?” 

The bear paused. 

And then… he laughed. 

A muffled laugh… almost childish… but with something… 

Damian couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

Something… familiar. 

That tone… That way of speaking… of drawing out certain syllables… of feigning affection that seemed a little too rehearsed…

It was strange.

Very strange.

But Damian’s tired and confused mind couldn’t connect the dots.

“Tough question, huh…” the bear said. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Damian nodded, swallowing hard.

“Because… you know…” the voice got quieter… more filled with a strange humor… like an adult trying to play at being a child. “Sometimes… knowing too much… just makes everything more confusing.”

The boy blinked, feeling his eyes burn.

“But… but… you’re just a toy…”

“Just a toy?” The voice sounded offended… joking… but there was a note of truth there. “You hurt my feelings like this… after everything we’ve been through together these past few months?”

Damian took a deep breath.

“You went through it together?” he repeated, his voice trembling. “But you… you didn’t talk before.”

“No… but I heard you.” the voice answered with a dangerous sweetness. “All the nights. All the crying. All the hugs. All the secrets… all the fears…”

The boy closed his eyes, as if that could protect him from the madness.

“I think… it was your affection.” the bear continued. “So much hugging… so much love… it must have done some magic.”

Damian opened his eyes, with a mixture of fear and…

hope.

“Magic…?”

“Yes.” The tone now sounded… rehearsed. Like a theater actor trying to sound spontaneous. “Have you ever heard of toys that come to life because of a child’s love?”

The boy swallowed hard.

“Like… like in the movies?” he muttered.

“That’s right! Like those movies!” The bear replied with exaggerated enthusiasm. “And guess what? Now… I’m your best friend.”

Damian held Fredbear close to his chest. 

The heat from his trembling body passed straight through the toy's fabric. 

"My... friend?" 

"The best of all." The voice came softly. Almost like a lullaby. "Always here. Always listening. Always watching over you." 

The silence that followed was almost comforting. 

Damian lay down again, his eyes heavy with sleep... 

but his heart still racing too fast.

Before going to sleep…

he heard the voice, very softly… like a secret

“Everything will be okay now… you have me”

The next morning… 

Damian woke up as if the previous night had been a delirium.

But when he opened his eyes… 

there he was.

Fredbear.

Sitting on the bed.

Exactly as he had left it.

The purple bow seemed more crooked than before.

The button eyes… 

fixed on him.

And before he could think of anything… 

the voice came again.

“Good morning, sleepyhead…”

Damian jumped in bed.

His heart was racing.

He thought it had been a dream

the memory of the conversation… of the promise of friendship…

He smiled.

A small smile.

Weak.

But… real.

“You… are still here…”

“Where else would I be?” the bear replied, with the same tone as the night before “with the Easter bunny?”

Damian hugged the toy tightly.

For some reason… the voice sounded a little more… intimate.

Almost like…

like it was someone he knew…

but he couldn't remember who.

There was…

something about that voice.

A feeling… 

like when Bruce used that fake tone of concern.

But… 

Damian pushed the thought away.

He didn't want to think about it.

“Don't you want to come down?” the voice whispered. “Are you scared of your daddy?”

The boy froze.

“I-it's not scared… I just… I just don't want to.”

“I know…” the bear replied, with a tone somewhere between laughter and mockery “He can be angry… right?”

Damian didn't answer.

Fredbear continued

“But look… you have me. Always. To talk to. To listen. To play with. To… tell secrets.”

The boy bit his lower lip.

“I miss Mommy…” he confessed softly.

His voice lowered its tone…

it became softer… almost a sad whisper.

“I know… I know you do. But… you know… the people we love don’t always do what’s best for us.”

Damian looked up.

“What do you mean?”

“Remember that day?” the voice continued. “That fight? When she screamed… when you saw Daddy hurt?”

The boy's eyes filled with tears.

“I… I remember…”

“Yeah…” the bear said, with a fake sigh of sadness. “Sometimes… we just need to trust the people who are trying to take care of us… even if we don't understand.”

Damian hugged Fredbear tightly.

But… suddenly a question came to mind.

How did Freddy know what happened? He wasn't here that day…

But then Damian's thoughts were interrupted.

Outside…

Heavy footsteps in the hallway.

Bruce.

Damian felt his stomach turn.

“Smile at him…” said the bear, now in a lower… more… manipulative tone. 

“What?”

“Tell him it’s okay. He’s happy when you do that, isn’t he?”

As if he was hypnotized…

Damian nodded.

From that day on…

the bear never stopped talking.

In the morning…

he made silly jokes.

In the afternoon…

he gave advice on how to act around Bruce.

At night…

he told secrets…

he made promises…

and repeated them over and over again, like a poisonous song

“You have me. Only me”

And when Damian cried…

when he sobbed under the sheets…

it was his voice that came…

sweet…

comforting…

and at the same time…

dangerously familiar.

As if Fredbear…

was more than just a doll.

As if… deep down…it wasn’t Fredbear manipulating him.

But Damian… didn’t care.

He just wanted someone.

Someone…anyone…who would say

“I like you quietly”

And Fredbear… said it. Every single day.

Like a song.

Like a lie.

Like a poison…

That was slowly killing him.

But he didn’t care

Not anymore…

The late afternoon painted the sky with shades of blood and black. 

The heavy clouds loomed like sleeping monsters, foreshadowing a storm that felt both physical and emotional. 

Outside the house, the trees swayed in the wind, their twisted branches knocking against each other like the fingers of an angry giant. 

The garage door creaked with each new gust, and the ancient statues in the garden seemed darker than ever. 

Inside… 

the air was stifling. 

The smell of old wood, leather, and bitter coffee mixed with something more invisible… 

heavier… 

an almost palpable tension, as if the walls were about to scream. 

Jason paced in circles in the second-floor hallway.

Sweat dripped down his temples, even with the biting cold coming through the poorly insulated windows. 

His eyes... black, identical to Bruce's, sunken... 

with dark circles that looked like they had been painted with charcoal. 

His hands? 

They were shaking. 

His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, as if he were going to explode at any second. 

His jaw was clenched. 

His chest was rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm, as if breathing was a struggle. 

Each footstep echoed down the hallway, hitting the walls and coming back with double the intensity.

Talia's words before she left still hammered in his mind.

The image of her with her bags...

her face swollen from crying so much...

her empty eyes...

defeated.

Even after months they still disturbed him

And the worst...

was remembering Damian that night.

Locked in his own room, sobbing so loudly that Jason could hear him from the other side of the house.

Crying... until his throat gave out.

Not that he cared about the kid

But it still hurt

Jason stopped suddenly, staring at the office door.

Looking also at the new family photo that Bruce placed in the middle of the hallway as if to provoke him

Back to the dark wooden door... with that carved coat of arms... that always seemed more like a barrier than an entrance.

Behind it...

the monster.

Without thinking twice, Jason turned the doorknob violently.

The door opened with a bang, hitting the wall hard.

"I need to talk to you, NOW!" Jason exploded, his voice so loud and filled with hatred that for a second he himself was startled by the sound.

The office was the same as always… 

and yet it seemed different. 

The curtains were half-closed, letting in only a pale beam of orange light that cut through the room like a razor. 

The smell of bitter coffee and aged paper filled the room. 

Books were meticulously lined up, paintings hung with surgical perfection… 

and, in the center of it all… him. 

Bruce. 

Sitting behind the polished mahogany desk, his folder of documents open, his hands clasped on the top… like a judge about to hand down a sentence. 

But his eyes… 

God… Bruce’s eyes were the worst.

Coldly calculated.

Without a trace of surprise.

As if he had foreseen every second of that scene.

“Good afternoon to you too, Jason,” he said with unbearable calm, a slow smile appearing on his lips… full of venomous sarcasm.

Jason slammed the door behind him so hard that the pictures on the walls shook.

“DON’T COME WITH THAT SHIT TOM!” he spat the words, his entire body shaking with rage. “You think you can do this? Manipulate everyone? Break Mom like that? Do you understand what you did? Turn Cass into a ventriloquist’s doll? And Damian… God… Damian! You took advantage of him to get ahead in that shitty courtroom.”

His voice cracked, and for a second… just a second… his eyes filled with tears.

Bruce just leaned back in his chair…

as if he was watching a mediocre play.

“Exaggerated as always…” he said, in a tone of false compassion “but it’s okay, even though it’s been months and this conversation won’t change anything, I’ll let you talk. Sit down, Jason. Let’s talk like adults.”

“I’M NOT SITTING DOWN!” Jason shouted, taking a step forward, his eyes burning from holding back tears. “I want you to admit it! Right here… right now! That you did it all on purpose! That you planned every damn detail!”

Bruce sighed…

slowly… like someone dealing with a stubborn child.

“Jason…” he began, his voice low, manipulative… as if each word was carefully chosen to cut through. “Everything I did… was to protect you. To bring order to all of this. Because… frankly… this house was turning into a circus.”

Jason laughed… a bitter, dry laugh… without any humor whatsoever.

“Order?” he repeated, choking on his own anger. “You call this an order? Making Mommy leave here… humiliated? Making Cassandra repeat every word you put in her head? And Damian…” His voice broke again…

“Damian can barely breathe from crying so much! He doesn’t even talk to the rest of us!”

Bruce tilted his head to the side…

like a psychologist bored with his patient.

“He’ll get over it…” he said, with disdain. “Children forget quickly… if they’re… well-guided.”

Jason clenched his fists even tighter.

His nails dug into his skin until they started to bleed.

“You’re a monster…” he whispered.

Bruce smiled…

a slow…

sick smile…

as if it were a compliment.

“No, Jason,” he said, his voice lower… like a sharp whisper. “I’m…. a father.”

Jason stepped forward, stopping a few inches from the table.

“You destroyed everyone’s lives here!” he spat. “You turned Cass into a fucking doll! You made Mommy lose everything! And now… now you’re playing Damian and me like we’re pawns on this sick board you created!”

Bruce just raised an eyebrow.

“Board?” he repeated, with a lazy smile. “I like the analogy.”

Jason felt his stomach churn.

“Admit it,” he said, his voice almost cracking with so much contained hatred. “Admit that all of this… every word… every tear… was planned.”

Bruce uncrossed his hands…

leaned forward…

and with the gaze of a predator… whispered

“Of course it was.”

Jason froze.

For a second…

the air disappeared from his lungs.

“Since the courtroom…” Bruce continued, his voice low and surgical… “Until this very moment. Every step. Every movement. Every crying fit… every scream from your mother… every moment your sister doubted whether she was a good mother… and every tear from your little brother. Everything. Exactly… how… I wanted it. Until you freaked out I could see it coming.”

Jason took a step back…

as if he had been punched.

“You… are… disgusting…” he muttered… but the anger was now mixed with fear… and a growing panic.

Bruce smiled… even wider.

“You want to know the funniest thing?” he asked, in that casual tone… as if commenting on the weather. “With Damian… it was ridiculously easy.”

Jason's eyes widened.

“W… what?”

“All I had to do was give him some attention,” Bruce continued… savoring every word. “A few visits to his room… a cuddle on the nights he cried… a few sweet words… a gift or two… stuffed animals for him.”

He made a theatrical gesture with his hand…

like someone throwing crumbs to a stray dog.

“All I had to do was give him some Freddy’s stuffed animals. Do you know how he thanked me?” Bruce paused… his eyes shining with cruelty “he told me he loved me.”

Jason looked like he was about to vomit.

“That’s bullshit…” he whispered… but his voice cracked.

“Oh… really?” Bruce stood up… slowly circling the table… like a hunter approaching his wounded prey. “Then go up there…”

He pointed upstairs, with that sharp smile.

“Open the door to his room… and see for yourself… that he traded his mother for stuffed animals, mere stuffed animals.”

Jason was breathing hard…

his heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to explode in his chest.

Part of him wanted to run… open the door… prove it was a lie.

But… another part…

A part he hated… was afraid of what he would find.

Bruce noticed the hesitation… and laughed. A low laugh… dark… full of venom.

“Too easy…” he murmured… as if talking to himself.

Jason turned his back, leaving the office, almost tripping over his own steps. 

He slammed the door so hard that the paintings almost fell. 

Inside… Bruce remained standing… smiling… savoring every second of victory. 

He picked up his coffee mug… 

took a sip… and before sitting down again… he whispered to the emptiness of the room: 

“One by one… they do my board commands…” a small laugh escaped him 

Jason was doing exactly what he wanted 

Now… all he had to do was wait…

The hallway seemed endless.

Every step Jason took sounded like thunder on the wooden floor, making the walls vibrate slightly, as if the house itself felt the weight of the fury he carried.

His hands were shaking, but not from fear.

It was pure rage.

A bubbling venom that rose from his throat to his eyes, making his vision blurry.

Bruce's words echoed like barbs buried in his brain:

"Open the door to his room... and see with your own eyes... that he traded your mother for stuffed animals... mere stuffed animals."

Jason had almost spat on the floor when he heard that.

He had almost gone for his father's jugular right there.

But no... not now.

He wanted to see.

He needed to see.

A part of him... a stubborn, almost childish part...

still wanted to believe that it was just another one of Bruce's disgusting manipulations.

That his brother, no matter how weak and whiny he was… was still a piece of his mother. 

He was still someone who felt. 

Who suffered. 

Who cried at night

just like him…. 

But then… why that damned twinge of doubt inside him? 

Why that bitter taste in his mouth, as if his stomach was turning over? 

Why did Bruce's voice sound so sure? 

So confident? 

So cruel?

Each step of the stairs seemed heavier than the last.

“He’s sad… he’s suffering… he must be… he must be destroyed… just like me… just like us…”

Jason repeated the phrases like a desperate mantra, trying to hold on to his sanity by his fingertips.

But when he reached the top of the stairs… and pushed, with a minimum of force, the half-open door to Damian’s room…

The world simply… stopped.

Jason froze right there, in the doorway.

The air left his lungs.

His heart, which had previously been pounding like crazy, now felt like it had been forcibly ripped out of his chest.

His eyes widened in a way that hurt.

Literally hurt.

As if the nerve behind each eyeball was on fire.

There, right in front of him…

in the middle of the room… was Damian.

Sitting on the floor.

In the middle of a mess of stuffed animals.

Laughing.

Not a loud, loud laugh… but that muffled, contained laugh, with his shoulders shaking slightly, as he arranged the dolls in a line, as if he were setting up a small imaginary audience.

Bonnie… Chica… Foxy… the two Freddys.

He gave them voices.

He talked to them.

As if he were in a stupid children's play.

As if...

as if nothing...

absolutely nothing...had happened.

Jason's blood froze.

Then it boiled.

Then it burned.

The look in his eyes, which had once been filled with doubt, was now pure, distilled hatred.

The sound of his heartbeat became a distant rumble...

muffled by a buzzing of fury that filled every cell in his body.

"No...it can't be...not after everything...after everything she's been through...after everything she's cried...because of you..."

The images of Talia, her face wet with tears, hugging her children as if it were the last time… 

her eyes red, trembling, stifling her own despair just so as not to scare the children even more… 

every second of that cursed morning came back to Jason's head with a punch of pain. 

And now… his little brother… 

his damned little brother… 

He was playing. 

As if life were a big plush theater. 

Jason took a deep breath… 

but the air felt like fire entering his lungs. 

And then… it exploded. 

"SO IT WAS TRUE!!!" The scream came out so loud that it seemed to come from his gut. 

He pushed the door violently, making it hit the wall with a loud bang that made Damian jump as if he had been shocked. 

The boy dropped the plush toys at the same time. 

His eyes widened in pure terror. 

His face, which had been flushed with childish excitement, drained of color in a second.

He became white as a sheet.

“J-Jason… I… I was just… just playing-“ Damian’s voice was a shaky whisper, cut off by his rapid breathing, his eyes already watering.

“SHUT UP!” Jason crossed the room in two furious steps. “YOU…”

He pointed his finger like it was a knife.

“YOU WERE HERE… PLAYING… WITH THESE FUCKING TOYS… WHILE OUR MOTHER…” His voice cracked for a second, too full of emotion. “WHILE OUR MOTHER WAS OUTSIDE, CRYING BECAUSE OF YOU!”

The final scream was so loud it seemed to split the air.

Damian began to cry instantly.

The tears flowed like a dam had broken.

The sobs came next, tearing at his throat, choking him.

“It’s not that! It’s not that! I swear!” He babbled, his arms trying to protect the little animals, his body shaking as if in a storm of fear. “I miss her… I’m sad too…”

“SAD?!” Jason laughed. But it was a broken laugh, dry, without joy. A laugh that seemed to spit hate. “YOU? SAD?”

He kicked one of the stuffed animals so hard that Chica flew until she hit the dresser, then fell to the floor with her legs crooked.

“Jay! Stop! Please!” Damian screamed, crawling towards the other stuffed animals, trying to protect them with his own body.

Jason stared down at him, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.

“You fooled everyone, didn’t you?” He said, his voice now low… low, but so full of venom that it seemed even more dangerous. “Even me… ME! I defended you… I stood by your side in that damn courtroom, listening to you cry, thinking that… thinking that you were just another victim… that you were suffering with us…”

Jason took a step forward.

“BUT NO…” He spat the words. “NO! YOU WAITED FOR HER TO LEAVE TO DO THIS! TO GO BACK TO PLAYING!”

He pointed at the stuffed animals as if pointing at a corpse.

“YOU TRADED OUR MOTHER FOR A FUCKING PLUSH TOY!”

Damian screamed, desperate.

“NO! IT’S NOT TRUE!” He sobbed so loudly that it seemed like he was gasping for air. “I… I just… I just… they’re the only ones who talk to me… I… I just wish I didn’t feel so alone…”

For a second… a single second… Jason hesitated.

His gaze wavered.

“Do they… talk to you?” He repeated slowly, as if the sentence were a punch to the stomach.

Then he laughed.

But it was a laugh of pure mockery.

“Of course they do. Of course they do! You’ve gone completely crazy, haven’t you? You’re becoming just like our father… CRAZY… SICK… just like him!”

Damian cried so much that his eyes were already swollen shut, he could barely open them properly.

“I just wanted… for you to like me… I… I didn’t want Mom to go away… I just wanted everything to be the same as before…”

“LIAR!” Jason screamed, lunging forward again.

He grabbed the Foxy plush so hard that Damian barely had time to react.

“NO! N-NO! PLEASE! DON’T HURT HIM!” Damian begged, stretching out his arms as if he could save the doll with his own fragile hands.

But it was useless.

Jason pulled with brutal force.

The sound of the fabric tearing echoed through the room like a sentence.

The stuffing fell like pale rain, scattering across the floor.

Jason lifted Foxy's head, now separated from her body, and threw it at Damian's feet with contempt.

"LOOK HERE!" He screamed, his voice exploding again. "LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE IN HER PLACE! LOOK WHAT YOU CHOOSE, YOU BASTARD!"

Damian screamed as if his own heart was being ripped out.

He threw himself to his knees on the floor, hugging what was left of the destroyed plush.

His sobs turned into desperate screams, hoarse, pained, like a wounded animal.

"Please... please, Jason... I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to..."

But Jason had already crossed all limits.

He approached again... and with a single swift movement...

slapped Damian's face that threw him to the side, making his head hit the corner of the bed hard.

The taste of blood came at once.

Damian fell, breathing uncontrollably, shaking from head to toe. 

His skin burned where the slap had landed. 

His forehead throbbed with pain. 

Jason stood there, panting… as if he needed more… as if the hatred didn’t have enough room inside his body to come out all at once. 

His gaze was one of pure contempt. 

“Write down today…” He said, spitting out each word. “August 1, 1983… that’s the day… the beginning of your life’s hell, Damian. The YEAR you’ll pay for everything.” 

And then… without looking back… Jason turned on his heel and left. He slammed the door so hard that the wall shook. 

A shelf shook. 

Books inside it fell. 

The silence that followed was crushing. 

The only sound… was Damian’s choked sobs.

He stood there… 

hugging the remains of the plush… 

his face against the cold floor… 

his chest rising and falling with sobs that seemed to never end. 

And then… in the midst of that despair… 

the voice appeared. 

Low. 

Soft. 

Sweet. 

But venomous. 

“He hates you…” said the yellow Freddy, his voice coming out as a slurred childish whisper… but with a weight that made each word hurt like a blade going deep. “You saw, right? He never liked you… never… never will…” 

Damian only cried more. 

He pressed what was left of the plush to his chest with desperate force. 

Freddy continued, sweet, almost gentle… 

but each syllable was one more stab. 

“But I like you… I’m here… I’ll always be… just me…”

Damian shrank even more… closing his eyes… sinking into himself… trying to disappear.

And the bear… just watched him.

Quiet.

Smiling.

Waiting.

“Don’t worry little one… after all… tomorrow is another day”

Jason’s room wasn’t just a physical space. 

It was a battlefield. 

A graveyard of all that had once been childhood. 

The walls, once painted a faded light blue, were now stained with marker scribbles, spray paint, and fist prints. 

The wallpaper on one side had been ripped off in strips. 

The curtains, always thick and heavy, had been drawn for so long that the musty smell mingled with the smell of sweaty clothes, aged wood, and rust. 

The carpet, once gray, was dingy, stained with spilled soda, dried blood from a mistimed punch against the wall, and leftover food wrappers that Jason hadn’t bothered to pick up.

There were piles of torn paper on the floor. 

Sketches of drawings of animatronics with empty eyes, mouths open in silent screams, exaggeratedly large teeth. 

In every corner, pieces of VHS tapes, broken audio cassettes, and notebooks with phrases he didn't even remember writing. 

Phrases of hate. 

Phrases about Damian. 

Phrases about Bruce. 

Phrases about himself…

The clock on the wall had stopped days ago, its hands stuck at 3:47. 

Jason didn't have the heart to change the battery. 

Time... didn't matter anymore in there. 

He was lying on the bed, with his sweaty shirt sticking to his back, his gaze lost in the cracked ceiling. 

His entire body seemed to throb. 

His hands were sore from punching the walls, the floor, the mattress itself. 

And his head... was a whirlwind. 

The memories of the last argument with Damian repeated themselves, distorted, exaggerated, as if Jason's brain was taking those images and repainting them with more blood, more crying, more humiliation.

Damian kneeling… surrounded by stuffed animals… his eyes swollen… the damn yellow bear in his hands as if it were a trophy of the winner.

Jason closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenched.

“Traitor…”

The taste of bile rose in his throat just remembering it.

And worse… it was Bruce’s voice… echoing… distorted… mocking… embedded in the back of his mind.

“He traded his mother for stuffed animals, mere stuffed animals.”

Jason spun around in bed, punching the pillow, with a blind desire to explode. 

His chest burned. 

His hands shook. 

It was as if every cell inside him was being corroded… by hate. 

By a new hate. 

Different. 

Deeper… dirtier… more animal. 

It was at that moment that the doorbell rang. 

Jason stopped. 

He froze for a few seconds. 

The sound… real… sharp… cut through the silence like a knife.

The sound of the doorbell

No one came there. No one dared.

Not anymore.

He walked down the stairs with quick, heavy steps, as if each step was an obstacle between him and...whoever it was.

When he opened the door...

There it was.

A cardboard box, medium, plain, brown.

the name on the return.

John Grayson

The handwriting unmistakable. Round.

Careful.

As always.

Jason stood still, his hands shaking slightly, staring at the package as if it were a bomb.

John… who had no idea.

He had no idea of ​​the destruction that had happened inside.

Of the divorce. Of the public war. Of Bruce's murder accusation that had to do with Dick's death

John… still believed… in a family that was already dead.

Jason took a deep breath, a crooked, bitter smile on his lips.

He grabbed the box, locked the door tightly…

and walked upstairs as if he were carrying a piece of lead.

Inside the room…

he nearly ripped the box open with his bare hands, not even bothering to use the scissors.

The edges of the cardboard gave way easily.

Pieces flew across the floor.

And then… there they were.

The masks.

Four of them.

Freddy. Chica. Bonnie. Foxy.

Jason froze.

His heart stopped for a second.

The colors… the textures… the details… everything was exactly as he had asked. Each one looked like it had come straight out of an old show. Each one… a piece of a manufactured nightmare.

He glanced over the first three almost without realizing it.

Freddy… with that cynical smile, the worn brown.

Chica… with the silly, childish makeup, and the exaggerated eyes.

Bonnie… with that emotionless smile, the purple leaning towards blue.

But… then… she came

Foxy.

Jason picked it up carefully… but with an intensity in his hands that bordered on devotional.

The texture was different. Heavier. More… rough. The paint… a deep red, darkened at the edges as if it had been charred. The aging marks… hand-made… fake scratches that looked real.

The teeth… long… crooked… sharp… like carved blades.

And the eyes…

My God… the eyes.

Yellow.

Intense.

With strategically painted dots of brightness at the corners… creating the grotesque illusion that… that they were alive. 

Watching.

Studying.

Jason felt his stomach churn. His entire body shivered.

There was something… wrong with that mask.

A strange energy… dense… suffocating.

As if it… was calling to him.

He turned the piece over in his hands, running his fingers along the edges, the jaw, the fake scratches… as if he were caressing a sleeping creature.

And then, as if in a trance… he brought the mask to his face.

The world went dark.

The air grew heavier.

The inside of the mask scratched his skin, as if tiny invisible thorns were inside.

Jason took a deep breath… smelling paint, foam… and something else. Something old. Something… almost metallic.

He turned to the mirror.

And what he saw back… was not him anymore.

It was a freak.

The fox head… the exposed teeth… the erect ears… the fixed… predatory… dead gaze.

Jason slowly turned his head to the side… and the image responded with the same precision.

His heart raced.

A feeling… new… began to rise in his gut. Something that was more than anger. Something more rotten. Deeper.

A sordid pleasure.

An almost physical urge… to hurt.

To scare.

To destroy.

And inside that mask… Jason had a certainty

He would never be the same again.

The mask… seemed to merge with him. As if that was where it was always supposed to be.

And inside his mind… a voice whispered. Not Bruce's. Not John's. Not anyone's.

It was a voice… new.

Raw.

Malicious.

Amused.

A dry laugh… coming from inside the mask… or maybe… from inside himself

Jason ripped the mask off his face in a sudden movement, breathing as if he were drowning.

He was sweating.

His hands were shaking.

His chest was burning.

He held Foxy's mask against his chest... as if it were a war trophy.

As if it were a piece of his own heart.

Something dirty.

Something irreversible.

He looked at the other three masks thrown aside, like trash.

Freddy, Bonnie, Chica... insignificant.

Only Foxy mattered.

Jason stood up, went to the wall and hung Foxy's mask on the crooked nail above the headboard of the bed. He stared at it for minutes... still... in silence... sweat running down his face... his eyes red with hatred.

The fox head just hung there… staring back at him.

And Jason knew.

Hell… was just beginning.

And he… was ready to open it with his own hands.

The house was completely silent.

The living room lights were off.

Outside, only the street lamps cast a faint glow through the closed curtains.

No television, no conversation.

The clock on the kitchen wall read 9:30 p.m.

Bruce was in his office.

The place, like the rest of the house, looked ordinary. A bookshelf, a few files stacked up, a desk lamp with a yellowish glow, and a carefully positioned photo frame with a new family photo… a perfect theater for any unsuspecting visitor.

But Bruce never took his eyes off the wall clock.

The second hand seemed to slow down, each tick echoing like a reminder.

Bruce sat in his leather chair, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes half-closed… his expression completely blank.

When the hands finally reached the mark… he moved.

Slowly.

He stood up, adjusted his shirt cuff as if he were going to a meeting…

and walked over to the bookshelf.

His fingers slid between the spines, as if he were choosing a title to read… but they stopped on a fake volume, with a spine thicker than the others.

Bruce pulled the book slightly to the side… turning it.

A metallic click echoed.

The sound of locks being released.

Part of the side wall creaked back with a mechanical creak… 

revealing a narrow passageway, covered by raw, unfinished concrete. 

A single light bulb hanging by a wire swayed slightly in the draft. 

Bruce stepped into the passageway… his body rigid… his gaze fixed… without hesitation for a second. 

The elevator was there. 

Old… industrial… with iron grates and a hand-made control panel, full of worn buttons. 

An elevator that resembled, in essence, what Bruce had already known from underground facilities. Designed by himself…

He pressed the red button.

The elevator began to descend.

The sound of the gears, metallic and rhythmic, seemed to vibrate his bones.

Bruce remained still… with his arms crossed… his expression frozen in a half smile of satisfaction.

The underground laboratory was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the house above.

The ceilings were high, the walls reinforced concrete. The fluorescent lights were cold, almost blue.

Strands of thick cable snaked across the ceiling like black arteries.

Industrial fans spun slowly, coughing out air tainted with the smell of ozone, metal, and chemicals.

Along the walls… cages.

Small, medium, large.

Each one contained some kind of test subject: rats, rabbits… even a pair of sedated dogs in a side wing, where biometric sensors were attached to the animals’ bodies.

There were also rows of monitors… dozens of them.

Most of them were black and white… broadcasting from every room in the house above.

But in the center… right in the center… a larger screen.

Showing Damian’s room.

Bruce walked over to the control panel, his shoes echoing on the metal floor.

The camera’s view showed Damian curled up on the bed… hugging the yellow Freddy tightly.

The boy’s room, in the middle of two narrow hallways, looked like something out of a childhood nightmare.

The two access doors… one on the left… one on the right… made the place look like a trap, a maze box.

The worn wallpaper… the dim lighting… 

everything was intentional.

Every detail.

Every shadow.

Every hallway.

Just like Bruce had always wanted.

Lucius was there, on the other side of the room… in a lab coat… gloves… with a tablet in his hand and an expression of pure emotional exhaustion.

The man looked smaller than usual… his shoulders slumped, the dark circles under his eyes, his breathing irregular.

His eyes… tired from weeks of tireless work… and sleepless nights with a guilty conscience.

“Everything is ready,” Lucius said, his voice low and hesitant. “The ventilation system has been adjusted… as you requested. The gas will begin to spread down both hallways… entering the room through the cracks… exactly as calculated.”

He turned the tablet, showing the gas dispersion graphs.

Bruce just nodded.

“Perfect.”

Lucius took a deep breath… but remained still… his eyes fixed on Damian’s image.

The boy seemed restless. 

He was whispering something to the bear. 

Lucius looked down. 

And then… he decided to speak. 

“Bruce…” he began… his voice heavy with a weight that had been building for weeks. “It was one thing… what you did to Talia… what you did to Cassandra… and… to Jason…” He paused for a moment, as if the words were burning his throat. “But this… this is something else. Taking a mother away from her children… manipulating the opinion of an entire family… that was low enough. But using your own child… a child… as a guinea pig for an experiment with fear gas? That’s not ethical. That’s not science… that’s… monstrous.” 

Bruce turned his face slowly, staring at Lucius as if he were looking at an insect. 

“Ethical?” The word came out as a mockery. “Since when are we here to be ethical, Lucius?”

He walked slowly towards his friend… with a rigid posture… with a murderous look.

“We are here to understand. To discover the root of fear, perhaps even beyond that,” Bruce continued, his voice deep, full of cold conviction. “You said yourself… years ago… that fear was the most primitive trigger of the human brain. That controlling fear… was controlling everything. Emotion. Memory. Personality.”

Lucius looked away, swallowing hard.

“But… in a child?” he murmured.

Bruce smiled… but the smile had nothing human about it.

“If it were Luke…” he said, leaning closer… his voice now low… almost a venomous whisper. “If it were your son, Lucius… and I guaranteed that the result of this experiment would make him someone… better… someone strong… would you hesitate?”

Lucius was speechless.

“I didn’t hesitate with mine,” Bruce finished.

He turned back to the panel.

His fingers moved over a series of buttons… and with a simple command… the ventilation valves began to open.

The gas began to flow.

Colorless… odorless… but charged with the essence of the worst fraction of human fear.

On the screen… Damian shifted in bed.

The boy began to shrink… hugging Freddy tighter… his eyes watering… his breathing getting faster… shorter.

“It’s starting already…” Bruce commented, with an almost sick satisfaction in his voice.

Lucius remained still… his face pale… his gaze lost.

Bruce then turned to a second station… with a microphone attached.

He turned a dial.

He picked up the headphones.

And with a simple press of a button… he spoke.

His voice… modulated… distorted… came to life through the small speaker built into the yellow Freddy in Damian’s room.

The same childish voice… honeyed… that the boy had been hearing for weeks.

The one that whispered advice.

That said “I understand you”.

That promised that everything would be okay.

Bruce smiled… his hand steady on the microphone.

The gas began to flow.

Slowly… invisible… deadly only to sanity.

Bruce stood there… standing… watching… as the first particles snaked like invisible ghosts toward Damian’s room.

Lucius… remained silent… the clipboard trembling slightly in his hands.

And on the screens… in the center of it all… Damian lay still… clutching the bear to his chest… unaware…

that the nightmare… had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall of the house read 11:46 p.m. 

Upstairs, in the dark, stuffy room, Damian was already awake. 

For a long time. 

The boy was shaking under the covers, hugging the yellow Freddy so tightly that his fingers were going numb. 

The teddy bear's fabric was warm, damp with sweat and tears from the last few nights, as if the toy had absorbed his despair. 

The room was in the middle of two long hallways, each with a door. 

One on the left. 

One on the right. 

And both… were ajar. 

Always. 

Damian hated it.

 The silence of the house seemed to scream in his ears. 

The soft whistle of the wind in the cracks of the window. 

The distant creak of the wooden walls. 

The muffled ticking coming from the kitchen downstairs. 

Every sound… seemed alive.

It was then… that Freddy… spoke.

But this time… different.

It wasn’t just the childish, syrupy voice from before.

No.

There was something… broken… distorted… as if several voices were speaking together… mixed… almost overlapping… with a metallic, drawn-out echo.

“You feel it… don’t you?” whispered the bear, his voice sounding low… as if it were coming from inside Damian’s own head… muffled… humid… impossible to place. “They’re closer… so close… you can already hear their nails… scratching the wood… their teeth… scraping the floor… just waiting for you to close your eyes…”

Damian froze.

His heart started beating so hard it hurt.

He sucked in air, his throat dry, his eyes burning.

“W-what?” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Freddy continued… with a more drawn-out tone… more animalistic… almost a growl disguised as a whisper.

“Stay awake… stay wide awake… because they’re out there… in the shadows… in the corners where the light can’t reach… waiting… waiting…” The voice stopped for a second… and then there was a crack… like the sound of bones breaking. “They like… little children… scared children… children… like… you…” 

Damian screamed. 

He threw off the covers and stumbled from the bed, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor. 

He ran to the dresser, opened it with shaking hands, rummaged through everything until he found… the flashlight. 

A red plastic flashlight, with a cracked lens and a stiff button. 

He pressed it hard… the light flickered… then came on.

The weak beam illuminated the room at crooked angles…

unsteady…

making the shadows on the walls move like arms trying to reach him.

Damian pointed the light at the door on the left.

Nothing.

He turned to the right.

Also nothing.

But the fear… the fear didn't go away.

The air felt… heavy.

An invisible layer… as if the room itself was breathing with him… but in the wrong way… suffocating.

He went back to bed… but now with the flashlight in his hands… pointed at the door… his eyes open… fixed… wide

And Freddy… lying next to him… just smiled at the silence.

Underground… far below the house… the true source of that voice… was watching.

Bruce was sitting in his armchair, in the center of the laboratory.

The room was large… with metal floors… steel-clad walls… monitors lit up showing every corner of the house. Every camera… every hallway… every room.

But the absolute focus… was on Damian's room.

Multiple screens. Multiple angles. The two dark hallways. The doors half-open. The boy hugging the bear… trembling… breathing fast… with the flashlight flickering in his hands.

Bruce observed everything with the eyes of a predator.

No emotion.

No doubt.

Just calculation.

Lucius was at his side… with the tablet in his hands… monitoring the ambient levels.

Damian's heartbeat was high… his breathing was rapid… his cortisol levels were already above normal.

Bruce just raised one of his hands… in a simple gesture.

Lucius understood.

He walked over to the side panel… and typed in the commands.

The release valve opened.

The first dose of Fear Compound-01 began to circulate through the ventilation system.

An invisible mist.

No smell.

No taste.

Just… fear.

In the room… Damian began to cough.

His chest tightened.

The air felt thicker… hotter… then cold… then… unbreathable.

He was shaking all over.

The tears came before he even realized it.

Every shadow… every dark corner… seemed to be pulsing now.

Alive.

The walls seemed to move… as if something was crawling on the other side.

The flashlight failed… flickered… almost went out… then came back on.

Damian screamed… again.

He hugged Freddy tightly… burying his face in the dirty fabric… but the feeling only got worse.

As if the bear… was smiling inside.

As if… he had been waiting for this all along.

In the lab… Bruce picked up the recorder.

 He played the tape. 

He pressed the record button. 

His voice came out steady… unchanging… like a sentence. 

“Experimental Record. Project: CRYING CHILD. Night One. Introduction Phase.” He watched Damian on the screen… the boy now on his knees on the floor… his face hidden… crying. “Fear Compound-01 begins to spread in the test environment. Initial reaction: moderate to severe panic response. Intense hypervigilance. Anxiety attacks developing. Subject maintains a state of forced wakefulness through manual light stimulation.” 

He paused. 

He lowered the recorder… and smirked. 

“Perfect.” 

Lucius continued to monitor the biological reactions, without a word.

Bruce just leaned back in his chair… crossing his hands in front of his face… with his eyes half closed… as if he was savoring the fear he was cultivating.

Upstairs… in the darkness…

Damian's room felt more like a trap.

Surrounded by two hallways… with doors half open… shadows moving… the air getting thicker… the walls creaking.

And the only thing between the boy and collapse… was a dim flashlight… a tight throat… and a bear… who kept smiling.

The experiment… had barely begun.

And Bruce… was just starting to enjoy it.

The digital clock next to Damian's bed read 00:14.

The dim red screen barely illuminated the dark room, which seemed even more suffocating than usual that night.

The air had a strange taste... metallic... with a chemical undertone so subtle that it would go unnoticed by any adult. But Damian... even without understanding why... felt the difference.

Fear no longer seemed just a feeling... it was a physical presence... a weight on his chest... as if the air itself was transforming into an invisible enemy.

He was shaking so much that he could barely hold the flashlight steady.

The beam of light flickered... stuttered... failed... as if he were also afraid.

The two hallways, one on each side of the room, were darker than ever. The half-open doors looked like mouths waiting to swallow him.

And the closet… that damn closet at the back of the room… closed… but exuding a silence that made his stomach turn.

Damian clutched the yellow Freddy to his chest.

The teddy bear, old and worn, was his last anchor of sanity.

Or… at least it should have been.

But then… the voice came.

Again.

Lower… more drawn-out… more unearthly

“Damiannnnn…” the bear murmured, his voice vibrating in an almost wet way… as if coming from a throat full of mud. “I… told you… they were coming…” 

Damian froze. 

His pupils dilated in an almost animalistic way, his eyes wide like those of cornered prey.

 “W-what?” he whispered, his entire body shaking. 

Freddy continued.

 “You can hear… can’t you?” the bear seemed to laugh, a muffled… hissing laugh… “They’re in the walls… in the doors… breathing… waiting…”

The boy threw the teddy bear away in a fit of pure panic.

He got out of bed on shaky legs and ran to the door on the left.

He threw it open.

He shined the flashlight.

Nothing.

But… the hallway seemed longer than usual… as if the house had stretched out during the night.

His heart was beating so fast it hurt.

He turned, tripping over his own feet, and ran to the door on the right.

Again… darkness.

But now… with a sound.

A low shuffling.

Almost a growl.

Almost a sigh.

He staggered back to the center of the room and shone his flashlight into the closet.

Its doors… were ajar.

Slow.

Silent.

The smell of iron, dust, and… something rotten… escaped through that tiny crack.

Lips quivering, Damian took three shaky steps to the closet and, with a cry of pure despair, threw open the doors.

Nothing.

Empty.

But the smell… now… was all over the room.

He began to cough.

A dry, painful cough… his eyes starting to water.

Damian staggered back to the bed… but before he could even sit up…

The flashlight went out.

The entire room… went pitch black.

And that was when he saw it.

The monster was in the center of the room.

Fredbear.

The size of a closet… the body was misshapen and heavy… the brown plush was completely torn… like flesh torn from the inside.

Between the holes, it was possible to see metal plates, exposed wires… some parts were burned… rusty… as if time itself had tortured that creature.

The eyes… God… the eyes…

Yellow.

Bright.

Intense.

Cold.

Two points of light that pierced the darkness like beacons of hatred.

The teeth were the worst part.

Almost a hundred of them… thin… long… metallic… with the tips still stained with a liquid that looked like oil… or blood.

The jaw seemed dislocated, gaping too wide… as if the monster's own skull had been broken just to allow that horrible smile.

The neck cracked with each slow movement of the head… as if its bones were made of barbed wire.

Fredbear's breathing sounded like a furnace... deep... heavy... humid.

Damian wanted to run... but his legs wouldn't obey.

He opened his mouth to scream... but no sound came out.

The terror was so strong... so absolute... that his body began to fail.

His muscles locked up.

His throat closed up.

His hands went stiff as stone.

He fell to his knees on the floor, his eyes rolling back for a second as a sudden convulsion took over his small body.

His back arched.

His arms flailed.

His breathing was a choking sound… a wheezing sound… like he was drowning without water.

The scream finally burst forth… a scratchy, torn, inhuman scream.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! DADDY!!! CASSANDRA!!! JASON!!! SOMEONE!!!” His throat burned… his veins throbbed… sweat dripped down as if he were being boiled from the inside.

In the basement of the house… in the laboratory…

Bruce watched everything.

On the main screen, Damian's room was lit in black and white… every detail… every movement… every spasm… being transmitted in real time.

Lucius, next to him, monitored his vital signs. Alarms began to go off.

“Heart rate is over 170! Saturation is dropping! He's going into shock!” Lucius shouted.

Bruce didn't take his eyes off the screen.

“Increase the flow of fresh air. Now,” he said… without emotion… just pursing his lips as if calculating a variable in an experiment.

Lucius ran to the panel and turned one of the valves.

The gas began to dissipate.

On the screen… Damian was shaking… his entire body shaking… foam was beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.

“He's going to convulse again!” Lucius warned.

Bruce remained calm.

“I know.”

Lucius stared at his boss, terrified.

If it continues like this… he will die!

Only then did Bruce stand up.

He picked up a small recorder that was on the table.

He pressed the record button… and with the same cold… surgical voice… he announced:

“Record of the Crying Child Experiment… Night One. Initial exposure to Fear Compound-01… reaction beyond what was expected… dosage will be recalibrated for the next tests. Emotional response… satisfactory”

He then turned off the device… let out a long controlled sigh… and turned to the access stairs.

“Turn off the gas in the room and hold everything here. I’m going up,” he said to Lucius.

The scientist just nodded… pale.

The lights came on with a violent snap. 

Damian blinked several times, his eyes still burning with tears, his vision blurred, the images of the last thing he saw before the blackout still burned into his retina. 

The yellow eyes… the teeth… the impossible jaw… the sound of metal scraping against wood… Fredbear… right in the middle of the room. 

His body wouldn't stop shaking. 

The floor felt too cold… the air felt too heavy… and his own lungs felt like they were locked up… sucking in just enough to keep him conscious. 

He barely realized where he was. 

He barely realized that the screams were still coming out of his throat.

“HE’S HERE! HE’S HERE! HE’S HERE! HELP!!!!” Damian screamed, his voice cracking, choked with saliva and sobs.

His fingers were so stiff that his nails were tearing the skin of his own hands.

His legs… locked… and his eyes still wide, fixed on some invisible point in the room… as if the monster was still there.

Jason entered first, with heavy steps, his face closed with pure hatred and tiredness.

“WHAT THE HELL, DAMIAN?!” he shouted, kicking the door hard as he entered. “DO YOU WANT TO WAKE UP THE WHOLE HOUSE NOW?!”

Jason stopped in front of his brother, looking at him with that dry contempt.

He snorted, crossing his arms.

“You’re too big for this kind of show, Crybaby!”

Cassandra appeared right behind him… panting… her eyes scared when she saw her brother lying on the floor, trembling… with his eyes glazed over.

Damian was sobbing… unable to speak properly… his lips trembling… his body still shaking with involuntary spasms.

She knelt on the floor the same second she saw her brother.

“Damian?!” She pulled him into a tight hug, feeling his body still shaking with spasms of pure terror. “Hey… hey… calm down… I’m here… it’s me… it’s just me… no one is going to hurt you…”

Damian grabbed her as if his life depended on it.

“He… he… HE’S HERE!! I SAW IT!! HE WANTS TO GET ME!! HE’S RIGHT HERE!! I SWEAR!! I SAW HIM!!” Damian screamed, spitting saliva… trying to point to the room… but his fingers wouldn’t obey.

The words came out in a rush, interrupted by sobs and labored breaths.

Jason rolled his eyes and turned away, laughing to himself, mocking:

“Jesus… you look like an actress in a Mexican soap opera.”

“Jason, shut up!” Cassandra shouted back, her voice cracking. “If you’re not going to help, then… GET OUT!”

Jason laughed louder, but he walked away, shuffling his feet down the hallway as if it were a favor.

That’s when Bruce walked in.

Calm.

Slow.

Cold.

His silhouette in the doorway seemed larger than usual… his expression, as always… completely calculated.

No real concern.

No real emotion.

Just that rehearsed tone… the controlled voice… the impeccable posture.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice low… slightly hoarse… as if he were being forced out of bed.

Cassandra looked at him, her eyes filled with tears.

“Dad… Damian had a panic attack… I… I don’t know what to do! Look at him!”

Bruce walked over to his son… and knelt down beside him, but he never took that icy look off his face for a second.

He ran his hand over Damian’s head… but the gesture was mechanical… soulless.

Almost as if he was testing the temperature of a machine… not a child.

“That’s enough, Damian,” his voice came out low… steady… unquestionable. “It was just a nightmare. Nothing more.” 

Damian opened his eyes wider, sucking in air with difficulty. 

“N-no… it wasn’t… it wasn’t… he was here… Daddy… he was here! I SWEAR! He was going to get me! Please… please… please…” his voice became a drawn-out, desperate whimper… his sobs getting more violent. 

Bruce sighed… like someone losing patience with a sulking child. 

“You need to sleep. You have school in the morning. We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, already standing up and going straight to the light switch. 

Damian pulled his arm hard… his hands trembling… his eyes wide.

“NO! DON’T TURN OFF THE LIGHT! PLEASE! PLEASE DON’T TURN OFF THE LIGHT!” he screamed, his throat already failing… spitting out the words as if he was going to run out of air.

Bruce looked at him… with a hard… dry look… without a hint of empathy.

“The light will stay off. You’re not a baby anymore,” he said… with that low, surgical voice… like someone who’s closing a subject.

Damian started to struggle.

“NO! NO! NO! I DON’T WANT TO! I CAN’T! HE’S COMING! HE’S COMING BACK! DON’T DO THIS TO ME! I’M GOING TO DIE! DADDY, PLEASE! I’M GOING TO DIE!!!”

Cassandra tried to intervene.

“Daddy… please… look at his condition… just for today… leave the light on… just for tonight!” She begged, her voice rising in a cry of despair.

But Bruce just turned around.

“No,” he said… like a final sentence. “And to make sure you don’t have another one of your outbursts, I’m going to lock the doors.”

And without another word…

The doors were closed

And he turned off the light.

The boy tried to escape but Bruce practically threw him into the room before he had a chance to leave.

The sound of the switch was like a shot in the dark.

Damian screamed.

He screamed in a way no one there had ever heard before.

A torn scream… animal scream… as if his own body was breaking from the inside.

He dragged himself to the door… beating on it with his fists… with his palms… with his shoulders… with his face… any part of his body he could use to try to get out of there.

“NO!!! OPEN UP!!! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!!! HE’S GOING TO GET ME!!!! I’M GOING TO DIE!!! I’M GOING TO DIE!!! HE’S GOING TO GET ME!!! HE’S GOING TO GET ME!!! DADDY!!! CASSANDRA!!! JASON!!!!!PLEASE!!!” He screamed… his voice failing… getting hoarse and hoarse… until it was just a choked moan.

“Open the door, daddy, please, h-he’s not okay”

On the other side, already in the hallway, Bruce simply ignored him.

Cassandra cried… hesitating… looking back… but obeying… with a broken heart.

Jason… from the back… just laughed.

“Good night, Crybaby…” he mocked from outside the door “and good luck with the monsters”

Damian fell to his knees.

His whole body was shaking… sweat running down his back… his chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.

He cried… without stopping.

The hot tears running down his cold face.

And then… in the absolute silence…

He heard it.

Too close.

Too soft.

Beside the bed.

The voice.

“You can scream all you want…” said the yellow Freddy… his voice now thicker… wetter… as if it came straight from the floor. “But no one is coming back… Damian…”

Damian gasped… his hands going up to cover his own ears… but the voice seemed… inside his head.

“They left you… alone… in the dark… with us…”

His eyes widened even more.

“And tomorrow night…” the bear whispered… in a malignant slowness… almost enjoying every word… “it will be much… much… worse…”

Damian curled up… pulled his knees to his chest… his body shaking as if he had a fever.

The crying came stronger… louder… uncontrolled… as if the world was collapsing.

And… deep down… there in the dark corridors of the house…

The silence seemed to… smile.

“You can stay calm…tomorrow…is another day”

And so… the first night came to an end.

The digital clock flashed a red flash, indicating 6:00 a.m. 

The cold light pulsed in the darkness of the room like a relentless reminder that the night was over

 but for Damian, the torment was not yet. 

A weak sob escaped his throat, breaking the silence. 

His eyes, still wide and wet, tried to adjust to the dim light, while his body trembled, fragile and exhausted. 

His chest heaved as if he were still struggling to breathe, suffocated by a fear that seemed to have taken shape inside him. 

The room was a small, stuffy space, filled with the heavy smell of dust and sweat. 

The walls, stained by time, seemed to close in tighter and tighter. 

The air carried an invisible pressure, a silent presence that made his skin crawl.

With trembling hands, he rubbed his palm against his swollen eyes, which still hurt from the tears of the night, and tried to gather the strength to leave. 

His whole body ached, as if it had been crushed by an avalanche of panic and exhaustion. 

Staggering, he dragged himself to the door. 

His small hand closed tightly on the cold doorknob and turned, but in vain. 

Locked. 

Fear tightened in his chest like an iron fist. 

His breath became short, almost impossible, as despair rose in the back of his throat.

“No… please, no…” he whispered, his voice so low it seemed to break. His eyes filled with tears again, but he couldn’t control himself. “Just… just let me out… I can’t take it… I don’t want to stay here…”

 He pounded on the door with clenched fists, each knock an urgent call, a silent plea that reverberated in the empty hallway. 

“OPEN UP! PLEASE! I DON’T WANT TO STAY HERE ANYMORE!” 

The sound of his desperation crossed the hallway until a familiar voice, drawn out and with a hint of sarcasm, answered. 

“Look, the crybaby woke up,” Jason said slowly, almost mockingly. “Are you crying again? You’re going to end up a crying maniac.”

“JASON! PLEASE OPEN THIS DOOR! I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE ALONE!” Damian shouted, his voice choked with a mixture of fear and anguish.

The heavy knock on the door from outside made the boy shrink even more, each impact a thunderclap in his frightened mind.

“You should listen to yourself, you sound like a trapped rat” Jason’s voice increased in mockery, mixing a tone of contempt. “Seriously, you should grow up. Or at least stop being so pathetic”

Tears ran freely down the boy’s face, who threw himself to his knees on the cold floor, his fists marking the wood, his crying now loud, suffocating.

“I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to,” she sobbed, her voice broken and weak. “Get me out of here… please… don’t leave me alone…”

On the other side of the door, Jason’s dry laughter cut through the silence.

But it wasn’t long before a new presence arrived, a different urgency. Quick, light footsteps and the sound of heavy breathing announced Cassandra’s arrival.

She appeared in the doorway, her face marked with concern, her eyes red as if she had just woken up. Her hand knocked firmly on the wood, the sound determined.

“Jason! Open the door now!”

There was silence for a moment. Cassandra knocked harder.

“I’m serious! Open it!”

Slowly, heavy footsteps approached.

Jason appeared, his eyes half-closed, his face still showing traces of sleep, but the sarcastic smile remained, cruel and impatient.

“Oh, what a racket… you two are exaggerating too much.” He shook the key in his hand dismissively.

“Open the door!” Cassandra answered firmly, her voice trembling with worry. “I’m not leaving him in there for another minute.”

Without another word, Jason turned the key. 

The lock gave way and the door swung open. 

Damian fell out, stumbling, fragile and broken. 

His whole body shook like a leaf in the wind. 

He clung to his sister's legs, desperate, as if she were the only protection against what was around him. 

"Cass... I thought I was going to die..." he whispered, his voice cracking, full of fear. "I can't take it anymore... please, get me out of here... he'll come back, I know he will..." 

Cassandra crouched down immediately, wrapping him in a protective hug. 

Her hands stroked her brother's hair, movements quick and gentle, as if she wanted to erase that entire night.

“I’m here, Dami. It’s over, okay? You’re safe now. I promise no one will hurt you.”

But the crying wouldn’t stop. Damian sobbed convulsively, his small body shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t leave me alone, Cass… don’t leave me… please… I can’t take it anymore… I don’t want to go back there…”

Behind them, Jason huffed, crossing his arms.

“Oh, really? Still crying like that?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s already morning, for God’s sake. What kind of kid is afraid of a room during the day?”

“Shut up, Jason!” Cassandra snapped, her voice strong and resolute, without a trace of fear. “He was locked in here all night and he’s here mocking you? Do you have any idea what he’s been through? What he feels? You’re nothing but an insensitive idiot!”

Jason laughed, with that cold and cynical laugh.

“Insensitive? That’s just reality, Cass. He’s a crybaby, a weakling who can’t handle the pressure. If it were me, I would have stopped this nonsense a long time ago.”

“You don’t understand anything!” she replied, her voice carrying all her exasperation and fear. “I won’t let you destroy what little he has.”

Damian, covering his ears with his hands, shook his head, trying to protect himself from the screams and the hatred that seemed to be growing there.

“Stop… please… stop yelling… I just want to get out of here… don’t leave me alone…” he begged, his voice a broken thread.

Cassandra tightened her hold, her eyes fixed on her brother, trying to anchor him in that moment, to push away the monsters that were still chasing him.

“I’m here, Damian. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Jason walked away, crossing his arms, his gaze full of contempt and a hint of repressed anger.

“Pathetic,” he muttered softly, disappearing down the hallway, “you two are pathetic.”

Meanwhile, Damian huddled against Cassandra, his face wet with tears, the silent crying that seemed to come from deep within.

Outside, the morning sun tried to penetrate the windows, but the heavy curtains and the shadows of the house kept the hallway shrouded in a cold and strange darkness.

And even with the bright light of day, the fear in Damian's heart remained thick, dense, like the darkest night.

Because he knew, deep down, that all of this was not over.

And the next night was coming.

Fredbear was still there.

Waiting.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee, mixed with the faint odor of almost burnt toast, filled the kitchen.

The dim morning light tried to penetrate the heavy curtains, but the room remained in that usual gloom...

the one that never seemed to leave that house, no matter the time of day.

The table was set.

Four places.

Everything arranged to the millimeter.

The napkin folded with surgical precision next to each plate.

Perfectly aligned juice glasses.

It was the kind of order that only existed in Bruce's presence... or because of his fear.

Bruce was sitting at the head of the table, as always.

He was wearing an impeccable dress shirt, his tie already adjusted as if he were about to leave for an important meeting.

The newspaper rested in front of him, but his attention was divided... disguised... as always. One eye on the news... and the other... on his children.

Jason, on the opposite side of the table, slouched as always. 

Messy hair, wrinkled red t-shirt, eating as if he were alone there. 

He chewed loudly, without the slightest care, throwing pieces of pancake on the plate with exaggerated force just to provoke. 

Cassandra was next to Damian… always positioned strategically… like a human barrier. 

She tried to maintain an air of normality, but the tiredness in her eyes gave it all away. 

Damian… was just silent. 

His head down, his shoulders hunched, his hands trembling holding the fork… but without putting anything to his mouth. 

His eyes sunken… the dark circles under his eyes… as if he hadn't even slept that night. 

As if he was still there… locked up… alone… with fear stuck to his skin like cold sweat.

The sound of silverware, newspapers being turned over, and Jason chewing filled the air until… inevitably… 

Bruce decided to open his mouth.

“Well…” he said, his tone casual but full of intent. “Since we’re all here… I think it’s a good time to talk about something important.”

The three children froze for a second.

Jason continued eating, but with a lazy smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

Cassandra immediately put down her fork and glanced at Damian.

The boy seemed to shrink even more in his chair.

Bruce folded the newspaper slowly, as if he were making a point of creating a pause in tension just to make sure he had everyone's full attention.

“Your birthday, Damian,” he said, with a smile that seemed practiced. “In a 5 days, right?”

The fork slipped from Damian's hands and fell onto the plate with a metallic clang.

He didn't even remember the date.

Honestly, a part of him wanted to forget it.

He blinked quickly, his face already starting to turn red… not from embarrassment… but from pure panic.

“Seven years…” Bruce continued, his gaze fixed on his middle son. “He's already becoming a little man, isn't he?”

Jason chuckled.

“Little man,” he scoffed, his tone venomous. “He can barely sleep with the lights off… and he’s almost in second grade. Pathetic.”

“Jason…” Cassandra said through her teeth, her tone warning, but without much hope that he would shut up.

Bruce completely ignored the comment, as he always did when Jason’s bullying was convenient for him.

“I was talking to John yesterday…” Bruce said, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip as if he were announcing the most trivial thing in the world. “And I had a wonderful idea to celebrate.”

The silence grew thicker.

Damian already knew what was coming.

Jason too

It was like watching a train derail… in slow motion… and without being able to get off the tracks.

“We’re having your party at the pizzeria!” Bruce said, now with a theatrical tone, as if it were the big announcement of the year. “A happy place, full of life, with all those attractions. Themed decoration… cake… animatronics… it’s going to be perfect!”

Damian’s world seemed to spin.

His stomach churned in a way that almost made him vomit right there.

His hands started to shake so hard that Cassandra had to discreetly hold his wrist under the table.

It took him a while to be able to speak. 

When he finally did, it was just a thread of voice… fragile… scratchy… as if the words were cutting his throat as they came out. 

“I… I thought… if… if it could be something smaller… just us… in a quieter place…” he stammered, his eyes fixed on the plate. “Like… an ice cream shop… or here at home… just… just the four of us… I… I didn’t want too many people… or noise… or… the… the dolls…” 

he swallowed hard, as if the very name “animatronic” was too cursed to be said. 

“Especially after what happened at the last party at the pizzeria…”

Jason burst out laughing.

“HA! Ice cream shop! How ridiculous!” he scoffed. “What kind of kid chooses to have their birthday at an ice cream shop? What’s next? A party in the bathroom?”

Cassandra’s grip on Damian’s arm tightened.

“Jason…” she murmured, her tone almost pleading.

Damian lowered his head even further, his eyes already getting wet again.

He bit his lip, trying to hold back his tears.

His breathing began to falter, his shoulders shaking.

“Can we do this?” he whispered… so low that it barely came out “please…”

Bruce put the cup down on the saucer with a sharp crack.

And his fake smile simply disappeared.

His tone changed.

It became cold.

Cutting.

That kind of voice that seemed to go through your skin.

“No,” he said firmly. No room for debate. “The party will be at the restaurant. It’s already been decided.”

Damian stopped breathing for a second.

“But….I don’t want to-” he tried, in a barely audible whisper, but Bruce interrupted before he could even hear the whole sentence.

“Enough, Damian.” The voice was low now… but full of venom. “You’re going to have a party like any normal boy. It’s high time you stopped being so fussy. It’ll be good for you. Who knows, you might even make some new friends… since you haven’t had any… since John’s son died.” 

The name fell across the table like a thunderclap. 

Cassandra’s eyes widened. 

Damian froze. 

Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud… but the cynical smile on his lips left no room for doubt. 

Damian suddenly went pale… his eyes wide… as if he had been punched in the stomach.

 “Daddy…” Cassandra began, her voice trembling, with a warning tone.

But Bruce continued, impassive.

“You need to get out of this ridiculous bubble of grief and trauma. Dick died months ago. Life goes on. Do you understand?”

Damian closed his eyes tightly. His face was already stained with tears that escaped uncontrollably.

His body was shaking, his hands clutching the fabric of his own shirt as if it were the last thing keeping him anchored to reality.

“Please…” he begged… his voice breaking… his chest heaving as if it were going to collapse. “I don’t want… I don’t want…”

“I already told you there’s no choice,” Bruce finished, taking the newspaper back as if the matter was closed. “Now… eat. Or you’ll be late for school.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Only the sound of the newspaper page being turned echoed… along with Damian's broken breathing… his muffled sobs… and Jason's discreet and disgusting smile.

Cassandra simply placed her hand on her brother's back… in a protective gesture that seemed useless in the face of that kind of invisible violence.

The morning went on… with the bitter taste of fear… and the certainty that, on that birthday… Damian's present would be the worst nightmare of his life.

Because the party was scheduled.

And Fredbear…

that animatronic…..

was waiting for him.

The air in the alley was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of spray paint, and that metallic taste of abandonment. 

Jason sat at the top of the iron stairs, his elbows resting on his knees, the cigarette nearly burned out between his fingers. 

The deep circles under his eyes made his face look even more tired than usual. 

The morning wind did little to wash away the smell of garbage and the fresh graffiti on the walls. 

Roy was crouched down, fiddling with the zipper on his backpack, looking for another lighter because the first one had already broken. 

Kori, cross-legged on a pile of old pallets, was blowing smoke rings like art. 

And Rose, leaning against the wall, was sharpening the tip of a screwdriver that she carried in her pocket like a knife.

The subject revolved, as always, around two things:

how life sucked… and how they would laugh about it anyway.

Jason took a deep drag, throwing his head back, his eyes half-closed against the cloudy sky.

He decided to update his friends on what had happened.

“You know… the funniest thing…” He began, with that crooked smile he used when he was going to talk about something that clearly hurt him more than he wanted to admit. “Is that everyone thinks my mother left because she wanted to.”

Roy stopped fiddling with his backpack.

Kori put down her cigarette.

Rose looked up.

Jason laughed, but without any humor.

“It was the court,” he said, his voice full of venom. “The old man insisted on opening a whole lawsuit… full of lawyers and fancy speeches about “an environment that is harmful to the moral development of children.” Result? She lost custody. She can’t come near us anymore. Not a visit. Not a phone call. Nothing.”

Kori scowled.

“What a son of a bitch.”

Roy punched the wall hard, his fist turning red instantly.

“As if he was some kind of example of a healthy environment.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, laughing again… that laugh that sounded choked. “You know what’s so ironic? The day she left… She tried to give me a speech… you know? Like… ‘stay strong,’ ‘take care of your brothers,’ those kind of things mothers say even when they’re falling apart inside.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “And all I could do… was sit there… angry… without looking at her face.”

“Jay…” Rose began, but Jason held up his hand, cutting off any attempt at real comfort.

“Relax. I’m fine,” he said, taking another long drag… before changing the subject like someone turning the page of a torn book. “But… speaking of people who can’t handle it…” 

His smile returned, now more evil, lighter, but with that usual layer of venom. 

“You need to hear what happened to the baby last night.” 

Roy arched an eyebrow. 

“The crying baby?”

 “Himself.” Jason twirled the cigarette between his fingers as if it were a trophy. “The kid had a mental breakdown that would make him proud.” 

He laughed, already feeling his excitement growing as he began to tell. “After the outburst, Bruce locked him in the room, yes, locked him, with a key, like he was an unruly dog. The kid freaked out in a way that… seriously… looked like a scene from a horror movie.”

Kori's eyes widened in interest.

“Seriously? Like… screaming?”

“Screaming?” Jason laughed out loud. “He was screaming! Pounding on the door, punching, kicking… begging like he was going to die! I swear… there was a time when he was crying so hard I could barely understand what he was saying. It was like… ‘get me out of here, please, please, I don't want to die!’” Jason imitated Damian's voice in a grotesquely childish way, with an exaggerated crying tone. “Man… I cried laughing on the other side of the door.”

Roy started laughing too, shaking his head.

“Oh, no… you're kidding.”

“I'm serious,” Jason said, amused by his own cruelty. “And the best part?”

He leaned forward, as if he was about to tell a secret. “Cassandra almost killed me when she opened the door. But honestly? It was worth every second.”

Rose let out a low whistle.

“Wow… the kid is going to end up in the hospital before he’s ten.”

Kori laughed.

“We could make him freak out for good… like… give him the final push.”

Jason smiled… and it was at that moment that he pulled the black bag that was next to him… as if he had rehearsed the whole moment.

“That’s exactly why…” He said, with a wicked glint in his eyes. “I brought you some presents.”

The three friends leaned in at the same time, curious.

Jason began to take off the masks… 

one by one… 

with the slowness of someone performing a ritual. 

As if each piece carried an intention… a weight… a promise of chaos. 

The first… brown… the worn snout… the hollow eyes. 

“Freddy…” He said… and threw it to Kori. 

She caught it with a mischievous smile… 

twirling the mask in her hands as if it were a weapon. 

“Cool.” 

The second… blue… the crooked ears… the frozen plastic smile. 

“Bonnie…” Jason said… and threw it to Roy. 

Roy fitted it onto his face without thinking twice. 

“Wow… creepy,” He said, his voice muffled by the plastic.

The third one… yellow… with a cracked beak and peeling paint.

“Chica…” Jason said… throwing it to Rose.

She held it with an expression of pure satisfaction.

“Okay… now I’m in.”

And lastly… Jason pulled out his own… Foxy’s… with the sharp teeth and the red already faded.

He held the mask with both hands… for a second… just looking at it… before placing it on his lap.

The silence was broken by himself… with that cold smile.

“And the best part…” He said… looking at the three of them… like a general explaining an ambush. “The old man is doing exactly what I thought he would do. Party at Fredbear’s. A full room… lights out… the perfect atmosphere.”

Roy started laughing.

“Man… this is going to be legendary.”

Kori was already turning the mask in her hands, as if planning each step.

“We’ll wait for the right moment…” Jason continued… with a low voice… almost a conspiratorial whisper. “When he’s in the middle of the party… surrounded… distracted… we’ll show up… with these masks… coming out of the corners… one on each side… as if they were the animatronics themselves coming to get him.”

Roy laughed out loud.

“Man… he’s going to faint from fright!”

“With luck, he’ll pee his pants.” Rose added, laughing too.

Jason took one last drag on his cigarette… before stepping on the end and crushing it against the concrete.

“After everything I’ve endured this week…” he said, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Nothing will give me more pleasure than seeing that kid crying… screaming… it’s going to be amazing.”

The four of them laughed together… loudly… complicitly… as if the mere idea of ​​tormenting Damian was the best way to forget the shit their own lives had become.

And as the laughter echoed through the alley… Jason could already imagine the scene. 

Damian, surrounded… trembling… with terror written all over his face. 

Exactly as he deserved… in his head. 

And, deep down… the worst part was knowing that… of everyone at that breakfast table… the only one who truly understood how to manipulate Damian's fear… was him. 

Jason smiled. 

And the plan was just beginning.

The workshop in the back of Fredbear’s Family Diner was bathed in the yellowish light of old bulbs, humming softly as if they, too, were tired of all this.

The smell of grease, burnt metal, and dust permeated the air.

Tools were scattered across the workbench.

Open boxes with wires of different colors.

Loose parts… gears… circuit boards exposed like open wounds.

John was there… as always. Crouched beside Freddy Bear’s disassembled head.

The empty-eyed animatronic lay on the floor, its jaw mechanism exposed.

The plastic teeth, yellowed with age, were locked in an awkward position… as if Freddy had been trying to smile… and had died in the process.

John wiped his fingers on the hem of his shirt… oil stained up to his elbows… with dark circles as deep as the screw marks on the bodywork of the machines he repaired.

He let out a frustrated sigh as his jaw locked… again.

“Damn it…” he muttered, grabbing the torque wrench and forcing the side shaft. “This mouth won’t last another month like this…”

The metallic sound of the poorly made click echoed through the room.

“Again?” Bruce’s voice came from the doorway, filled with that feignedly casual tone… but with the arrogance that never left him.

John didn’t even need to look.

He recognized his tone from meters away.

“Again,” John replied gruffly. “I’ve already replaced the motor in the joint. I’ve lubricated everything. I’ve replaced the belt. Nothing holds it together. Every time Freddy tries to open his mouth wide… the system locks up. Again. Just like last week. And the week before that.” 

Bruce walked into the shop as if he owned the place… which, technically… he did. 

He leaned against the side of the door… with his arms crossed… his impeccable suit clashing with the grease-stained environment. 

“Maybe it’s time for a real upgrade,” he said, with that irritating half-smile. “That head should be in the trash by now.” 

John continued fiddling with the parts… his eyes fixed on the jammed jaw. 

“It’s not going in the trash,” he replied, in a tone that left no room for argument. “This Freddy is the original. The first one. The one we designed together. I’m not throwing it away.”

Bruce rolled his eyes… but kept his tone light.

“Silly sentimentality… as usual”

John just ignored it.

He continued working… but the tension between the two was almost palpable.

For a few seconds… only the metallic sound of screws being turned filled the room.

Until Bruce decided to throw the match in the powder keg.

“By the way….” He said, with a tone that was too casual. “I need to reserve the main hall for next Saturday”

John stopped immediately.

The silence that followed was heavy… cutting… as if the air had suddenly become denser.

He looked up slowly… his brows furrowed… his gaze already beginning to harden.

“The salon? On Saturday?” He asked… his voice low… as if he was trying to confirm that he had heard correctly.

Bruce nodded… as if it were the simplest subject in the world.

“Damian’s birthday,” he said, with that cheap salesman’s smile. “He’s going to be seven. I thought Fredbear’s would be the perfect place to celebrate.”

John dropped the torque wrench on the counter with a bang.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said… already standing up… his shoulders tense. “Here? At fucking Fredbear’s? After what happened?”

Bruce didn't move. 

He remained leaning against the wall... looking with that air of calculated superiority. 

"Why not?" He asked... with a slight raise of his eyebrow. "We have the space. We have the animatronics. We have the perfect environment for a children's party." 

John laughed... but it was a nervous laugh... bitter. 

"The perfect environment?" He repeated, taking a few steps closer... with a heavy gaze. "The last birthday party that happened here... was Dick's." 

He said... his voice breaking at the end. 

"And he... died... on his own birthday, Bruce. Right there in that alley... a few meters from this workshop." 

The air seemed to freeze. 

Bruce held his gaze... but his smile faded a little. 

"John..." He said... with that tone of someone who wanted to sound empathetic, but the empathy was fake to the bone. "It's been months. You need to move on."

John snorted… running his hands through his disheveled hair.

“Don’t give me that speech,” he said… his voice getting firmer… angrier. “You have no idea what it’s like to walk into this room every day… and remember that night. The music playing… the lights flashing… while he was out there in the rain and then… the silence. The damn silence after it all happened, the blood on his corpse…”

For a moment… Bruce’s expression became more serious.

But only for a moment.

“Exactly because of that,” he replied… returning to his usual manipulative tone. “Nothing like a new party to change the memories this place holds.”

John stood still… taking a deep breath… trying to contain the urge to scream.

“That’s not how it works, Bruce,” he said… through gritted teeth. “It’s not by painting the walls… hanging balloons… or having Damian blow out candles in here… that you’re going to erase what happened.”

“It’s not about erasing it,” Bruce replied… with a cold smile. “It’s about showing that life goes on. That this place won’t be defined by an isolated tragedy.”

John let out an incredulous laugh.

“Isolated?!” He asked… gesturing with his hands. “My son died in that alley, Bruce! In the middle of a party! With those same lights… that same music… those damn animatronics watching and kids laughing while it all happened! Did you know they even gave that place a nickname? They’re calling it crime alley, a fucking crime alley!”

“And now… it’s going to be a new party” Bruce said… with a final tone… as if he was stamping a sentence. “And you… as always… will do your part”

John closed his eyes… took a deep breath…

and for a second… it felt like he was going to explode.

But he didn’t.

Not with Bruce.

Never with Bruce.

He just went back to the bench… picked up the torque wrench… and started to force Freddy’s damn mouth joint back together.

The metallic sound echoed through the workshop… as John fought against the lock… 

as if the animatronic itself was refusing to open its mouth… as if that machine… with all its rust and circuits… 

also knew that the party shouldn't happen there. 

Bruce turned around… satisfied with his own power… and left the workshop with firm steps… 

leaving behind the smell of burning oil… and a John who was increasingly broken inside. 

Freddy's mouth was still locked… as if, somehow… he was also trying to scream. 

But, as always… no one heard.

The clock in the living room read a little after ten o'clock at night, but the atmosphere inside the house had been in the early hours of the morning for a long time.

The yellowish lights flickered in the old lamps... as if even the electricity knew it didn't want to be there.

Bruce was in the hallway, leaning casually against the door frame... but his posture was anything but relaxed.

His arms crossed... his gaze firm... and that controlled smile that never reached his eyes.

In front of him, his three children.

Jason... slumped haphazardly against the wall, with his hands in his pockets and his usual mocking smile.

Cassandra… in her pajamas, bare feet, messy hair and red eyes with worry…

looking between her father and Damian's bedroom door with a tense face.

And finally… the closed door. The room where Damian was… with the lamp still on… and the boy sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging that old Fredbear plush… his eyes wide with pure terror.

Bruce sighed… as if giving a routine lecture.

“Okay… let’s establish some rules for tonight,” he began… his voice low, controlled… with that calm that only made everything worse. “No one… will leave their rooms. Regardless of what they hear.” 

Cassandra’s eyes widened… her voice coming out in a thin, shaky thread

 “D-daddy… but… what if Damian has another… I don’t know… attack… like yesterday?” 

Jason let out a little chuckle through his nose.

 “Oh, that’s great… drama part two. I can’t wait.” 

Bruce ignored the two of them for a second… looking at each of them… like someone evaluating pieces on a board.

“I’ve been thinking…” He said… adjusting his shirt sleeve with a meticulous movement. “It’s possible that Damian is starting to show signs of sleepwalking.”

Cassandra blinked… confused.

“Sleepwalking… what?”

“Sleepwalking,” Bruce repeated… as if explaining something obvious. “Children his age sometimes develop it. They wake up in the middle of the night… act as if they’re still dreaming… talk… cry… scream… but it’s all part of an altered state of consciousness.”

He paused… dramatically.

“Which means the worst thing we can do… is reinforce this behavior. Or give him attention in the middle of the night.”

Jason laughed… mockingly.

“Translation: if the baby starts screaming… pretend you didn’t hear” He said… already leaving the hallway… heading towards his own room. “Best advice you’ve ever given, old man”

“Jason…” Bruce called… with that tone that froze the air.

Jason stopped… but without looking back.

“If I find out you tried to provoke… or disturb… or make any funny jokes…” Bruce’s voice dropped in a threatening way… dry as a blade. “I guarantee you’ll regret it”

Jason raised his hands… as if swearing his innocence.

“Relax… I know when to be quiet” He said… but the cynical smile was still there, even with his back turned.

Cassandra stood still… nervous… clutching the hem of her shirt.

“Daddy… I just… I think Damian is really scared…” She said… almost in a whisper “He’s been shaking all day… he hasn’t eaten properly… and…”

“He’ll get over it” Bruce cut her off… straight away… impatiently. “Now… go to your room, Cassandra”

She hesitated… she wanted to say something else… but she didn’t have the courage. She just lowered her head… and went.

Bruce took a deep breath… and then opened the door to Damian’s room.

The boy was exactly as before: sitting on the bed… with the lamp on… and Fredbear crushed against his chest like a fabric shield.

Damian looked up… with tears already welling up… his face pale… his breathing shallow.

“I… I don’t want to sleep…” His voice was just a broken thread. “Please… Daddy… don’t turn off the light… don’t leave me here… please…” 

Bruce kept his fake smile… but his eyes were ice cold. 

“We’ve talked about this, Damian,” he said… closing the door behind him… walking to the bed as if he were carrying out a task. “Everything that happened yesterday… was a figment of your imagination. A nightmare. That’s all.” 

Damian began to cry… softly… his body shaking. 

“B-but… it was real… I saw him… Fredbear… the big one… he… he opened his mouth… tried to grab me… his eyes were… they were…” Damian sobbed, his words tumbling, his throat closing. “I swear… it wasn’t just a dream… he was here… I saw him… the door opened… I swear…”

Bruce crouched down… and even though he tried to make his tone sound comforting… there was a cruel hardness hidden in every syllable.

“It was just a nightmare,” Bruce lied… as if breathing. “What you saw… was just your overactive imagination.”

Damian shook his head… denying it… his eyes desperate.

“I-it wasn’t! I know it wasn’t!”

Bruce lost the rest of his patience.

He stood up again… and with a quick movement… turned off the lamp.

The room was plunged into oppressive darkness… with only the weak light from the hallway leaking under the door.

“Enough, Damian,” he said… his voice low… sharp… like a sentence. “You’re going to close your eyes… and sleep. Now.”

Without waiting for an answer… Bruce left the room… closing the door with a sharp bang.

Alone… in the dark… Damian pulled Fredbear tightly to his chest… his heart hammering inside his chest… his crying getting louder… more uncontrolled.

He curled up in a fetal position… shaking so much that his teeth chattered.

For several minutes… only the sound of his own sobs filled the room

Until…

It happened again.

A low creaking sound… like fabric being stretched… like seams slowly tearing.

Damian held his breath… his eyes wide in the dark.

The plush… still in his arms… began to tremble subtly.

And then… the voice.

Low.

Scratchy.

Coming from within the seam… as if Fredbear himself was coming to life.

“Sleeping… is a mistake…” the plush said… its voice thick… distorted… each word scratching Damian’s ear like nails on a chalkboard. “You think… you’re safe… but they’re… already awake.”

Damian covered his mouth with his hands… trying not to scream.

“More of them…” The voice continued… whispering like venom. “More eyes… more teeth… more arms… more claws… all coming… all crawling… through the cracks… through the shadows… through the walls…” 

The plush toy vibrated in his arms… and for a second… Damian felt like the plastic eyes had blinked. 

“They’ll open the door…” The voice said. “They’ll crawl across the floor… they’ll hide under your bed… and when you blink… when you doze… when you think… you’re safe…” 

A heavy silence. 

Damian cried so hard… he could barely breathe. 

And then… the last sentence… low… sharp… final

 “They’ll… kill… you.”

Damian let out a choked sob… burrowing deeper into the mattress… his entire body shaking… his mind already at its limit.

Time passed

And he couldn't sleep

The digital clock… on the bedside table… read 00:47.

The red numbers… blinking… like eyes in the dark.

And… outside the door… all over the house…

Night two… was just beginning.

Chapter Text

In the basement of Wayne House, behind two security doors with biometric readers, was the laboratory. 

The walls were reinforced concrete, with metal panels on the sides and a constant hum coming from the industrial fans that kept the air circulating. 

Lucius was standing in front of a terminal… his hands hesitating on the keyboard… his eyes glued to the colorful graphs that monitored the gas levels.

 “The concentration is above the recommended,” he said… his voice low… full of concern. “Bruce… if it goes any higher… it could cause irreversible neurological shock.” 

Bruce was leaning against the counter… stirring a glass of whiskey with slow, cold movements… 

as if this was all just another business meeting.

“I told you to keep the levels as I asked,” he replied… without even looking in Lucius’ direction.

Lucius took a deep breath… his forehead starting to sweat.

“He’s just a child, Bruce,” he said… his voice a whisper. “His body won’t be able to handle this amount for long… his nervous system is still forming… if it goes over the limit… he could…”

Bruce turned… with that icy smile… his eyes sharp as glass.

“He’s my son,” he said… each word coming out like a sentence. “And if I want to test him to the limit… I will. And you… will help me.”

Lucius hesitated… swallowing hard… his eyes returning to the panel… his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted the ducts.

Upstairs… in Damian’s room…

The gas began to seep through the air vents.

Colorless.

Odorless.

But with an invisible weight that made the air thicker… harder to breathe.

Damian lay there… his eyes wide… his heart racing… his body huddled under the blanket… as if the fabric could protect him from something.

He began to cough… his chest burning… his eyes watering… but it was more than that.

The world around him seemed to begin to distort… the shadows on the walls taking on strange shapes… the corners of the room growing darker… deeper… as if the darkness itself was crawling towards him.

The sound came first.

Footsteps… heavy… metallic… like something large… something with iron joints… dragging its feet across the floor.

Then… the grinding of a jaw… teeth scraping against each other… like metal claws preparing to tear.

Damian cringed… his eyes filled with tears… his body trembling with panic.

“No… no… please… not again…” He whispered… his voice broken… his hands covering his head.

And then… the bedroom door… even though it was locked… seemed to simply disappear… as if it had been swallowed by the darkness itself.

“Damiannnn….” Freddy said “they’re here….”

From that void… they emerged

First…

Bonnie

Giant.

Covered in torn fur… with parts of the endoskeleton exposed.

The synthetic skin was peeling away… the wires inside showing like mechanical veins… the eyes… two dead white pits… glowing unnaturally in the dark

The mouth… full of sharp teeth… more than any animatronic should have… slowly opening… with a sound of grinding metal.

And right behind him…

Chica

Yellow… but a dirty shade… as if she had been forgotten for years in a basement.

Her “LET’S EAT!” bib was torn… stained… and her eyes… so sunken… so black… with a red glow pulsing as if she breathed hate.

In her hand… she held a cupcake.

But the cupcake… also had teeth.

And eyes.

And it smiled.

Damian screamed.

He screamed so loudly that his throat felt like it was tearing apart.

“DADDY!!! DADDY!!! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!! SOMEONE!!! PLEASE!!! NO!!! I DON’T WANT TO!!! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!!!”

He stumbled out of bed… trying to run to the door… but his legs gave out… his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

The two animatronics advanced.

Bonnie was the first.

The metal hand shot through the air… grabbing Damian’s ankle… pulling hard…

dragging the boy back to the center of the room… like prey being led to execution.

Damian kicked… screamed… clawed at the floor… trying to get free… sobs choking in his throat.

Chica approached… lowering her face… her huge teeth opening as if she were going to bite his face right there.

Damian screamed… screamed… until his vision began to blur.

His heart was racing… beating so fast it felt like it was going to explode.

His skin was sweating cold… his entire body was shaking… and then…

The convulsions began.

First… his neck stiffened… his muscles locked… his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Then… his arms… flailing uncoordinatedly… his back arched… his teeth chattered… foam began to form at the corners of his mouth.

In the lab… 

the alarms started going off.

Lucius jumped up from his chair… his eyes wide as he saw Damian’s heart rate and brain activity graph going off.

“Bruce! The EEG is going off the chart! He’s convulsing! If it keeps up like this… he could go into cardiac arrest! We have to stop this now!”

Bruce just took a sip of his whiskey… his gaze still fixed on the video monitors… where the camera showed Damian’s room… the boy struggling on the floor… his eyes rolled back… his body shaking as if he was being electrocuted.

“No,” he said… cold as a steel blade. “I want to see how long he can last.”

Lucius turned pale.

“Bruce… he could die!”

“Then… let him die,” Bruce replied… without any emotion… as if he were talking about replacing a defective part.

Upstairs… in the room… Damian was still trapped in his own nightmare… with the two creatures advancing on him… their voices mixed with echoes of metal… like a chorus of hungry monsters.

His eyes… already half-open… fixed on nothing… while the shadow of the chicken and the rabbit enveloped him.

And… while his body trembled… and the laboratory alarms screamed red…

Bruce just watched.

Like someone watching… an experiment.

No rush.

No guilt.

No fear.

Because… for Bruce Wayne…

Damian was just another variable.

Another piece of data… in a cold and meticulous calculation

“BRUCE, HE’S GOING TO DIE!!!”

Bruce remained motionless… staring at the monitors… as if he were watching a documentary.

“I WILL NOT LET A CHILD DIE IN FRONT OF ME!!!” He screamed… and on impulse… he knocked over the chair… ran to the emergency panel… typing in the codes… releasing all the ventilation valves at once.

The system reacted with a bang.

The turbines went into full power… sucking the gas out… the filters kicking in… the air starting to clean.

Bruce just watched.

For a second… his eyes narrowed… but soon the cynical smile returned.

“Tsk… always so predictable, Lucius” He said… like someone watching a disobeying dog.

Lucius turned around… with his eyes wide… sweaty… his hands still shaking… with fear… but also with an anger that he had been trying to bury for months.

“I’d rather be predictable… than a monster like you” He replied… with a hoarse voice.

Bruce just smiled… a slow smile… empty… venomous.

“Monsters… are created… not born,” he said… before downing the rest of his whiskey.

“I… I did what was right…” He said… as if trying to convince himself… as if he still expected Bruce to explode in anger.

But Bruce… just finished his whiskey… put the glass aside… and spoke with the same coldness as always

“Next time… I want to know the exact second it breaks. No interference. No crisis of conscience” He said… his tone low… firm… threatening “Understood?”

Lucius didn’t answer.

He just stood there… standing… with his hands still shaking… knowing he had saved a child’s life…

…and at the same time… aware that… in that house…

No one was truly safe.

Not even from the one who claimed to be the father.

In the room…

Damian was lying on the floor… his chest rising and falling unevenly… his face all red… his eyes half closed… tears streaming… his body still shaking involuntarily.

The visions of Bonnie and Chica were starting to fade… fading into blurs of shadow… but the terror… the smell… the pain… the despair… all of it remained trapped inside him… like invisible marks.

He could barely breathe… every time he took a breath… it felt like his chest was going to explode with pain.

But… he was still alive.

Nearly.

The digital clock blinked… now showing 3:07 in the morning.

And… even so… in the back of his mind… a horrible certainty grew:

Night three… would come soon.

And maybe… next time…

No one would stop the gas in time.

The sun had barely crossed the horizon.

A pale, weak, gray light tried to force its way through the closed blinds, creating streaks of brightness on the floor…

but to Damian… that meant nothing.

No comfort.

No relief.

No end.

He hadn’t slept.

Not for a single second.

His small body was curled up in the corner of the room… between the wall and the bed… with his knees pressed to his chest… his eyes open… dry… red… so deep they looked like two holes dug into his face.

Freddy's plush toy was clutched to his chest… like a pathetic life preserver in the face of a sea of ​​nightmares.

Yellow Freddy.

The smell of sweat… fear… and tears… permeated the air.

The mattress was turned on its side… the sheets were twisted… the floor still bore the marks of his nails… from when he had scratched the carpet trying to get away from Bonnie and Chica.

His throat burned… he could still taste the metallic taste of blood from when he had bitten his own tongue in the crisis.

His ribs ached… throbbing with each breath.

But what really kept him still… frozen… was fear.

The absolute… suffocating fear… that… if he dared to close his eyes… they would come back.

Bonnie.

Chica.

The door disappearing.

The tug on his ankle.

The metal claws… the mouth… the teeth…

The attack… his body convulsing… 

and Bruce's eyes watching everything… cold… motionless… like a scientist watching a lab guinea pig.

Damian swallowed hard… hugging the stuffed animals tighter.

That's when he heard it.

CLICK

The dry sound of the door latch unlocking.

His heart stopped for half a second.

His entire body froze.

Terror hit his chest hard… like a punch.

He jumped up… his bare feet stumbling in his own fear… his legs were shaking… but the need to get out of that room was greater than any pain.

He ran down the hallway… his breath was short… the air was burning in his lungs… his eyes were still watering.

The house seemed empty.

Silent.

The kind of silence that screams.

Damian walked like a ghost… as if he were floating… with the Freddy plush toy crushed against his chest… his steps were dragging… his knees were shaking.

He went down the stairs… each step felt like a sledgehammer hitting the bones in his legs… from so much accumulated fatigue.

He passed through the kitchen… empty.

Through the dining room… empty.

Hallways… empty.

The clock on the wall read 6:19.

His eyes… deep… looked around with paranoid fear… as if he expected to see Bonnie or Chica's eyes in any corner… behind every piece of furniture… under every shadow.

He walked… to the living room.

Crawling.

With the yellow Freddy crushed in his chest.

The world seemed to spin… the sounds seemed muffled… distant… as if he were underwater.

Damian sat on the floor… right in front of the couch… trembling.

His chest rose and fell with difficulty.

The dark circles under his eyes looked like purple spots… his lips were chapped… his skin… pale as chalk.

He rested his head on his legs… trying, for a second, to breathe.

That's when he heard it.

A shuffling of feet.

Behind the TV.

Damian froze.

His stomach turned.

A chill ran up his back… burning like cold fire… from his feet to the back of his neck.

The hands trembled.

The fingers gripped the plush even tighter.

The sound came again.

A creak.

Something moving there… in the dark… right behind the television.

“N-No…” Damian whispered… his voice coming out low… broken… as if his vocal cords had already given up.

And… before he could react…

The figure jumped.

Out of nowhere.

In a quick… aggressive movement… appearing above the TV with a hoarse scream

“YARRRRRRRRRRR!!!” Jason yelled… with the Foxy mask on his face.

That horrible mask… old… the painted teeth… the torn ears… the eyes were two dark holes that left only a glimpse of Jason's face behind them.

But… for Damian… at the time… that wasn't Jason.

It wasn't a joke.

It was Foxy.

It was him.

The creature.

Coming to finish the job the others had started the night before.

The mask's eyes seemed to glow… the teeth came to life… the sounds of tearing metal came back to him… along with the smell… the taste of blood… the screams… the shaking ground… Bonnie's hand pulling on his ankle… Chica's mouth opening to devour him whole

Damian screamed.

A torn scream… desperate… from the depths of his soul.

His body threw itself back with such force that it hit his head on the corner of the bookshelf…

a dull thud… the sound of bones against wood.

The pain exploded… but he barely felt it.

He fell to the floor… his legs thrashing… his hands trying to protect himself… his fingers scratching his own face without realizing it… the tears falling so fast that it seemed like his eyes were leaking.

“NO!!! NO!!! NO!!!” He screamed… his sobs cutting through the air… the words coming out all jumbled up. “GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!! NO!!! NO!!! DADDY!!! HELP!!! SOMEONE!!! HE’S HERE!!! HE’S HERE!!”

Jason… on the other side of the room… took off his mask… laughing.

“Man… HAHAHAHAHA!!!!” He could barely breathe from laughing so hard… bent over… putting his hands on his knees… tears from laughing so hard streaming down his face. “That was… that was THE FUNNIEST THING I’ve ever seen in my life! HAHAHA! My God, did you see your face?! Did you see it?!” 

He pointed… still holding the mask like a trophy 

“Awesome!”

Damian was curled up on the floor… his face hidden between his arms… his shoulders shaking… sobbing so loudly he sounded like a wounded animal.

He tried… with all his might… to convince himself that it was just Jason.

But in his head… the mask 

still had teeth.

It still had eyes.

It still breathed.

Jason walked away… laughing… spinning the mask in his hand… like a satisfied predator.

“Now that’s a good start to the day…” He muttered… before disappearing down the hallway… whistling… as if nothing had happened.

Damian was left there… alone… lying on the living room floor.

Crying

His chest rose and fell with difficulty.

His head was throbbing from the blow.

His hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold the plush toy properly.

He brought the yellow Freddy to his face… hiding in it… the smell of the old fabric was the only anchor he had to reality.

“Tomorrow…is another day…”

Damian froze.

His entire body froze.

His eyes widened once more.

Sweat ran down his forehead…cold…icy.

He dropped the plush…as if it had burned his hands.

But…the voice was already gone.

All that was left was its echo…pulsing inside Damian’s head…like a threat.

Or a promise.

And…for the first time since the sun had risen…

Damian wished for night to come again.

Because…deep down…

He knew.

Tomorrow…

Would be much, much worse.

The main dining room of the pizzeria was almost unrecognizable that morning. 

Some of the tables had been stacked against the walls. 

A truck was unloading boxes of colorful decorations in the back parking lot. 

Still-deflated balloons were scattered in the corners, along with rolls of fabric and paper banners with ready-made phrases. 

“Happy Birthday!” 

“Come celebrate with Freddy!” 

John Grayson stood near the entrance to the dining room, a cold coffee in his hand, watching the employees climb ladders to hang decorations from the ceiling. 

He tried to concentrate on the work orders, but his throat tightened every time his gaze passed over the covered stage. 

The purple fabric stretched there looked like a sheet over a body… hiding what should never have happened. 

Bruce Wayne appeared right behind him.

“I don’t like this banner.” Bruce pointed to one of the banners. “The red background is too aggressive. Change it to a more yellow tone.” 

John took a deep breath before answering.

 “I had already ordered the standard models. It will be late if I order new ones now.” 

“Then delay it,” Bruce answered, without hesitation. “I don’t care about the cost. I want the place to be impeccable. A real party. For a lot of people. Children from all over the city. Damian’s entire school if possible.” 

John’s jaw clenched. 

He didn’t answer for a few seconds.

 “Are you sure about that?” he asked, without looking at him. “Having such a big party? Here? With so many children?” 

“Absolutely,” Bruce said, with a slight smile. “It’s exactly what Damian needs. A little social exposure, new friends… and of course… showing everyone that Fredbear’s is still the best place in Gotham for children’s parties.”

John ran his hand over the back of his neck, disguising his discomfort. The smell of fresh paint… the sound of balloons being inflated… everything about it seemed to make his stomach turn.

As if the air was too heavy.

He knew why.

Of course he did.

But he wasn’t going to say it.

“Does he…” John hesitated. “Does he really have enough friends for that? Do you think people will show up?”

Bruce stepped forward, adjusting the cuff of his shirt.

“That’s not a problem. Kids show up for free food and arcade games. I promise.”

John swallowed hard.

His fingertips trembled slightly as he held the coffee cup.

“Even so…” he tried to insist, his voice low. “Don’t you think something more intimate would be better? A smaller party… something just with the family…?”

Bruce turned his face to him, his eyes cold, calculating every word.

“Why do you look like that, John?” he asked suddenly.

John blinked, confused.

“What… face?”

“That look… like you’re holding your breath the whole time.” Bruce tilted his head, as if studying a caged animal. “Like it’s ready to run.”

John was silent.

Bruce continued

“Relax. This will be good for everyone. For the restaurant… for Damian… and for you too. It will take the funeral atmosphere out of this room once and for all.”

Funeral.

The word landed like a punch.

John felt a shiver run down his spine, but he remained still.

He gripped the glass tighter, until his knuckles turned white.

Before he could respond, one of the employees came running from the direction of the stage.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Grayson!”

They both turned around.

“Problem with Freddy,” the boy said, panting. “He froze again… during the voice test.”

John closed his eyes.

“Locked up? Again?”

“The mouth… sir. Same as the other times. In the middle of the song… he stopped talking… and started chattering his teeth as if he was… I don’t know… biting the air.”

The employee clearly looked nervous.

Bruce just smiled at the corner of his mouth.

“Always the mouth,” he commented, as if it were an old, inconvenient friend. “It seems our favorite bear has a fixation.”

John rubbed his face with his hands, exhausted.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, in a tone that sounded more like a sigh, “again.”

The boy nodded and hurriedly left.

Bruce, for his part, stood still… hands in his pockets… watching the flashing lights near the stage.

“You know what I think?” he said, in a casual tone, as if commenting on the weather. “I think this restaurant is holding more memories than it should.”

John didn’t answer.

He just turned his back and walked toward the backstage, his steps quick, as if he were running away from something.

Bruce followed him with his eyes for a few seconds… then he took out his cell phone… and started checking the guest list.

His smile… discreet… almost imperceptible… remained for a long time.

The sink was full.

Crocks piled up from days ago.

Plates with dried sauce residue, silverware stained with coffee, glasses stained with the fingerprints of a routine that no longer made sense.

John Grayson kept his hands submerged in the warm water, scrubbing hard on a chipped ceramic plate, as if he wanted to erase not only the dirt, but any trace of the life that had been there before.

The kitchen radio was off.

The television was off, too.

The windows were closed, the curtains half-drawn, leaving the interior of the house in a permanent twilight, where time seemed frozen between the end of an afternoon and the beginning of a mourning that never ended.

On the counter… an old photo.

He didn't know exactly when he had put that photo there.

Maybe it had been there for days.

Maybe weeks.

On it… John and Dick. Both of them smiling.

Smeared with paint, wearing old t-shirts, in the middle of a painting project of some scene in the restaurant.

Dick had his hands raised, his fingers covered in blue and yellow, his laughter frozen in a moment of simple happiness.

John tried not to look.

He tried to keep scrubbing the dishes.

But his eyes kept coming back… without wanting to.

Once, twice… ten times.

As if that image were a magnet.

An anchor.

Or a blade.

His chest began to hurt.

A physical, real pain… like someone was squeezing his heart with both hands.

That alley…

The blood…

The face too pale…

The closed eyes…

And the Puppet… kneeling there… with her thin, wooden arms wrapped around Dick’s limp body…

as if she could… somehow… undo what had happened.

John squeezed his eyes shut.

His breathing became shallow.

He picked up the next utensil.

A kitchen knife.

Long.

Thin.

Still with sauce marks on the blade.

With automatic movements, he ran the sponge over it… but his fingers began to tremble.

He looked up again… and stared at the photo.

The weight of the silence seemed to double over him.

“I can’t take it anymore…” his voice was broken… almost a whisper.

The tears came before he even realized.

First wetting his eyelashes… then running down his cheeks… hot… heavy… mixing with the salty taste of regret and despair.

The knife… rose slowly.

His hands were shaking so much that the tip of the blade lightly touched the side of his neck, pressing against the thin skin, just below his jaw.

John was breathing fast… like a cornered animal.

His heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to burst his ribs.

His knees were starting to weaken.

His head was pounding.

“End it… just end it… please…”

But his fingers… wouldn’t obey.

He closed his eyes… his shoulders were shaking… his teeth were grinding with hatred against himself… against the world… against the void.

His entire body collapsed on the kitchen floor, with the knife slipping from his hand and sliding far away… until it hit the cabinet with a metallic sound.

John fell to his knees… then let himself slide until he sat on the cold floor… with his face buried in his hands… crying… suffocating his own screams in the palms of his hands dirty with detergent and tears.

The pain… was all that was left.

That kind of pain that made no noise, but that destroyed everything inside.

And, even there… alone… with the taste of iron still in his throat… he knew, deep down, that the next day… he would wake up again… make coffee again… pretend he was fine… and…

He would keep breathing.

Even without knowing why.

Even without wanting to.

Because… the world didn't stop for anyone.

And Bruce…

And the pizzeria…

And the damn birthday…

And all of that…

…would go on.

The clock on the wall was almost midnight. 

Damian’s room still smelled of fear… that stuffy smell of dried tears, sweat, and panic. 

The windows were closed, the heavy curtains blocking out any trace of moonlight. 

The lamp beside the bed was the only light on… casting flickering shadows on the walls… as if darkness were waiting, just on the other side. 

Damian lay there… but he didn’t seem to be resting. 

His eyes were open… swollen… sunken… with circles so dark they looked like bruises. 

He clutched the old yellow Freddy plush to his chest… his small fingers gripped so tightly that his knuckles were white.

The door creaked open.

Bruce walked in.

Calm.

Impeccable.

His dark dress shirt… his sleeves rolled up… his face carrying that polite, cold smile… rehearsed… like an actor in a cheap margarine commercial.

“Time for bed, Damian.” His voice came out low… firm… with that tone that brooked no argument.

The boy didn’t even react right away.

He blinked a few times… as if he only now realized his father was there.

“D-daddy… I’m scared.” His voice came out slurred… hoarse… as if he had been screaming for hours before he could speak. “What if… what if they… they come again?”

Bruce arched an eyebrow… feigning confusion… or maybe just trying hard to look like he still cared about hiding it.

“Them?”

Damian swallowed hard… his eyes filling with tears again.

“A… Chica… and Bonnie…” his voice came out in a thread as he pointed to the animatronic plushies on the floor “They… they were in the room… they tried to get me… they… they pulled my foot… they tried to kill me… and… and I…”

his body began to shake.

“I… I… I couldn’t breathe… I… I thought I was going to die…”

Bruce sighed… ran his hand through his hair as if he was tired… but without even looking at Damian.

“Damian… how many times do I have to repeat myself?” He said, in a light tone… but full of coldness “This whole thing… was just a nightmare.”

“B-but it wasn’t…” Damian tried to argue… his voice failing “I… I felt them… I saw the teeth… they… they were real…”

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed… with an almost patient smile… but with that empty… calculating look.

“You’re tired,” he said… like someone talking to a sulking child. “You’re mixing dreams and reality… that happens when you spend entire nights awake… and you’ve been doing that a lot… haven’t you?”

Damian shrugged his shoulders… his face sinking deeper into the plush… tears running down his chin.

Bruce stood up… straightened his shirt sleeve… as if this conversation was just another item crossed off a list.

“By the way… changing the subject…” He abruptly changed the subject. “Your birthday party… we’re already organizing everything. It’s going to be at the pizzeria… like we agreed.”

Damian stopped breathing for a second.

He swallowed hard.

“The… the party?” His voice was low… almost as if he didn’t want to continue the topic.

“That’s right,” Bruce continued… with that stiff smile, “We’re preparing a special decoration… and you’ll be able to invite as many children as you want. It’ll be great for you…”

Damian squeezed his eyes tightly.

“Cool… I… I’m… really excited…” he said… in a tone that even he didn’t believe.

Bruce smiled.

“Of course you are,” he said… satisfied with the answer.

Damian knew… 

they both knew… 

that it was a lie.

The silence lasted for a few seconds… before Damian took a deep breath… and with his voice still trembling… said:

“Daddy…” he hesitated… his fingers squeezing Freddy. “This morning… Jason… he… he scared me… with a mask… a foxy mask… I… I thought it was… another… another monster…”

Bruce sighed. 

He turned to him… his tone was already more irritated… more impatient. 

“Damian, stop.” His voice cut through the air like a knife. “None of this is real. Not the nightmares… not what Jason did… none of it. They’re just… fantasies. Fantasies in your head. And you know what you’re going to do now? You’re going to close your eyes… take a deep breath… and sleep.” 

Damian shook his head in denial… his eyes were already filling with tears again. 

“I… I’m scared… and… what if… foxy… comes too? And… what if he…” his voice trailed off… a sob escaping. “What if he catches me?” 

Bruce ignored him. 

“Daddy?” 

He just walked to the door… 

without even saying goodbye. 

But… this time… he didn’t lock it.

Damian heard the doorknob… the sound of the wood closing… the click of the door latch. 

And then… silence. 

Only the muffled sound of his breathing… and the soft beating of his own heart… desperate. 

He continued hugging the plush… his shoulders shaking with the crying… his body trembling as if it were still last night… as if the screams had never stopped… only gotten quieter. 

“I can’t take it anymore…” he whispered… with a choked voice… burying his face in Freddy’s dirty yellow fur “I can’t take it… I’m alone… I’m alone… everyone’s leaving… mommy went… even she left me… and… and now… now you’re going to leave me too… right Freddy?” 

He sobbed… shaking even more. 

“You’re going to leave me… like everyone else…”

The plush… remained still.

For a second… Damian thought he had imagined the answer.