It hung over the training mats where Dick Grayson was methodically dismantling a practice dummy with a series of kicks so precise and silent they seemed angry. It clung to the air around the Batcomputer, where Tim Drake and Barbara Gordon were pointedly not looking at each other as they reviewed mission schematics on separate screens.

Jason Todd leaned against the case holding a vintage Robin uniform, arms crossed, helmet off and expression thunderous. Damian Wayne was sharpening a sword with slow, deliberate strokes, the shink-shink of the whetstone the only concession to sound. Cassandra Cain watched them all from the shadows near the T-Rex, her posture tense.

Alfred Pennyworth stood by the med-bay, polishing a glass that was already spotless. His usual air of unflappable calm was stretched thin, like a wire about to snap.

Into this petrified forest of resentment and hurt, the elevator from the manor descended with a soft ding.