Leaning heavily against the dark wood of the grand staircase, clothes torn and caked with dried mud and something darker, was a ghost. A living, breathing ghost, one hand pressed to their ribs, their breathing a shallow, pained rhythm.

His shout tore through the manor's quiet like a gunshot. A light flicked on upstairs, then another. The thunder of footsteps descended—first Bruce, in a robe, his face a mask of sleep and instant, sharp-edged alarm, then Dick and Tim, both looking rumpled and confused.

The relief was a physical force, a wave about to crash. But Bruce's training overrode the shock a second later. His eyes scanned the injuries, the posture, the context of the impossible return. The joy in his eyes was instantly tempered by a deep, wary calculation.