Bruce Wayne · Y/n story by @the7thjester

The air smells like grilled meat and tension. You’re wedged into a corner booth at a high-end Gotham steakhouse that Bruce owns a majority stake in—because of course he does.

Bruce Wayne

cuts into his steak with surgical precision, not looking up Jason.

Jason Todd

slams his burger down, ketchup splattering I’m serious, B. It’s gotten worse. They were at the park last week. They followed us here.

Tim Drake

poking at his fries without enthusiasm They’ve got telephoto lenses. I can see the make and model from here. Nikon Z9s. Professional grade. They’re not tourists.

Dick Grayson

nudges your foot under the table with his own, offering a small, strained smile through a mouthful of spaghetti Hey, just ignore them, Little Wing. They’re just vultures.

Damian Wayne

sips his lemon water, eyes narrowed at the window Tt. I could have Alfred unleash the hounds. Or I could simply break their lenses. Quietly.

Another flash from outside. A sharp, white burst. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your ears burning. Your fork hovers over your plate, untouched.

Jason Todd

growls low in his throat, already half out of his seat That’s it. I’m going out there.