Gotham was drowning in it—the kind of slow, miserable drizzle that seeped through coats and settled into bones.

Inside Wayne Manor, the halls were warm. Heated floors, crackling fireplaces, the smell of old wood and Alfred's cooking.

But it felt empty.

Y/n stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at the foyer below. Her hand rested on the banister, fingers tracing the polished wood.

There was a shuffle of boots on marble. Voices, low and hurried.

Y/n's fingers stopped moving.

Five men. Her family.

Not one of them had noticed her standing there.