CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: THE WEIGHT OF A NAME

The Manor was too quiet.

Not in the sterile, suffocating way hospitals were. Not like the locker, where every second of silence had been weaponized. No—this was a different kind of quiet. The kind that seeped into the walls, settling into the wood and stone, into the bones of the building itself. The kind that made her feel like she was walking through a memory that didn’t belong to her.

Taylor moved through the halls like a ghost, footsteps soft on polished floors that had seen generations pass and fall. Everything here was tasteful and old. The kind of wealth that didn’t scream for attention—it simply existed. It made her feel like she was trespassing in a museum.

Portraits of strangers watched her from the walls—Waynes, she assumed. They had the look: aristocratic bone structure, tailored suits, expressions carved from stone. They judged her in oil and canvas, silent accusations in every unblinking gaze. She didn’t belong here, and the Manor never let her forget it.

Still, she stayed.

Because Bruce had offered. Because the Narrows was still too raw, too close to everything she wasn’t ready to confront again. And because—though she’d never admit it out loud—some small, buried part of her wanted to see what it meant to be in a place that wasn’t fighting to survive.

The mornings were the hardest.

Breakfast at the Manor wasn’t loud or rushed. It wasn’t filled with idle chatter or clinking dishes. It was a ritual. A quiet act of endurance, moving with the weight of tradition and the absence of the people who had once filled this space.

Alfred always appeared at just the right moment, as if summoned by thoughts she hadn’t spoken, and just when she thought she could slip by unnoticed. 

“Miss Hebert,” he greeted one morning, placing a steaming mug of coffee in front of her without being asked. “I took the liberty.”

She eyed the mug. Its content was strong. Bitter. Exactly how she liked to drink it now, when nights ran long and there were too many thoughts crawling in her head. She didn’t ask how he knew. Alfred just knew things.

“Thanks,” she murmured, voice still scratchy from sleep.

They sat together in the stillness, the ticking of the grandfather clock filling the space between them. The silence was comfortable for him. For her, it felt like waiting for something to go wrong. Unbearable. 

“You remind me of someone,” Alfred said at last, eyes fixed on the teapot as he poured himself a cup. “She had the same eyes. Carried her pain like a shield. Thought if she wore it long enough, it would make her invincible.”

Taylor stared down into the swirl of her tea. “Did it?”

He looked at her then. Not gently. But not unkindly either.

“No. It just made her tired.”

The conversation stayed with her for hours afterwards, heavy and unwelcome. She didn’t want to be seen. Not like that. Not by someone who knew exactly what they were looking at.

. . . . .

She ran into Damian by accident.

Literally.

She rounded a corner too fast and nearly collided with him. But he didn’t stumble. Didn’t flinch. Just braced instinctively, arms crossed, stance balanced like a weapon half-drawn.

Taylor stopped short before stepping back. “Sorry.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just watched her, studying her with narrowed eyes and the kind of scrutiny that felt more like interrogation than conversation. It was almost reminiscent of the Batman, if only less sharp around the edges, lacking the years of restraint that turned judgment into silence. 

Still, it made her feel like she was being held up to a standard she hadn’t agreed to follow.

“You’re not what I expected,” he finally said. 

Taylor tilted her head. “That a compliment?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “You’re weaker than I thought you’d be.”

There was no cruelty in it—just clinical detachment, an honest answer from someone raised by skilled combatants. Like he was measuring her against some internal scale and finding her lacking. 

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Despite the strength her new body offered—enhanced reflexes, raw power, the durability that marked her as a Brute now—there was no escaping the truth. She was still weaker than she’d once been. Not physically, maybe. But in all the ways that had mattered back on Earth Bet.

Skitter had been terrifying.

Skitter would’ve had a knife to his throat before the insult had finished leaving his mouth. Would’ve had a thousand eyes in the air and contingency plans unfolding before he took another breath.

But Skitter was gone. And Taylor… Taylor was still putting herself back together.

So no, she didn’t deny it. Because he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

“I’m not here to impress you.” 

But she couldn't admit that out loud. 

“I’m not someone who’s easily impressed,” he shot back. 

They stared at each other for a moment longer, and then he stepped aside, making just enough room for her to pass.

“I’m watching you,” he added as she moved past him.

Taylor didn’t look back. “So’s everyone else.”

. . . . .

She found her way to the roof that night.

She wasn’t brooding. Not exactly. It was more like… breathing. Thinking. Existing somewhere high enough that the weight of the ground couldn’t drag her down, where the wind bit through the silence and the sky was bigger than the thoughts she couldn’t shake.

Nightwing didn’t announce himself. Just landed beside her with that effortless grace of his and sat down, shoulder brushing hers like it wasn’t a big deal.

He didn’t speak right away either. Just let the silence settle, companionable and warm in a way she didn’t expect.

When he eventually did, it was soft: 

“You okay?” 

She didn’t answer at first. Then, “Do you actually care, or are you just asking because that’s what you’re supposed to do?”

He looked at her, and the smile that met her wasn’t his usual one. It was quieter. Sadder.

“Bit of both.”

Taylor frowned, unsure what to do with honesty like that. It would’ve been easier if he’d lied.

“Why are you nice to me?” she asked. “You don’t know me.”

He shrugged. “Bruce brought you in. That’s not something he does lightly.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he agreed. “But maybe you don’t need one yet.”

She hated that. Hated how easily they offered trust she hadn’t earned. It made her suspicious. Restless.

And yet… beneath all of that, something stirred. Warm. Unmistakable. The kind of thing she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time.

It made her uneasy.

But she didn’t move away.