INTERLUDE: BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce was not a man who made impulsive decisions.

Everything he did was carefully thought out. Calculated. Even in the heat of battle, when seconds determined survival, his actions were never reactionary. They were the result of discipline, preparation, and foresight.

And yet, when he had given the nod—when he had allowed Dick, Tim, and the others to break protocol and reveal their identities to Taylor Hebert—it had not been because of a meticulously laid-out plan.

It had been a judgment call.

Bruce stood in the Batcave—a place that had long since become a refuge as much as it was a command center—surrounded by the quiet hum of computer terminals and the distant drip of water from the cavern ceiling. The glow of the Batcomputer cast sharp shadows across his face, but his attention wasn’t on the screens. His mind was elsewhere, working through the decision that had led them here.

. . . . .

There had been many reasons not to tell her.

She was an unknown variable. A stranger in Gotham, a rogue element who had inserted herself into the war playing out in the streets. Even without powers, she had enough skill to survive encounters that should have killed her. That alone had demanded scrutiny.

Then there was the matter of her origin.

Not from Earth. Not from any universe he could verify.

It was the kind of revelation that could have made her a target. Under different circumstances, the Justice League would have taken an interest. Some would have advocated caution. Others, containment. But Bruce had kept that knowledge close, weighing it against what he had observed firsthand, because he knew the League, and he knew Taylor.

She was dangerous. Not in the way the League of Shadows was dangerous, not in the way Gotham’s criminals were dangerous. Taylor Hebert had an edge, something honed through experience more than training. She fought like someone who expected the world to try and kill her at any moment.

But she wasn’t a threat to the world.

She was a girl who had lost everything.

And yet, she kept moving forward.

That was what had convinced him.

He had watched her over the past weeks. Her methodology was unrefined, but her instincts were sharp. When she intervened, it wasn’t out of some reckless compulsion to prove herself. It was because she believed no one else would.

That was a dangerous mindset. One he understood too well.

And one that, left unchecked, could easily destroy her.

So he had made a choice. Not just for her, but for them.

. . . . .

“You’re sure about this?”

Tim’s voice echoed in his memory—low, but edged with something steely beneath the surface.

It had been the moment before the decision was made.

“No,” Bruce had admitted. “But it’s the right call.”

They had waited. For an explanation. A justification. Something to reassure them that this wasn’t a mistake.

He hadn’t given one.

There were some things that couldn’t be explained in a single conversation. Some decisions had to be made based on more than just logic.

Taylor had no one.

Whatever life she had before—whoever she had been before—had been taken from her when she arrived in Gotham. She had adapted, had kept moving, and fought, because that was what survivors did. But there was no foundation beneath her, no support structure to catch her if she fell.

That was not something he could ignore.

He had made mistakes before. He had misjudged people, had pushed them away, believing that isolation was safety. That he had to keep them at a distance to protect them. But he had learned. And when he looked at Taylor, he saw someone standing at the same precipice that others had stood on before her.

Jason.

Cassandra.

Even Dick, once.

He had seen it too late in some of them. He would not make that mistake again.

Not with her.

. . . . .

Wayne Manor was not a home

Not in the way it should have been.

It had been a battleground, a training ground, a war room. A place where wounded soldiers patched themselves up before stepping into the fight again.

But, for all that, it had also been a lifeline.

And that, more than anything, was why he had let her in.

Not because she needed it. Not because they needed her.

But because, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit—

—he wondered if she could find something here that he never had.

Not a reason to stop fighting.

A reason to fight for something more.

To live. 

And if not?

Then at least, she wouldn’t have to fight alone.