"Even the gentlest act of understanding can send ripples through hearts that once knew only chaos."
---
Wayne Manor had the sort of silence that only came after a storm—thick, deliberate, filled with the weight of thought.
The fire in the great hall burned low, casting orange light over the portraits of ghosts and legends.
Bruce stood near the mantel, still in the dark shirt from patrol. The others were scattered about the room—Dick perched on a chair's arm, Jason leaning against the wall, Damian sitting cross-legged on the floor, Tim half-hidden behind a glowing tablet, Barbara at the piano with her back straight and eyes bright. Stephanie and Cassandra just sat on the couch.
The hush stretched until Dick finally exhaled.
"So… what do we think about him?"
Jason gave a sharp laugh. "What's to think? He's like a walking apocalypse in a shirt. Bullets bounce, poison fizzles, fire just—doesn't stick. You can't plan for someone like that."
Damian didn't look up. "Perhaps one doesn't need to plan for him. He doesn't act without reason."
Tim flicked through screens. "Still. His presence throws off balance. Gotham's ecosystem relies on predictability—criminal, vigilante, police. He doesn't fit any column."
Barbara played a soft note, the sound hanging. "He doesn't fit because he's not trying to. He just… is. That's what's unsettling."
Bruce said nothing, eyes on the fire. The reflection of it painted his jawline in gold.
When he finally spoke, it was almost a growl. "He operates outside fear, outside consequence. I've seen people like that—rarely for good."
Dick tilted his head. "And yet, he helps. He doesn't kill, doesn't threaten. He just walks in and things… bend."
Jason pushed off the wall. "Yeah, and that bending makes me nervous. You ever seen Gotham listen to someone without a weapon?"
Damian's tone was firm. "That's because his existence is a weapon. Unyielding resolve is more terrifying than a blade."
Barbara turned from the piano. "Then what's our move? Apart form trying to jump him and then get our asses whooped."
Bruce looked up at the Wayne crest above the fireplace, lost in thought.
"We watch him." He said at last. "Not because he's a threat… but because he changes things simply by being."
The flames cracked. No one argued.
For a long moment, Gotham's protectors simply stared into the fire—each seeing, perhaps, a reflection of something they could neither fight nor define.
Downtown Gotham – Midnight
A flickering neon sign read Harleen's Ink in faded pink. The sound of rain drummed against the windows, mingling with the low hum of a jazz station that had lost its tuning decades ago.
Inside, Harley Quinn—hair in messy twin streaks of blue and pink—sat hunched over her workbench. Gloves on, eyes narrowed, tongue between her teeth in concentration.
Across from her, a young man watched nervously as the tattoo needle buzzed to life.
She smirked without looking up. "First tat, puddin'?"
He chuckled. "Yeah. My friends said I should get somethin' bold, but… I dunno."
"Bold's overrated." Harley guided the needle gently, her motions steady. "Subtle lasts longer. Kinda like regrets except prettier."
The design blossomed slowly across his forearm—interlocking vines curling around soft petals, a living pattern that seemed to breathe with the skin. Between the stems, almost hidden, the words curved in elegant script: Begin Again.
The kid watched, mesmerized. "That's… beautiful."
Harley paused, wiping the ink with a soft cloth. "It's a start," she said quietly.
She leaned back, admiring the piece. "Y'know, I used to think art was just decoration. Now I figure it's surgery for the soul without the mess."
He laughed, the nervousness fading. "Guess you're kind of a doctor again."
She smiled faintly. "Guess I am."
Outside, the rain eased to a whisper. Harley switched off the buzzing needle, peeled off her gloves, and stared at the finished tattoo—the soft floral swirl glowing under the lamp.
For the first time in years, her hands weren't shaking.
And somewhere beyond the city's skyline, King walked unseen through the rain—unaware that his words, his faith in broken people, had already begun to seed quiet rebirths across Gotham.
Read 12 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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