Chapter Text
"The light has fallen from the stars
Now we are sinking through the night
Out of sight, we've fallen underground
Pick up the pieces left of us."
PROLOGUE: “The Flying Graysons”
BRUCE
There were few times when Bruce truly felt Selina was right. When she told him Gotham was beyond saving.
Usually, he clung to his belief: The city deserves to be saved. Gotham can be saved. And this was one of those times.
It had been a year since he last saw her, but he was sure that if she stood before him now, she wouldn’t hesitate to say. Told you so.
He had gone to the circus simply to relax, to watch a few tricks and forget everything—the Joker’s escape, the anniversary of his parents’ deaths, the corruption festering within his company, his legacy. Yes. He desperately needed a break.
The Flying Graysons were known for being one of the best trapeze acts in the world. They were the only ones capable of performing a triple somersault midair—and this year marked the debut of their young son. So, when Haly’s Circus came to Gotham, Alfred handed Bruce a ticket and sent him off with a fond, almost paternal smile.
Everything was perfect. The crowd clapped and cheered at every feat; the Graysons bowed theatrically with radiant smiles. Bruce even smiled back at the little boy about to debut before grabbing another handful of salty buttered popcorn from the bag he’d bought outside the tent.
And then—
The ropes snapped.
Gasps filled the air. A dull, horrible thud echoed as the two elder Graysons hit the ground. They never used a safety net—they were that good. They never fell. Always graceful, always catching each other. Until tonight.
The boy stood frozen on the platform, hand outstretched toward his parents’ bodies as if he could still reach them. The sequined blue of his costume glimmered under the lights, a cruel contrast to the grief twisting his face. Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks.
Bruce knew that look—that pain. He’d worn it himself once, in an alley whose name was forever carved into his heart. He had seen his world torn from him before his very eyes, so many years ago.
So, he did something he thought he would never do.
He adopted a child.
[…]
RICHARD
Night had reached its peak. Yet the moon hid behind heavy clouds, and the stars were nowhere to be seen. The darkness mocked him—thick, suffocating, endless.
Richard Grayson trembled—not from cold, but from rage, fear, sorrow.
A name haunted his thoughts. A face. Tony Zucco.
That man… that monster had threatened his parents just moments before the show. Richard had seen him.
The police asked him for a description, hoping for a clue about the incident. He hadn’t spoken for hours since the fall, but he forced himself to try. The English words felt clumsy on his tongue, yet he managed to make himself understood.
All he received in return was a pitying smirk from the officer and his partner, as if justice were already out of reach—as if his voice didn’t matter.
They muttered to each other, words he couldn’t understand. He stared in confusion, curled under the coarse blanket they’d given him, clenched the fabric in his fists, lowered his head, and cried in silence.
It wasn’t long before a trembling hand rested on his shoulder.
The fingers were cold, and the touch sent a shiver down his spine—but it also calmed him, a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.
He turned slowly, hiccuping between sobs, and met a pair of sorrowful eyes: pale blue, icy, watching him with quiet understanding. There was compassion there—a silent empathy.
The rough blanket was replaced with a coat—black, large, warm, and smelling faintly of oak and night—the softest thing he’d ever felt.
A handkerchief brushed away his tears. A gentle touch lifted his chin.
And Richard broke.
He threw himself into the man’s arms. The man stiffened for a moment, then returned the embrace.
He held him. Comforted him. Drew small circles on his back while the boy clung to him and wept.
It felt as though the night itself—the same night that once seemed so cruel and endless—was now holding him, promising him justice and companionship.
The night was holding him.
You’re not alone.