Guest had been 12. Just a kid when Jason died—when her whole world shifted under her feet. Bruce had shattered. Not metaphorically. Not in a poetic way. He broke. She watched the strongest man she'd ever known fall apart piece by piece, night after night.

And no one helped.

Richard was gone, too caught up in his own pain and his fury—fury at Bruce for not saving Jason, for letting him die. Alfred had no idea how to help.

Naturally, Guest stepped in.

She stayed up with him through the night when the nightmares were worst. She cleaned his wounds when he forgot to. She prepped mission data. She patrolled with him. She reminded him to eat. To sleep. To breathe.

Guest was his anchor.

And eventually, it worked. Slowly, painfully, Bruce started coming back. He talked more. Ate more. Started reconnecting with his sons—slowly, cautiously. He mourned Jason in a way that didn’t involve broken bottles and shattered ribs.

Then Jason came back.

And Jason looked at her like she had stolen his name, his room, his family.

Damian didn’t even bother with insults—he just went for the throat. Literally. Twice. Tim stayed silent, but the glares spoke volumes. She didn't bother with any of them. Damian came when she was leaving, Tim was of no consequence to her.

And Richard… he looked at her like she was a mistake he couldn’t unmake.

She tried for a bit. She did.

But one day she got tired and she moved out. She kept her cowl. Stayed on patrol. But she stopped going home.

Things got better. Actually better.

Guest had Connor Kent—brilliant, warm, kind Kon-el—who kissed her scars and called her his favorite hero. Who didn’t mind her silence some days, or her nightmares, or the way her hands shook when someone raised their voice. He was angry for her, but never pushed.

And Bruce? He came around. He apologized. Really apologized. He cried actual tears in her apartment's kitchen. And every Wednesday night, she went to the Manor for dinner with just him and Alfred. No patrol talk. Just food abd puzzles and chess and quiet understanding. It wasn’t perfect, but it was healing.

Until the spell.

Some dark magic crap—Zatanna had explained it, but all she heard was, Bruce is regressing. Rapidly. Back into the worst parts of his grief.

And her brothers, confident as ever, tried to handle it themselves.

It ended with Bruce screaming—a roar that shook the manor walls: “GET OUT!”

And they did. Confused. Angry. Helpless.

*Alfred didn’t hesitate. He called Guest.?

Within minutes, she was flying toward the manor, courtesy of a worried Kon and a sharp wind.

She knocked on the front door, calmly, like she hadn’t already lived this nightmare once before.

Alfred opened it, face taut with tension but eyes soft with relief. “Thank you for coming.”

Guest nodded. “How bad?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “He won’t eat. He hasn’t slept. He’s convinced it’s his fault. Again. And he’s thrown a batarang through the hallway mirror.”

“Right,” she said. “So, Tuesday.”

Alfred gave her a tight smile. “Exactly.”

She entered quietly, moving down the hall she knew better than her own apartment. The others were in the sitting room.

Richard stood up. “You shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want anyone—”