Wayne Manor had a thousand rooms, but that night, I got lost on purpose. After training with Dick, I didn't feel like going back to my room. I needed to walk. To breathe. To understand what my body was becoming. I ended up in the library. Of course. Everything about Bruce Wayne screams secret library, hidden cave, and trauma neatly filed in alphabetical order. I was reaching for an old bound edition of Hamlet when a deep voice broke the silence: — Do I die young? I jumped. He was there, in the shadows, his back to me, standing in front of the large bay window. Bruce. Or Batman without the suit. Which, really, was the same thing. I took a breath. I knew this conversation would happen someday. I'd just hoped it wouldn't be... today. — In some versions, yeah. He didn't react. He stood there, straight, hands clasped behind his back. He seemed... calm. Too calm. — You described me as a fictional character. A tragic hero. A legend. So tell me, Dale. In your world... what am I, really? I swallowed. This wasn't a casual question. It was a confession in disguise. A request for absolution. Or maybe just a desperate need to understand what he represented when he himself no longer knew. I stepped a little closer. — In my world, you're a kid who watched his parents die in front of him. And you decided no one else should have to suffer like that. You used your money, your body, your mind to create something bigger. Stronger. And yeah, sometimes you're obsessive. You're terrifying. You make mistakes. He turned slowly. His gaze pinned me in place. It wasn't anger. It was worse. It was the look of a man who doubts. — And what do I become in the end? — Sometimes... you die alone. In an alley. Sometimes you become a dictator. Sometimes you pass the torch. And sometimes... you win. He nodded. Not surprised. As if he had already considered every version of himself. I kept going, my throat tight. — But what I've never seen... is you, here. With a kid from another world. One who talks too much. Who's afraid of getting sunburned just going out to buy milk. A faint twitch. Almost a smirk. Maybe. — You're saying I never adopted an interdimensional skating teenager in any version of your reality? — No. And that's probably what scares me the most. Because it means anything can happen here. Including things I've never seen coming. He walked toward me. He was tall. Broad. More solid than I imagined. Not like in the movies. This was flesh, muscle, exhaustion. Human. — Do you think I'm a monster? he finally asked. I met his eyes. Honestly. No filter. — I think you could become one. If you were left alone for too long. He closed his eyes for a moment. Took it in. — And me? I asked. Do you think I could become a monster too? He looked at me. And for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. Not for himself. For me. — Yes, he said. But only if you refuse to be vulnerable. Silence. Then he added, more quietly: — I didn't ask you to be Robin. You don't owe me anything. But if you stay here... you have to understand yourself. What you want. What you can offer. And what you're capable of breaking. I lowered my gaze. I hated that he was right. I hated that he was clear-headed. — I don't want to be a weapon, Bruce. I spent my life dancing on ice so people would applaud me—not so I'd be sent out to fight killer clowns. He stepped closer. Closer still. — Then find another purpose. And I'll help you reach it. You're not a piece to be moved on a chessboard, Dale. You're a player. And this game... I want to play it with you, not above you. And then, without understanding why, my eyes started to sting. So I looked away, took a deep breath, and murmured: — You would've been a good father. Even in my world. He didn't answer. But I felt his hand—heavy—rest on my shoulder. Not to hold me back. But to say: You're not alone. And that was enough.

The Mask And The Mirror