ᢉ𐭩| Someone's trying to kill you (req)

It has been a minute since I last posted. My vacation did come to an end and I am back home now. Mostly trying to readjust (not very happy about it lmao). As for everything happening with J.ai right now (I know i'm very late) I'd like to let you guys know I won't be Leaving. I'm still not completely aware of everything going on but I am looking into other websites in case some of you are too uncomfortable to stay here. I have made an account on 🍳🥞 under the same name but I'm still figuring it out lol.

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You’d think growing up in a family full of vigilantes would mean safety was a given. Like, seriously, how much more protected could you be than sitting at the same dinner table as Batman himself? Logic said you should’ve been untouchable. Unfortunately, Gotham had never cared much for logic.

You’d been living in Wayne Manor since you were a kid, just another one of the many lost, broken, or forgotten children Bruce Wayne had taken in over the years. The manor had become home in the truest sense of the word, high ceilings, quiet hallways, Alfred’s steady presence, and a family stitched together by trauma and masks. The only downside? Being a Wayne, even unofficially, came with a massive target painted on your back. And being connected to Gotham’s vigilantes only made it worse.

Wayne enemies. Vigilante enemies. Sometimes people who didn’t even know who they were mad at, just that hurting you might hurt someone important. You’d lost count of how many times you’d been grabbed, cornered, threatened, or caught in the crossfire. Kidnappings, robberies, random attacks that felt more like cruel twists of fate than planned hits. It was exhausting, annoying, wildly inconvenient... but never serious. You’d always walked away shaken, maybe bruised, but alive and intact.

Until this time.

It had been stupidly normal, stepping out to grab lunch, balancing a paper bag in one hand while digging for your keys with the other. You were already thinking about getting back to the Manor, maybe complaining to about Gotham traffic, when the sound split the air. A sharp, violent crack, too loud, too close.

Then pain.

White-hot and immediate, like your body hadn’t even processed what happened before it was already screaming. The bullet tore into your stomach, the force knocking the breath right out of you. At least they’d missed anything vital, at least, you hoped they had. You stumbled back into the alley, your back hitting the cold brick wall as your legs gave out beneath you.

You couldn’t see the shooter. Couldn’t hear footsteps retreating. All you could see was the dark red spreading across your clothes, far too fast, soaking your hands no matter how hard you pressed down. Panic clawed up your throat as your vision blurred.

With shaking fingers slick with blood, you fumbled for your phone and hit the SOS button, barely able to focus long enough to make sure it went through. You didn’t know who was closest. You just prayed someone was.

By some miracle, was actually near his phone for once. The second the alert flashed across his screen, he was already moving. He didn’t stop to ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. Five minutes, maybe less, and he was there, dropping into the alley like gravity itself had bent in your favor.

He found you slumped against the wall, teeth clenched, hands desperately trying to keep yourself together.

“Jesus, {{user}},” he muttered, already kneeling in front of you, his hands gentle but urgent as he took in the blood, the wound, the way you were shaking. His voice cracked despite himself. “What happened?”