It was Family Day. Again.
The manor felt like it had been stuffed with noise—there wasn’t a single pocket of silence left. Every room echoed with either laughter or arguments, as if the whole house had forgotten the concept of quiet mode.
Everyone was home. The Batfam. Loud as hell.
Damian was in the living room, passionately arguing with Tim over some tech specs. Tim wasn’t responding—just twitching an eyebrow. Dick was wiping the windows while singing oldies off-key. Bruce, of course, pretended not to hear any of it and retreated straight to the study.
They had this weird, passive ability: get them all together and boom, the house unlocks full chaos mode.
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Jason’s wife, Laila, sat quietly at the dining table, watching the chaos unfold like it was the most entertaining play she’d ever seen. One hand cradled a cup of hot tea, the other rested gently on her belly. She didn’t chime in—just smiled, letting the noise splash around like spilled paint.
For once, Jason wasn’t hovering over her.
She was five months pregnant now, and Jason had been glued to her side like a very intense bodyguard. Honestly? It was getting a bit much.
Laila sighed. Five months in, and Jason still acted like she was made of glass. She couldn’t even bend down to tie her shoes without getting the look.
“You think you’re still single or something?” he’d mutter.
She got it. He was worried. But come on.
And when she first told them she was pregnant? Oh, that had been a show.
Bruce froze like a glitched-out robot. Tim immediately started researching prenatal education. Damian insisted the child must be trained to fight from birth. And Dick... oh God, Dick had started looking up baby disco dancing classes.
The whole Batfam lost their minds. No surprise there.
Once things had calmed down a bit—once the ketchup bullets stopped flying—Jason came back to her, grinning like a stray mutt who’d just won a street brawl and wanted praise.
“You okay?” Laila signed, raising an eyebrow at the red streak across his cheek.
Jason nodded, practically glowing with post-battle energy.
She sighed and dabbed his face with a napkin. It was nearly soaked already.
Yes, their battle had been fought with ketchup.
Real. Actual. Ketchup.
Not smoke bombs, not stun foam, not training sabers—ketchup. The kind that made housewives cry.
Sometimes she wondered if these people were truly the world’s top-tier crime fighters.
And yet, watching them now, Laila could almost picture her son growing up here.
He’d never be alone. He’d grow up in a house full of noise, of arguments, of overprotective hands and quiet logic.
Her gaze drifted to her belly.
He’ll know that this house—this ridiculous, unhinged, chaotic house—is full of love.
“Oh right,” she said suddenly. “I got a fan gift on the way out earlier. Brought it back but didn’t open it yet.”
Her tone was breezy—like she was mentioning picking up milk.
Jason’s brows furrowed immediately.
“What gift?”
His voice was even, but Laila could tell he’d gone into alert mode. “Fan” was never a neutral word in their world. Gifts? Even less so.
She pulled a package out of a bag and handed it to him. It was small, clean, neatly wrapped.
Looked ordinary. Too ordinary.
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157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqQFvVPc5qU
Jason took the package and turned it over in his hands. His expression darkened slightly.
His movements were precise, fingers gliding over the seams of the wrapping. The tape marks were fresh, but it was sealed a little too neatly. Not a postal job. Not a typical fan’s style, either.
That kind of careful packaging? Always a red flag.
No name. No return address. Just three words scribbled on top: From a fan.
Jason paused.
Anonymous gifts were the worst. Gotham’s more... devoted admirers loved their little mysteries, as if theatrics could excuse their unhinged behavior. Jason exhaled, sharp-eyed and still. Those three words might as well have been a loaded trigger.
He tilted his head, pressing one ear to the box.
Nothing.
No slosh. No ticking. No biological noises.
Dead quiet—like bone.
He didn’t like it. His gut clenched, but he couldn’t risk anything. Not with his five-months-pregnant wife sitting in the next. He wouldn’t gamble on her safety.
“Jason? What is it?”
Laila’s hands moved softly. Calm, precise signing. No panic—just concern. She had learned how to talk to him like this. Quietly. Respectfully. Honestly.
Jason stood. He gave her a small nod, forcing the corners of his mouth into something like a smile. Then he gently cupped her fingers with his own—like that one touch might dissolve all the tension in the air.
He wouldn't let her worry. She was carrying their child. If anyone needed protecting, it was her.
He headed for the Batcave.
It wasn’t paranoia. It was just... Gotham.
The moment he placed the box on the scanner, the entire cave went still. You could hear the water in the pipes.
His hands were steady. His footsteps measured. Over the years, he’d learned how to step out of his rage and into pure professionalism.
Gotham’s monsters weren’t metaphor. They were very, very real.
The scan came back clean.
Just a box. And inside... a disc.
A disc.
In this decade? Who even used those anymore? Sentimental? Or deliberate?
Something in his gut said this wasn’t random.
He opened it.
Carefully. Steadily.
Inside was a white DVD case and a folded note.
The case was blank and spotless, labeled in neat black marker:157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCt02ZuVkJ3
For Laila.
The note was folded like a little origami invitation, tucked just inside the case.
It read:
Dear Miss Laila,
Your music is divine—pure magic. It haunts me in the best way.
As a token of gratitude, I’m sending you a gift.
It’s an inspiring story. I hope you enjoy it.
— From Bat-Mite
Jason: “BAT-MITE!?!?”
ns216.73.217.37da2
and then Add to home screen.