Leila Drake was practicing in the music room.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the rhythm of her fingers and the soft glow of the cello’s wooden body. Her brow furrowed slightly, eyes focused, as if trying to channel every thought through the bow.
She had just finished a whirlwind performance tour across Europe—city after city, concert after concert, each round of applause and tribute leaving behind a strange, echoing silence.
This return to the U.S. was for a charity tour.
She traveled between New York and Gotham, stepping onto various stages to play melodies of peace and love.
And this time, she had carved out a little breathing room—for her body, her soul...
...and her boyfriend.
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Leila’s boyfriend was Jason Todd, second son of the Wayne family. Technically, her brother’s “older brother”—a complicated web of connections: adoptive ties, legal guardianship, some bizarre form of found family. Even Leila herself couldn’t quite explain it. But she liked him. A lot. No reason, and no need for one. It was a rare sense of peace—of stability—something she’d seldom felt in her life.
The sound of her cello filled the room, notes flowing across the walls and floor like water. But her mind kept drifting to Jason’s recent expressions.
Something was off about him lately.
No—actually, not just Jason. Her brother Tim, too. Both of them were acting like they were hiding something, not in an obvious way, but with a kind of deliberate restraint. Their eyes would pause a moment too long at certain questions, their tone would flicker strangely. Their movements were sharp, precise, too normal.
At first, Leila thought she was being overly sensitive—but she knew she wasn’t.
She had spent years in Europe, hardly seeing Tim at all—maybe once or twice a year through video calls. Now that she was back in the same city, able to observe him up close, she realized... maybe he had always been like this. And she had simply never noticed.
That sense of mystery lingered around them like fog—impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore. Tim and Jason both carried something tightly wound, layer after layer of secrecy that shut her out.
She couldn't get close.
There was definitely a secret. Leila was sure of it. This wasn’t just a gut feeling—it was something she could practically breathe in. Words left unsaid, glances exchanged too quickly, cryptic messages flashing across their phones. She saw it all. And remembered.
But how far did she really want to go?
She had always known: not every truth is meant to be revealed. Still, her curiosity and concern wound around each other like a tightening string. She didn’t want to tear down their walls—but she also couldn’t ignore them.
What were they hiding?
Her thoughts spun faster—and her fingers slipped.
The music faltered.
Leila froze. The note was off. She looked down at the offending string, brows furrowed, gaze darkening. The room was silent, empty, so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat.
She set the bow down, exhaling slowly—but the tension didn’t leave her eyes.
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Later that evening, Leila attended a high-society fundraising gala as a special guest performer.
Wearing a silver-white off-shoulder gown, she stood beneath the spotlight like a living constellation. No words—just her cello’s deep, resonant voice. When the performance ended, the audience rose in a standing ovation. She smiled, bowed, and turned gracefully offstage.
Afterward, she stepped out onto the balcony for air. The night breeze swept through her hair, the city lights twinkling in the distance like silent companions. Her hands rested gently on the railing, gaze fixed on Gotham’s jagged skyline. Her thoughts, like the city itself, were complicated and quiet.
Meanwhile, in the Batcave, a group of vigilantes watched the surveillance feed.
There she was: Leila, standing in her usual graceful silence.
They knew it was wrong—monitoring a civilian, and Tim’s sister at that.
But worry was hard to shake. People who got close to the Bat-family rarely had peaceful lives. They all knew how fate could derail without warning.
The surveillance had started when Jason and Leila began growing closer. So far, her life was calm and predictable: practicing, performing, attending events. Clean. Simple. Unsuspicious.
Which made them even more nervous.
She was too quiet—like the calm before a storm.
Onscreen, Leila shivered and rubbed her arms, preparing to head back inside. And that’s when the man appeared.
One of the heirs to a major Gotham steel corporation. Tailored black suit, dark gold tie, the kind of young, smug confidence born of Gotham’s elite. His eyes lit up the moment he saw her, like he’d spotted an interesting new trophy.
“Miss Drake,” he said with a polished smile, voice silky and predatory. “I’ve heard so much about you. Your playing—heavenly.”
Then he stepped closer.
Leila tensed. She didn’t speak, only nodded and took a slight step back. Her eyes were steady, but her fingers tightened. She understood his tone. Everyone in Gotham did.
Back in the Batcave, the vigilantes were exchanging worried glances.
“Okay, this asshole—” Dick muttered. “I’m calling Jason.”
Tim’s voice dropped cold, “Who the hell does this guy think he is?”
The man kept moving forward. He knew she couldn’t talk. Knew she was adopted into the Drake family. And that was the point. She wouldn’t make a scene. She had no voice. He had status, power, a family name. He knew how to control a quiet conversation—especially with a woman who couldn’t talk back.
“Miss Drake,” he purred, “I hear you have a boyfriend. A Wayne boy, isn’t he? Let’s be honest—he’s not exactly an ideal match.” His eyes gleamed with disdain. “No pedigree, no real prospects. He’s not someone you should be depending on.”
Step by step, he inched closer, as if weaving a spell.
“I’m the one you should be considering. I’m the better choice.”
In the Batcave, the team was losing it.
“Where the hell is Jason?” Dick practically tore at his hair.
Tim’s fists were clenched, knuckles white.
Even Damian, face like stone, muttered, “I mean... Jason may be an idiot, but he’s still my brother.”
The man on screen was smiling smugly, thinking the silent, beautiful woman before him was his for the taking.
And then—
Everything changed.
Leila, still in her gown, lifted her leg and delivered a flawless side kick—high heel landing squarely in the man’s groin. No hesitation, no mercy. Just clean, precise execution.
He collapsed with a scream, curling on the floor like a crushed insect.
The Batcave...
Silent.
On screen, Leila stood over him, expression calm, like she’d just finished a symphony. She didn’t spare him a second glance. She adjusted her skirt slightly and walked back into the gala as if it were the elegant end of a musical phrase—wordless, but powerful.
Several seconds passed before Damian finally said:
“She’s way stronger than you, Tim.”
“Shut up,” Tim replied, not looking back—but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Dick slumped in his chair, exhaling in disbelief, laughing until there were wrinkles at the edge of his eyes.
“Knew she was a real Gotham girl. Can’t charm your way past that.”
“Good thing she doesn’t know we’ve been watching,” someone muttered. “Otherwise, she might’ve kicked the next guy she caught—us.”
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Jason watched the footage in silence.
He was alone in the Batcave. The monitors still showed Leila’s figure on the balcony, wind in her hair, tension beneath her composure. He heard the man’s every word—unfiltered and brutal.
“No pedigree, no real prospects. He’s not someone you should be depending on.”
That sentence froze him. The footage kept playing, but his thoughts were stuck.
Like someone had held up a mirror and forced him to look. Like an old splinter being yanked out all over again. He’d heard those words before—just never this boldly, never with that smirk.
He knew the guy was nothing more than a glittering shell. Not worth the anger. But the shame, the helplessness, hit like a punch to the ribs.
He saw the kick, of course. That brutal, beautiful strike that folded the man like a napkin. Saw Leila standing tall and quiet, like a queen on her stage.
Jason stared.
There was almost a smile on his lips. Barely there.
But he didn’t stay. He didn’t replay it. Didn’t wait for anyone else to speak.
He just reached up, one by one, and shut off every screen.
The Batcave dimmed, all its lights vanishing into black—only the mainframe's faint blue glow remained, humming in the quiet.
Jason turned.
And walked away, steady but solitary, into the steel-and-glass silence of the underground.
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and then Add to home screen.