I considered myself a fair, practical person. Which is why, upon waking the next morning, the very first thing I did was order breakfast. Apparently, trauma makes me hungry now.
After a frankly delicious omelette and a cup of milk tea, I got dressed—jeans, a light blue cami, and an oversized cream-colored knit sweater.
I made use of the hotel room's safe, Tucking away my important papers, laptop, and cash.
Sitting with my feet curled under me in an overstuffed chair, boots dropped haphazardly next to it, I tapped my pen to my lips and contemplated a page of the new notebook I had requested from the hotel staff.
A plan. I needed a plan. But first, I needed a goal.
Sighing, I let my gaze drift to the Gotham Gazette that had come with breakfast. The date made me sit up straighter.
I was in the past—fifteen years ago, almost to the day.
That could be important... but why?
I scrawled 15 years? across the top of the page.
The research I'd done last night confirmed that while plenty had changed, even more had stayed the same—or close enough.
Could I use my foreknowledge for my benefit? Or someone else's?
That sounded promising.
How much could I actually remember about the DC Universe? Especially Batman and Gotham?
The sequence of events was hazy—no concrete dates or addresses—just a jumble of impressions and rough order.
Starting with what I did remember seemed like the best move. I knew the order of the Robins, their real names, their backstories. That stuff was burned in. Writing it out helped clear some mental clutter. A rough timeline took over the first page.
With more research, I can probably figure out where I am in the storyline.
That would definitely be helpful—I remembered a few violent, city-wide events I'd very much prefer to avoid experiencing firsthand.
On the next page, I jotted down a basic bio for Bruce Wayne—Batman—straight from memory. I needed to get everything I already knew on paper before it got muddled by whatever I learned here. Comparing memory to reality could wait until I eventually chose a hero to approach.
Depending on when I was, it would seriously affect which heroes were active—and each of them came with their own baggage.
I paused, pen hovering midair.
I know (some of) what's going to happen.
I might... I... I could help.
My thoughts spiraled instantly to Barbara Gordon/Batgirl, paralyzed by the Joker.
Jason Todd, murdered by that same monster at only fifteen.
Tim Drake, treated more like equipment than a son—first by Batman, then by the rest of the vigilantes.
Tim, who was later attacked by Jason after he came back from the dead, consumed by Pit Rage, manipulated by Talia and the League of Assassins.
Bruce, seduced by Talia al Ghul so she could get pregnant.
Damian, kept from his father for ten years—no real childhood, no chance at anything healthy—until Ra's al Ghul's plan to use his grandson as a host, forced his mother's hand.
Bruce Wayne's incompetent parenting leaving behind a trail of miscommunication and heartache.
Was there even a way to help without getting directly involved?
Would it be naïve to try?
I could out Bruce Wayne as Batman. That would end the twisted game the Joker was obsessed with.
But who knows what the Joker might do without it?
The boys would be taken from Wayne—maybe even given normal homes. Ones that didn't involve combat training and nightly brushes with death. I would make sure of it.
But would interfering even be the right thing to do?
If I changed too much, my information could become useless—or worse, dangerously unreliable.
I could end up just as blind as everyone else.
Do I even have the right to get involved?
Another question I didn't have the answer to yet.
Just because I'd been yanked from my home and dumped here didn't automatically mean there was some deeper purpose... right?
I wasn't the destiny and fate type.
Was I?
Doubts and half-formed theories swirled in my mind.
How was I supposed to make a decision like this? Countless lives could be affected by whatever I chose to do—or not do. And the scariest part? I probably only had just enough information to be dangerous. Dangerous to others... definitely dangerous to myself.
Could I really sit back and watch when I might've been able to do something?
I'd always believed I was the kind of person who made the right choice—even when it was hard.
But I was also a lifelong people pleaser, practically hard-wired to jump to someone else's defense while ignoring my own needs. A habit I'd never quite broken.
And one that could absolutely get me killed in Gotham—probably would, if I didn't start prioritizing my own safety for once.
Shaking myself out of my personal pity party, I opened my laptop.
I had a lot more research to do, a brain to unload, and one hell of a decision to make about what my ultimate goal—or goals—should be.
I ended up spending the next week holed up in my overpriced hotel room.
By the time I'd written down and organized everything I could confidently remember, my eye bags had their own eye bags.
A working timeline and a few contingency plans felt smart... even if it probably cost me one of those fifteen years I'd just gained back.
My research into recent headlines gave me a decent idea of where I'd landed in the timeline.
Jason was already dead. Almost four years now.
When I found the article, I nearly hurled my laptop across the room. Jason's death had been one of the things I'd desperately wanted to prevent.
God—if Bruce had just made sure the boys got an education and stable homes, things could've turned out so differently. He could've done so much more with his checkbook, a little oversight... and therapy. So much therapy.
I understood—he was doing the best he could. I really did.
But Bruce Wayne? The man was emotionally stuck. Like his maturity froze the night his parents died.
Alfred meant well, but he didn't have a clue how to help traumatized kids grieve or heal. Bruce basically raised himself, with Alfred acting more like a bumper guard than a parent.
I threw myself onto the bed and counted my heartbeats until they slowed—just enough to reassure myself I wasn't having an anxiety attack.
I didn't get my first one until my early thirties, but this?
This was proof that my mind hadn't changed.
Somehow, that was both disappointing and oddly comforting.
The mystery of my arrival gnawed at me. With so little to go on—and laughable resources—I couldn't even form a single working theory.
One thing was certain: I was going to need more capital.
The money I did have wasn't nothing, but it wouldn't be nearly enough. Not if I wanted to maintain any kind of independence or autonomy... especially while dealing with someone like Bruce Wayne.
The major players in this world were all billionaires.
Oliver Queen had Queen Industries. Bruce Wayne ran Wayne Enterprises. Lex Luthor owned LuthorCorp.
They were the visible big three.
In the shadows, it was the League of Shadows, the League of Spiders, and the Court of Owls. Probably a few more I didn't even know about.
No matter how I looked at it, having more cash to throw around could only help me.
Using my knowledge of future events, I set up a stock trading account.
W.E. and Q.I. were safe bets, so I started there—buying small to stay under anyone's radar. I even recognized a few startup names from my world that took off fast. Lucky break.
With just a little attention, my net worth would snowball.
Enough to fund whatever circumstances—or chaos—might come my way.
Feeling somewhat prepared, I finally dared to step out of my hidey hole.
Because that's exactly what it would become if I stayed in it one more day.
I couldn't afford to procrastinate.
Appointments were made—and kept—at the hotel's spa and salon, capped off with a dinner reservation.
I was primped and prepped, scrubbed and buffed within an inch of my life.
My hairdresser, Sam, practically squealed at the chance to work on untouched hair. I'd never dyed it—milk chocolate strands threaded with natural burgundy and honey tones. She was in love.
Honestly? So was I.
I left thrilled, gave Sam a generous tip, and took her card for future visits.
A stop at the hotel's boutique had me stepping into the dining room in a cobalt blue pantsuit, (designer, of course) nude heels and a matching purse.
I did my best to look unimpressed as I took in the excessive opulence around me. My options for safe, secure lodging in Gotham were limited, which meant gritting my teeth through the spectacle of eccentric rich people.
The waiter had just walked away with my order when a booming laugh caught my attention—and made me turn.
The host was guiding a couple toward a table near mine, his polished shoes soft against the marble floor, the faint clink of silverware and low jazz filling the air like the soundtrack to a seduction I wasn't invited to.
The woman—platinum blonde, overly tanned, drowning in perfume—fit the ditzy stereotype so perfectly she could've been printed from a template. Her laugh, high-pitched and nasal, cut through the soft hum of conversation like a cheese grater to the soul.
The man beside her? Pure GQ material—charcoal suit, jaw carved by the gods, and a toothpaste-commercial smile he handed out like Halloween candy. And just like that candy, it was shiny, sweet… and completely lacking in nutritional value. Probably bad for my teeth.
Bruce Wayne. Of course.
His date giggled too loudly and smacked his arm in response to something he whispered in her ear, the kind of flirtation that made the waiter at the next table visibly wince.
Then it came.
"Brucie! Not in public!" she shrieked, the sound bouncing off the chandeliers with enough pitch to threaten the crystal.
If I were lucky, a vigilante-level emergency would pop up and drag him away mid-act.
I wasn't that lucky.
By the time the server returned with my meal, I was seriously considering having it boxed up and sent to my room—just to spare my ears.
Being front-row for Bruce Wayne's performance as Gotham's favorite empty-headed, skirt-chasing one-percenter was starting to sour the restaurant's otherwise luxe atmosphere. The soft clink of glass and the subtle notes of saffron and seared duck in the air did little to distract me from the slow-motion train wreck unfolding across the room.
So much effort, wasted on an image no one asked for.
He was a genius—for fuck's sake. This? This was the best cover he could come up with? Really?
I could only hope it was part of the plot… and not his actual strategy.
Well. I was going to be changing things, anyway.
Even so… it was like watching an accident in slow motion, and I couldn't seem to look away.
Not because Bruce was just as attractive—maybe even more so—than the media made him out to be.
That had nothing to do with it.
Probably.
A wave of guilt hit me square in the chest and dragged my gaze down to the plate in front of me.
It's only been two years since John died.
It's already been two years, whispered a voice I'd thought long dead.
Small as it was, the words landed like pebbles in a still pond—soft, but enough to send ripples across everything I thought I'd settled inside myself.
Before I could unravel the thought too far, the blonde's shriek knifed through the dining room again. Apparently, a poor server had knocked her half-drunk mimosa straight into her lap—and all over her designer dress.
Bruce stood, all gentlemanly posturing and dramatic hand gestures, trying to "help" without doing much of anything.
Maybe he'd finally had enough of her high-pitched screech and desperate fawning, too.
He wasn't the only one.
I watched—openly amused—as the "Lady" in question stomped off, heels clacking a furious rhythm toward what I assumed was the bathroom.
Bruce remained behind, speaking to the visibly frazzled server in hushed tones. I even caught the flash of cash changing hands.
Hmm.
Well… not my business.
With the banshee banished, I finally turned my attention to the over-priced, over-hyped meal I'd been waiting on.
I'd ordered a classic cheeseburger with steak-cut fries and a chocolate milkshake—actual food, none of that deconstructed nonsense from the main menu. Surprisingly, it had only taken a short conversation for the server to adjust my order without so much as a raised brow.
The first ketchup-drenched bite earned a soft, appreciative moan before I could stop myself.
Honestly, I should've asked for real food from the beginning.
I'd barely taken a few bites when a large shadow cut off my view of the dining room.
Looking up, I found myself face-to-face with a Colgate-commercial smile and eyes the perfect shade of blue, filled with twinkling mischief.
And, of course, that was the precise moment I choked on a fry.