Dean silently repeated the name in his mind—Barbara.
A faint smile appeared on his face as he nodded in understanding. He hadn't expected that someone like Barbara Gordon could manage so much at once. By day, she worked diligently in the library, helping readers and organizing endless rows of books. By night, she became Batgirl, risking her life to protect Gotham from the darkness lurking in every alley.
And yet, even with such a demanding life, she still found time to help a silent girl learn language.
That alone told Dean everything he needed to know about her character.
At that moment, the girl beside him flipped through the dictionary again. Her fingers moved quickly, stopping at a name—"Cassandra."
She pointed at the word.
Then, she pointed at herself.
Dean blinked, then raised his hands slowly, forming the signs carefully so she could understand.
"Cassandra… is that your name?"
The girl nodded.
Dean studied her face more closely now. Her features carried a strong East Asian resemblance—sharp yet delicate, with a quiet intensity in her eyes. For a brief moment, he had expected a more traditional name from that region.
But instead—
Cassandra.
A perfectly normal Western name.
Interesting.
Dean tilted his head slightly and continued.
"What about your last name?"
The moment he asked that question, something changed.
Cassandra froze.
Her expression, which had been calm and focused just moments ago, suddenly became… heavy.
Too heavy for someone her age.
A flicker of regret passed through her eyes.
Then pain.
Then something darker—resentment, shame…
And beneath all of that, something almost fragile—nostalgia.
Dean's fingers stopped mid-air.
For a moment, he wondered if he had crossed a line.
The silence between them deepened.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the storm in her expression vanished.
Cassandra lowered her head, flipped through the dictionary again, and stopped at another word.
Her finger tapped it lightly.
"Cain."
Then she looked up at him again.
Her gaze was calm.
Almost too calm.
Dean understood immediately.
Cassandra Cain.
That was her full name.
He didn't ask anything further.
Instead, he quietly reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, and took a blank piece of paper from the table.
With smooth strokes, he wrote:
Dean Thurston.
Then he turned the paper toward her, pointing at the name, then at himself.
"This is me."
Cassandra stared at the paper for a moment, as if memorizing every letter.
Then she looked back at him, her eyes carrying a small spark of excitement.
Her hands moved quickly.
"So… are we friends now?"
Dean blinked, caught slightly off guard.
She continued, her gestures a bit more confident now.
"Barbara said… exchanging names is the first step to becoming friends."
Dean chuckled softly.
He shook his head.
"Not yet," he signed calmly. "But maybe later."
Cassandra tilted her head, confused.
Dean continued, more gently this time.
"Being friends isn't that simple. You have to understand someone first."
Cassandra paused.
Then she nodded slowly.
It was unclear whether she fully understood his meaning… but she accepted it.
From that moment on, their interaction became smoother.
They began communicating through a mix of sign language, writing, and simple drawings.
Or rather—Cassandra communicated however she could.
Because it quickly became obvious that her foundation in language was extremely weak.
Her vocabulary was limited.
Reading was difficult.
And writing…
Writing was almost impossible for her.
So whenever she couldn't express something with gestures, she would draw.
Rough, abstract sketches.
To most people, they would look like meaningless doodles.
But Dean…
Dean understood them.
Because he wasn't just anyone.
He was a magician.
And a true magician didn't just perform tricks—they understood people.
They observed. They interpreted. They read what others couldn't say aloud.
So while others might have been confused by Cassandra's drawings…
Dean saw meaning in every line.
Their "conversation" gradually deepened.
They started with the one person they both knew—Barbara.
From Cassandra's fragmented gestures and drawings, Dean slowly pieced together the story.
Every time Cassandra came to the library, Barbara would help her.
Not just occasionally—
Consistently. Patiently. Without complaint.
Even when she had other work to do, Barbara would set it aside just to answer Cassandra's questions.
Because in that entire library…
Very few people knew sign language.
And even fewer cared enough to use it.
Some people ignored Cassandra.
Some avoided her.
A few even looked down on her.
But Barbara…
She treated her like a normal person.
Like someone who mattered.
To Cassandra, that meant everything.
Dean could see it clearly.
Barbara wasn't just a helper. She was the first person who made Cassandra feel seen.
That was why Cassandra depended on her so much.
As for Cassandra's past…
She didn't talk about it.
Or rather—she avoided it.
From the few hints she gave, Dean could tell she had been wandering for years, moving from place to place like a stray shadow in the city.
A street child.
Surviving, not living.
Dean didn't press further.
Everyone had things they didn't want to talk about.
And he respected that.
As time passed, Dean began to notice something else about her.
Despite everything…
Cassandra was not broken.
She wasn't depressed.
She wasn't self-loathing.
In fact—
She was quietly optimistic.
Her silence wasn't born from insecurity.
It wasn't because she thought she was less than others.
It was simply because…
She didn't know how to communicate.
That was all.
To her, not being able to speak wasn't a flaw.
Just an inconvenience.
That realization surprised Dean more than anything else.
At some point, he even performed a few small magic tricks for her—simple illusions he often used to entertain children.
A coin disappearing.
A card appearing from nowhere.
A subtle sleight of hand.
Normally, these tricks would amaze anyone.
But Cassandra…
She just watched.
Quietly.
Calmly.
Her eyes remained clear and focused from beginning to end.
No surprise.
No excitement.
Dean frowned slightly.
"Did my skills get worse?" he wondered.
Or…
Was this girl simply different?
As the afternoon wore on, Dean suddenly realized something.
He glanced around the library.
Then toward the windows.
The sky outside was still bright.
"Strange…"
He murmured to himself.
"I haven't seen Barbara today."
Given her personality, if Cassandra had come to the library, Barbara would definitely show up to help her—unless something was wrong.
Dean's expression became thoughtful.
He stood up and stopped a passing librarian.
"Excuse me," he said politely, "is Miss Barbara Gordon here today?"
The librarian looked surprised.
"You know Director Gordon?"
Dean nodded.
"We're friends."
The librarian sighed.
"I'm afraid she's not here. She took sick leave today."
Dean's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Sick leave?"
"Yes… I heard she fell down the stairs last night and is currently hospitalized. Gotham General Hospital."
The librarian shook his head.
"I hope she's okay. It's hard to stay motivated without her here."
Dean smiled faintly and thanked him.
But inside—
He didn't believe a single word of that explanation.
Barbara Gordon… falling down the stairs?
Ending up in the hospital?
No.
That wasn't an accident.
It had to be related to her work as Batgirl.
And recently…
There had been one particular threat in Gotham.
The "Bat-Monster."
A dangerous urban legend spreading through the Upper West Side.
If Barbara was injured…
Then chances were—
She had encountered it.
Before Dean could think further, Cassandra suddenly stood up in front of him.
Her movements were quick, urgent.
Her hands moved rapidly.
"I want to go to the hospital… to see Barbara. Can you come with me?"
Her eyes were filled with worry.
Genuine worry.
Then, as if realizing something, she quickly added another set of gestures.
"If you're busy… I'm sorry…"
Dean smiled.
He shook his head gently.
"I'll go with you."
He signed calmly.
"I'm worried about her too."
Cassandra's shoulders relaxed slightly.
The tension in her body eased.
And without another word—
The two of them turned toward the exit.
Outside, the city of Gotham stretched endlessly.
Darkness hadn't fallen yet.
But Dean knew—
Something was already moving beneath the surface.
And whatever had injured Barbara Gordon…
They were about to face it.
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