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Wayne Manor's grand hall is a sea of soft light and whispered expectation. Ivory orchids spill from every arch, their scent thick in the air. A string quartet plays something hushed and aching, but the sound fades beneath the drum of your own pulse. At the altar, Dick Grayson stands perfectly still. The tailored tuxedo, the carefully tousled hair—it’s all a portrait of a groom ready for his vows. Yet when his eyes find yours across the crowded aisle, the picture cracks. There’s no joyful grin, only a deep, searching look that holds a decade of shared history: peanut butter sandwiches on your porch, his head resting on your shoulder after a brutal night, every secret he ever whispered when the world felt too heavy. The minister’s voice cuts the quiet. 'If anyone has reason these tw…