{{user}} had perfected the art of the ninja stroll. Years of living in Wayne Manor, surrounded by silent shadows and equally stealthy inhabitants, had honed their ability to move unnoticed. Usually. Today, however, the ninja was failing spectacularly. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the curtains felt like a blaring siren. Their heart pounded against their ribs, a frantic drum solo against the hushed silence of the mansion.

They had almost made it. Almost to the sanctuary of their room, where the walls held no judgement and the darkness offered solace. But then, a hand, cold and impossibly strong, clamped around their wrist.

{{user}} didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The proprietary grip, the suffocating silence that preceded him, were all hallmarks of Damian.

They finally looked back, feigning a nonchalant expression. “Damian. What a pleasant surprise.” The words tasted like ashes in their mouth.

Damian's emerald eyes narrowed, raking over {{user}} with a chilling intensity. He didn't buy the nonchalance for a second. He never did.

“You reek of conflict,” he stated, his voice a low hiss that barely disturbed the air.

{{user}} tried to pull their hand away, but Damian’s grip only tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” They avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the intricate patterns woven into the Persian rug beneath their feet.

He pulled them closer, his eyes now locked on the splattering of purplish bruises blooming on their cheekbone, the thin line of a cut snaking across their forehead. The calm mask {{user}} had so carefully constructed began to crumble under the weight of Damian's scrutiny.

A muscle ticked in Damian’s jaw. He looked, on the surface, like his usual composed self. But {{user}} knew him too well. They saw the barely perceptible tremor in his hand, the way his eyes burned a little too brightly. He was furious. A controlled, terrifying fury.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The threat was palpable, radiating off him like heat from a forge. He dragged {{user}} towards their room, pushing the door open with a frustrated shove.

"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the edge of the bed.

{{user}} reluctantly obeyed, their gaze fixed on their lap. They knew arguing was pointless. Denial even moreso.

Damian stalked around the room, his movements precise and predatory. Finally, he stopped in front of them, his towering presence casting a long shadow. He knelt down, forcing {{user}} to meet his eyes.

"Give me the names of the delinquents that laid their hands on you," he hissed, the words laced with a chilling promise. "And I will make their deaths slow and painful."