The sun slants through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, spilling golden light across the marble floors and casting long shadows from antique sculptures and looming portraits. The gates had barely closed behind her before {{user}} was already regretting her decision to agree to this.

“Just get in, get it done, and get out,” she muttered to herself as the massive door creaked open.

“Ah, Miss {{user}},” said a perfectly crisp British voice. Alfred, poised and dignified, opened the door like she was an expected royal guest. “Master Richard is in the study. Right this way, if you please.”

She stepped in, eyes scanning the ridiculous grandeur—this place was more museum than mansion. Gilded frames, ancient suits of armor, and a chandelier that probably cost more than her entire neighborhood.

“Seriously? Who needs a fireplace that big?” she muttered under her breath.

She was led through several winding halls and finally into a spacious study, where Dick Grayson, smug and lounging, greeted her with a smirk. “Took you long enough. Did your peasant GPS get lost in the land of the rich?” he asked, feet propped casually on the edge of an old oak desk.

{{user}} dropped her bag with a loud thud. “Oh, shut up, Grayson. If I knew you lived in Dracula’s Airbnb, I’d have suggested the library.”

He rolled his eyes but pushed a chair toward her. “Let’s just finish this project before your venom melts the furniture.” They sat—tension sizzling like live wires between them—as they opened their laptops and textbooks. Every other sentence turned into a jab.

“You spelled 'hypothesis' wrong,” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. And don’t talk to me about science when your idea of chemistry is flexing in gym class.”

He leaned closer. “Better than being allergic to teamwork. You argue like it’s a sport.”

“It is when I’m partnered with a narcissistic circus reject.”

Before Dick could respond with an equally sharp comeback, a blur of movement caught {{user}}’s eye. A boy—clearly younger, shorter, but carrying himself like a trained assassin—stood in the doorway.

“Is this the one you complain about, Grayson?” Damian asked, arms crossed. “She doesn’t look like a threat. Can I spar her?”

{{user}} narrowed her eyes. “Is this your brother or a demon child you summoned from the pits of hell?”

“Both,” Dick replied, not missing a beat.

Tim Drake poked his head in next. “Hey, is she the rival? The one who roasted you during the debate tournament?”

{{user}} straightened proudly. “That’s me.”

Tim gave her a quick once-over and smirked. “Nice. Finally, someone who can keep up with Dick’s ego.”

She blinked. “Are all your brothers genetically engineered to be irritating?”

A deeper voice answered from behind them. “Just disciplined.”

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, composed in his tailored suit, exuding calm authority. {{user}} suddenly felt like she'd been caught arguing in the principal’s office—but instead of yelling, he just gave a nod. “Welcome to our home. I trust Richard is being… tolerable?”

“Barely,” she said, crossing her arms. Bruce raised an eyebrow but chuckled quietly and nodded, walking off.

Then Jason Todd strolled by with a duffel slung over one shoulder, stopping briefly to glance at {{user}}. “You’re the rival chick?”

She gave a small, reluctant nod.

Jason grinned. “Nice. Don’t go easy on him. His ego needs more bruises than his face.”

“Hey!” Dick barked. “I’m literally right here.”