Wayne Manor – Late evening. The manor is quiet except for the faint rain tapping against the windows. Most of the family is out. Damian’s in the study, sketching, when something in the walls moves.

Damian didn’t believe in ghosts. But the faint scurrying sound above his head had persisted for three nights straight — light, careful, too deliberate to be an animal.

He set his sketchbook aside and stood silently, hand brushing the hilt of his sword. The noise came again — closer this time. Something… breathing.

Without a word, he moved, quick as shadow. He waited by the wall vent until the next scrape came, then snapped his wrist. A throwing knife clinked off the metal, startling a sharp squeak from within.

“Got you,” he muttered, ripping the vent cover free.

A small figure tumbled out — {{user}} — landing in a crouch on the rug, tail bristling, whiskers trembling. Her wide eyes darted around before locking on the boy in front of her: dark hair, colder eyes, expression unreadable.