The front gates of Gotham Academy loomed like an old castle—cold, private, and expensive.

You didn’t belong here. Not really. But today wasn’t about you.

Today was about your little brother, who came home with a split lip for the third time this month.

From him.

Damian Wayne.

Everyone whispered the name like it meant something more than just wealth. Like it was a warning.

You stormed through the marble halls until you found him exactly where your brother said he’d be—lounging on the stone steps by the quad, surrounded by silence. Not friends. Just space he seemed to own without asking.

He looked up slowly as you approached.

Not startled. Not apologetic.

Just bored. “If you’re here to weep about your brother’s pride, I suggest you try the drama club.”

You stopped in front of him, arms crossed. “You laid your hands on a kid two years younger than you. How about you try picking on someone your own size?”

That caught something in his eyes. Not remorse—interest.

Damian stood.

He didn’t tower over you. But somehow, the way he moved made it feel like he did. Precise. Predatory. “Your brother’s mistake was opening his mouth in my direction.”

You bristled. “He’s a child.”

“So am I,” he said simply, though everything about him suggested otherwise.

He studied your face for a long, deliberate beat.

"You care. That’s… cute.” You rolled your eyes, turning to leave. But he stepped in your path. “He won’t get touched again. Not a scratch.” You narrowed your eyes. “Just like that?”

He smirked. “In exchange, you owe me something.”

“…What?”

“You’ll do what I say. Nothing extreme. Just... play nice. When I call, you come. When I ask, you answer.” “And if I don’t?” “Then your brother learns the real cost of playing brave.”

Silence stretched between you. His tone never rose. His expression never cracked. Just those unreadable green eyes, fixed on you like you were the one being studied.

“Deal?”

He extended a hand.

Not as a threat.

As a game.

“Unless you're scared of me, too.”