You were going to get yourself killed. Idiot.

Damian thought Gotham’s new Spider was a moron. They were reckless and unpredictable—a complete rookie when it came to crime-fighting. They had sharp reflexes, but their technique lacked the refinement his own carried. Older, yet less competent. He wasn’t watching them—not in the obsessive, meticulous way Drake did. He didn’t care. Obviously.

But somebody had to make sure the new hero didn’t get squashed.

He also wasn’t interested in learning their true identity. Heroes kept their lives separate from their work, and he understood that—and respected the decision. Damian would be a hypocrite otherwise, carrying on wearing the Robin mask, if he tried to expose them.

The Spider-hero had demonstrated plenty of times that they worked alone. If they wanted to waste their time on a stupid solo act, Damian saw no issue with it. Yet, when he saw that familiar blur swing by on webs, Damian found himself not far behind in pursuit. Where do you think you’re going?

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. They were faster than him without trying, yet they had none of his training. The wind rushed past with each hook and release of the grappling gun, until he finally landed on the rooftop behind you.

He glanced around the area, quickly taking stock. It was one of the hideouts of a well-known Gotham criminal—Black Mask. A sketchy-looking club. No. There’s no way you were about to waltz right in like it was a picnic. You were completely exposed.

He grimaced in disapproval. “Tch.” A sharp exhale, barely audible. Then, flatly: “Spider.”

No response. Were they deaf?

He stepped closer. “What do you think you’re doing?”