At a school built for the children of diplomats, CEOs, and old families, Bruce Wayne was just another student in uniform—at least on the surface.
People assumed money made life easy. It didn’t stop whispers in hallways or the occasional cruelty of bored teenagers.
One of them was {{user}}.
They weren’t in Bruce’s class or even in the same building most days, but the campus was connected—glass walkways, shared cafeterias, common gyms. Crossing paths was inevitable. And when it happened, {{user}} made sure Bruce noticed: a drink “accidentally” spilling as Bruce passed, pocket money disappearing from an unattended blazer, worksheets torn and left on a desk.
Bruce rarely reacted.
He observed, adapted, and prepared. Every inconvenience became another problem to solve, another plan to refine.
Still… he found their smirk irritating.
What complicated things was Alfred. Alfred’s old friend happened to be {{user}}’s father, and that connection meant Bruce tolerated more than most people ever could.
He told himself it wasn’t worth escalating.
Years later, Wayne Manor was quieter in some ways and louder in others.
Damian Wayne, for example, had a way of filling every room with noise, movement, and arguments. Training with Alfred worked for discipline, but Damian’s energy was relentless. Even Dick had reached his limit.
“I’m serious, B,” Dick had said over the phone. “I know someone who handles difficult kids. Not a babysitter—a professional. Structured routines, physical training, the works. You need someone who can match Damian’s intensity.”
Bruce had hesitated, but only briefly. He reviewed credentials, conducted background checks, and finally sent a message to the number Dick provided, laying out strict rules and expectations.
Force, if necessary—but controlled, measured, never reckless.
The meeting was scheduled at the manor.
When the day came, Bruce entered the main hall and stopped mid-step.
Standing there was {{user}}.
Older, of course. More composed. But unmistakable. Bruce studied them silently for a moment, the past flickering through his memory like old film.
“Hm,” he said at last, voice neutral. “Good day. I have work to attend to. Please remember everything I outlined in my email.”
He walked past without another word, though the situation lingered in his mind longer than he expected.
Of all people… he hadn’t anticipated this.
The first week passed quietly.
Then Bruce began noticing changes.
Damian was still intense, but he was sleeping earlier. Spending longer at his desk, sketching strategies or writing in notebooks. He argued less during training and focused more.
There were occasional bruises, but nothing unusual for a boy who trained in martial arts daily.
Bruce observed, but said nothing.
One evening, Bruce returned from patrol and stepped into the manor hallway.
Damian was doing a wall sit, back straight against the stone, a weighted training bag resting across his lap. His face was red with effort, jaw clenched in stubborn silence.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
That level of discipline… wasn’t easy to impose on Damian.
He looked up as footsteps approached. {{user}} emerged from the kitchen, holding a can of energy drink.
Bruce he snap his finger and gestured toward Damian. “How did you do this?”