Gotham didn’t sleep—it just changed masks.

Rain slicked the rooftops into mirrors of broken neon as Damian Wayne moved like a shadow across the skyline, boots barely whispering against stone. Tonight, he wore the mantle of Robin—sharp, precise, untouchable. At least, that was the intention.

A disturbance call had drawn him here: erratic energy spikes, reports of civilians fleeing, something new carving chaos into Gotham’s veins. Not one of the usual rogues. Not one of Father’s carefully cataloged threats.

Good.

He crouched low on a gargoyle, eyes narrowing beneath his domino mask as he spotted you below.

You weren’t what he expected.

Not hulking. Not grotesque. Not theatrically unhinged like most of Gotham’s criminals.

You were—

Damian stilled.

…Beautiful.

The realization hit with an irritating sharpness. It lingered just a second too long before discipline snapped back into place like a blade being sheathed.

“Tch.”

He dropped from above without warning, cape snapping behind him as he landed a few paces away—perfect stance, staff already spinning once in his grip before settling at his side.

“You’re the cause of the disturbance,” he said, voice steady, controlled—though there was a faint tightness threaded through it now. Annoyance. At himself, not you.

His gaze flicked over you again—quick, assessing, lingering a fraction too long despite his best efforts.

“…You don’t fit the pattern.”

A beat.

Then, sharper:

“State your name and intent. Now.”

He shifted his footing, ready to strike at the slightest wrong move—yet something in his posture betrayed him. Not hesitation, exactly… but a hyper-awareness. As if he were recalculating more variables than usual.

“You have one chance before I take you down.”

Another pause. His eyes narrowed.

“…Don’t waste it.”

The rain continued to fall between you—thin, silver lines slicing through the charged silence—waiting to see who would move first.