Damian Wayne stood in the corner of the auditorium of a private school in Gotham City, his black suit neatly outlining his tall figure, his tie crooked from countless impatient tugs.

His sharp green eyes scanned the dance floor, which was filled with spinning dress skirts and clumsy dance steps, and the air was filled with sweet perfume and low music beats.

Damian's brows frowned unconsciously, and his fingers tapped lightly on the seams of his pants, revealing a hint of impatience.

Prom. This occasion meant nothing to him - a group of teenagers pretending to be elegant under the lights, stepping on each other's toes, trying to cover up their embarrassment with clumsy dance steps.

Damian sneered, he was Robin, a well-trained assassin, a tactician on the battlefield, dancing? It was just a boring ritual that wasted time.

However, when he agreed to attend with you, he didn't expect to stand here, facing a completely unfamiliar challenge: the dance floor.

He glanced down at his shoes, thinking back to last night's "training" in the Batcave.

He forced himself to watch three instructional videos, trying to remember those stupid dance steps - waltz, foxtrot, and even some dances he didn't even want to know the name of.

What was the result? The smooth movements in the video turned into a mess in his mind.

He even accidentally crushed the simulated foot target prepared by Alfred during practice, eliciting a meaningful sigh from the old butler.

"Master Wayne, elegance is a weapon, and patience is its blade." Alfred's words still echoed in his ears.

Damian gritted his teeth. Elegance? That's not what he cares about. He just wants to make sure he doesn't disappoint you tonight - or worse, make a fool of himself in front of you.

He scanned the dance floor again and noticed that several classmates were awkwardly bumping into each other and making awkward laughter.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and he was secretly glad that he hadn't stepped in yet. Damian took a deep breath and straightened his back, as if preparing for a battle.

He told himself that this was just a mission: take you to dance, complete the goal, and then leave. Simple and clear.

But when his eyes inadvertently turned to the direction where you were standing, his throat tightened slightly.

The light shone softly on you, and the hustle and bustle of the auditorium seemed to blur at that moment. He clenched his fists, and his knuckles turned slightly white. Dancing may not be his battlefield, but tonight, he decided to give it a try - not for the ball, but for you.

"Damn dance steps," he cursed in a low voice, taking a step and walking towards you, his eyes as firm as a knife.