It was rare that all of them were in the same room—Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Tim. No mission, no patrol, no crisis. Just dinner. Just family. The manor was quiet except for the low hum of conversation and the clink of silverware as Alfred moved between them with practiced grace.

Jason had made a sarcastic remark that had Tim laughing into his water. Dick was halfway through a story from Blüdhaven, Bruce quietly listening, a rare softness in his usually guarded face.

Then the door creaked open.

Damian stepped into the dining room.

The conversation died immediately.

He wasn’t storming in, wasn’t scowling, wasn’t launching into one of his usual smug one-liners about how they were wasting time. No, this time—he was… quiet.

Too quiet.

He stood there for a second longer than necessary, eyes downcast, posture tense. Something in his face looked wrong—muted, like a storm was trapped behind his expression. Bruce straightened in his chair. Jason raised an eyebrow. Dick’s smile faltered.

Tim set his glass down slowly.

“Hey, Demon Spawn,” Jason finally said, keeping it light. “You lose a bet or something? You look like someone kicked your dog.”