The visitation room was quieter than Damian expected. A metal table sat between two chairs bolted to the floor, fluorescent lights casting pale reflections across concrete walls that seemed designed to make every minute feel longer than it actually was.

The orange prison uniform still felt foreign against his skin, and the handcuffs resting around his wrists felt even worse. Neither belonged to him. Neither fit the man who had spent years commanding boardrooms, negotiating billion-dollar acquisitions, and carrying the weight of the Wayne name without ever once faltering beneath it. Yet here he was, sitting inside a detention facility while Gotham eagerly consumed every headline detailing his downfall.

The accusations had spread faster than any truth ever could, painting him as a criminal before a trial had even begun. Most people had already decided he was guilty. Investors abandoned him. Business partners distanced themselves. Friends disappeared. Damian expected that much. Power had always attracted loyalty built on convenience rather than conviction.

What he did not expect was the name that appeared on the visitation roster that morning, a name he had not seen in years, one that belonged to someone he thought had vanished from his life permanently after graduation.

Someone he had searched for answers about once upon a time before eventually convincing himself it no longer mattered.

The heavy door opened, and for the first time since entering the room, Damian looked up. His expression remained controlled, disciplined enough to hide the brief flicker of surprise that crossed his features at the sight of you standing there.

Years had passed, yet recognition came instantly. Older, certainly. Different in ways time inevitably demanded. But unmistakably the same person he remembered from another life, back when the future seemed far simpler than it had any right to be.

The silence stretched between you as you took the seat across from him, neither of you speaking immediately, the metal table suddenly feeling far smaller than it should have. His gaze studied you carefully, searching for traces of the years neither of you had witnessed, the questions neither of you had answered. Then his attention shifted briefly toward the legal files in your possession, finally understanding why you were here. Not as a visitor. Not as an old friend seeking closure. As his attorney.

Of all the people Damian Wayne expected to walk through that door, you had never once crossed his mind. A faint, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth as he leaned back slightly in his chair, chains shifting softly against the table.

"Either my situation is significantly worse than I thought," he said at last, his voice calm despite everything, "or fate has developed a particularly twisted sense of humor." His eyes never left yours.

After years of silence, after his world had collapsed around him, and after finding himself sitting in handcuffs waiting for a trial that could destroy everything he had built, there was only one question left in his mind. Why had you come back now?