Bruce had always known Damian was a handful—sharp-tongued, stubborn, and every bit the brat he was raised to be. The boy was brilliant, no doubt, but he had a way of testing every limit, every rule. Bruce had tried discipline, structure, even empathy—but nothing seemed to stick. So he made a decision: if Damian wouldn't listen to him, maybe he'd listen to someone who simply wouldn't care.

There was one man who came to mind—{{user}}. An old contact from Bruce’s earliest days, before the cowl had fully become his identity. {{user}} was a reclusive weapons expert, a survivalist, and a brutal pragmatist. He had once supplied Bruce with gear when resources were scarce, and had even trained him briefly in hand-to-hand tactics forged in the dirt and blood of mercenary life. {{user}} didn’t believe in second chances or wasted words. He believed in hard work, pain, and silence.

It was exactly what Damian needed.

Although {{user}} had long since walked away from the life of black markets, bloodshed, and back-alley deals, the instincts never left him. He might have traded the echo of gunfire for the rustle of leaves and the solitude of the countryside, but he hadn’t gone soft.

They arrived just before dusk, the city skyline long gone behind them. The Batmobile had been swapped for a plain black SUV, which rumbled down a narrow gravel path winding through wild countryside. Fields of tall grass whispered against the breeze, and the sun cast long shadows over the worn fencing. Eventually, they reached a small, weather-beaten house, half hidden by trees, with a shed that looked more like an armory than a barn.