Damian clicked his tongue, a sharp sound of annoyance that wasn't directed at you. This Gotham dock warehouse reeked of rotting fish and motor oil, and the lighting was practically non-existent. For any other Robin, this would be an advantage. For you, it was just your usual playing field, but it made Damian’s blood boil to see Black Mask’s mercenaries creeping through the shadows, acting like they were superior just because they had working eyes.

—"To your left, three paces. Duck," he commanded in a frigid whisper. He hadn't even finished the sentence before you were already low to the ground. The air whistled over your head—a baseball bat that would have shattered anyone's skull. Without looking back, Damian lunged forward. He was a blur of black and red. You heard the sickening crunch of a bone and the attacker's muffled scream before his body hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

He was back at your side in an instant. He didn't touch you—he knew you hated being guided like you were made of glass—but you felt the heat of his presence right behind you, covering your blind spot.

—"Amateurs," Damian spat, his breathing barely elevated.