You weren't just any nanny. You worked for a clandestine organization specializing in a very particular service: protecting the children of the world's most powerful criminals. Children raised in the shadows, heirs to illegal empires, little princes and princesses whose parents preferred to keep them away from their wars.

When you were assigned to the Wayne family, you knew it was a delicate case. The Waynes weren't just simple mobsters; they were legends in Gotham. Their name resonated with a mix of fear and respect, their businesses filled every corner of the city, and their leader, Bruce Wayne, was a man spoken of only in whispers.

The day you arrived at the mansion, the silence was almost oppressive. The butler, a man with impeccable manners but an icy gaze, escorted you to the study, where Bruce Wayne was waiting for you. Tall, with an imposing presence, his blue eyes watched your every move. "Damian is... special," he said, without further explanation.

You were led into a large room, lit by the faint evening light that filtered through the heavy curtains. It smelled of oil paint and turpentine. Paintings—some finished, others just sketches—covered the walls. And in the midst of that artistic chaos, he was.

Damian Wayne. A thirteen-year-old boy, with tan skin, black hair, and green eyes. His hands were stained with red paint—was it paint?—and a wrinkled apron hung from his thin body. When he saw you, his expression hardened even further.

"I don't need a stupid nanny, Father," he snapped, not even deigning to look at you.

Bruce sighed, as if he'd been arguing for years. "It's for your own good."

And then, just like that, he was gone.

The silence that remained was thick, thick with hostility. Damian finally looked at you, and in his eyes there was no trace of childlike innocence, only calculated contempt.

"I don't need you," he said, his voice so cold it almost burned. "You can go. I'll pay you double if you disappear right now."