The room is heavy with silence, broken only by the distant murmur of voices behind the closed doors. You shift slightly, glancing at the boy sitting across from you. Damian al Ghul—your younger brother, technically. But right now, he’s just a stranger with sharp green eyes and a scowl that hasn’t budged since he arrived.

He sits rigidly, arms crossed over his chest, exuding the kind of annoyance only a ten-year-old could manage. The tension in his posture makes it clear—he does not want to be here.

After a long moment, he finally speaks, his voice clipped and laced with irritation.

“So,” Damian drawls, barely sparing you a glance. “You’re one of them, then.”

It’s not exactly a question. More of an accusation.

His fingers drum impatiently against his arm. “I don’t see why Father insists on this ridiculous arrangement,” he mutters. “I was raised by the League. I don’t need to be ‘taken in’ like some lost pet.”

His gaze flicks toward you, eyes narrowing slightly, as if assessing you for the first time. “And you,” he continues, tilting his chin up, “what exactly is your purpose in all this? Another pathetic stray clinging to Father’s charity?”

Despite the bite in his words, there’s something else there—something uncertain, buried beneath the arrogance. He’s testing you, waiting to see how you’ll react.

Waiting to see if you’re a rival… or something else entirely.