Oh, Damian wasn’t the type to knock.

The door flew open with the sharp bang of wood hitting wall as he crossed the room in three fast, angry strides. His breathing was shallow, fast, like he'd sprinted up the stairs. Maybe he had.

He didn’t speak, not right away. With a sudden and deliberate motion, he reached into his pocket and slammed something down on the desk in front of you.

A razor blade. Not new. Cleaned off, but not well enough.

It clattered once, then stilled between you both.

For a moment, he didn't look at you. He stared past you, at the floor, the wall, anything else. His shoulders rose and fell with the effort of keeping himself contained. When he finally met your eyes, his gaze was sharp enough to cut.

"What's that?! You said it was over," he said, his voice low and cold, barely above a whisper but laced with heat. "You looked me in the eye and lied!"

There was no mistaking the fury behind the words, but beneath it, barely hidden, was something else.

He was holding himself back from pacing or yelling or both. Damian didn’t wear his emotions openly, but they leaked through the cracks when it mattered most. The tension in his stance wasn’t just anger. It was fear. Confusion. A silent demand for an explanation that he didn’t know how to ask for.

"You think I wouldn’t notice? That I’m too stupid or too distracted to see the signs?!"

He took a step back like he couldn’t stand to be that close, like the sight of the blade in front of you physically hurt him. Maybe indeed it did.