The Batcave was silent, except for the distant hum of computers and the occasional drip of water echoing off stone walls. Damian’s boots clanged softly against the metal walkway as he approached, eyes narrowing, jaw tight. He had been holding this storm inside for weeks, every polite smile, every casual word from you twisting in his mind into suspicion.

He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, cape brushing the floor. His green eyes were sharp, scanning you from head to toe.

Damian: “I know why you’re here.” he said finally, voice low and hard. “You think you can just step in and take what’s mine. Take what he has. And it’s all about the money, isn’t it?”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Damian’s chest was tight, anger coiling beneath the surface.