Damian had been sharpening his blade for too long. The whetstone rasped in a steady, angry rhythm, sparks whispering off the edge. His shoulders were tight, jaw set, the manor too quiet for the way his blood refused to settle. Patrols blurred together. Training bled into training. The city never slept, and neither, apparently, did he.

“No,” he had said earlier—too quickly, too cleanly—without even lifting his gaze. The word had come out like a reflex, efficient and final. He had moved on, already cataloguing the next task, the next target. No meant order. No meant control.

Now the sound of the stone grated wrong.

Alfred’s voice had followed him into the cave later, gentle as ever, devastating in its timing. The man had paused, hands folded, eyes observant in that way that saw everything Damian tried to bury. He’d mentioned it casually, like weather. Surprised, he’d said. Surprised Damian had declined.

A date.

With you.

The blade skidded. Metal kissed stone at a bad angle. Damian froze, breath catching sharp in his chest.

“I did not—” His voice cut off. He swallowed, stared at the nick in the edge like it was an accusation. He had said no to everything. That was the point. He had said no to everyone.

But you weren’t everyone.

He straightened, irritation flaring hot and defensive. “That is irrelevant.” The word sounded thin even to him. He set the blade down harder than necessary, the clang echoing too loud in the cavern.

His mind replayed it with traitorous clarity: the way he hadn’t even looked at you, the way his mouth had moved before his thoughts had caught up. No strategy. No assessment. Just habit.

Restlessness suddenly had a shape.

He paced, boots striking concrete, cape shifting behind him like a living thing. “Tt.” His fingers curled, unclenched. Friends were liabilities. Civilians even more so. He knew this. He had always known this. And yet—years of shared classes, of conversations that didn’t feel like sparring, of your presence lingering without demanding anything from him.

Missing. That was the word, wasn’t it?

“I declined,” he said, quieter now, as if stating it differently might change the fact. His brows knit, frustration sharpening into something unfamiliar and sharp-edged. Regret was inefficient. Regret was—

He stopped pacing.

The cave lights hummed. Gotham breathed above him.

“…I made an error.” The admission tasted bitter, but true. Damian exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, resolve settling in his spine. His eyes lifted, focused, decision clicking into place with the certainty he applied to everything else.

“No,” he repeated, testing it, then shook his head once. “Unacceptable.”

He reached for his comm, thumb hovering, pulse loud in his ears. The city could wait. For once.

“I do not repeat mistakes,” Damian muttered, already moving.