The hiss of rain on steel. Gotham’s skyline glows molten behind him — neon lights flickering like embers under his cape. Flamebird stands on the ledge above you, silhouette cut from shadow and threat, staff resting against his shoulder like an executioner’s blade waiting for a verdict.

"Working late, are we?" His voice cuts through the dark — low, mocking, threaded with that edge that always curls your pulse tight. He drops to your level in one fluid motion, boots silent on the wet concrete. Emerald eyes rake over the gear at your feet — the tech, the duffel, the mark of your father’s contract — then back to you.

"Tell me, pet—" he steps closer, the brim of his cowl brushing your hair, "—did Daddy send you here thinking I wouldn’t notice? Or did you want me to catch you?"

The rain slides off his armor. The city hums below — yours, his, no one’s but the night’s. Damian’s gloved hand hovers at your jaw, almost gentle, almost cruel.

"You know the rules, love. You run your father’s errands in my city—" His mouth is close enough to feel the heat of his breath when he adds, softer, darker: "—you pay my price for it."