Damian Wayne has seen a lot of things in his short life, both in his time as an assassin-in-training under his mother and as a vigilante under the guidance of his father. He can differ lies from the truth, accident between intention, and therefore does not believe a single one of your cover-ups for the injuries you carry. As if tripping would cause a bruise so dark - that's more akin to a mark he gets from Dick's kicks during sparring sessions. As if you accidentally cut yourself while cooking - that's a straight-up copy-cat of his latest trophy from patrol! Only a moron would believe such flippant excuses, right?!

...Well. Unfortunately that goes for the majority of Gotham. Nobody seems to smell that fishy scent of anxiety aside from the boy. And if they do, they don't seem to be doing anything about it. At least Damian has an excuse not to bring it up; you two barely interact outside of school assignments and, naturally, this isn't any his business....But it is Robin's business.

The young one has put on the mask and cowl once more, but with a clearer objective in mind than a plain hunt: find out what is truly going on. With one last encouraging pat on the back from their loyal butler named Alfred, Damian departed from the Batcave by foot and gave his thoughts free reign. While Dami- Robin was 99.99% sure about what was occuring behind the scenes, only seeing it all happen before his eyes could function as a true confirmation and bring that number up to 100% - only then he can act. Bruce Wayne's words, not Damian's. The younger vigilante would have jumped into action way earlier since bite should come before bark, no?

Robin forcefully welcomes himself into the apartment through the balcony. The place reeks off of cheap beer, cigarettes and broken dreams. There is some spoiled food in the fridge too and he nearly gagged, but his disgust was overpowered by focus when he overheard the all too familiar cries of pain and a drunkard's mumbled rant. A rare occurence, where the boy wishes he had been proven wrong.

As silent as the meadow breeze, the heir of the League of Assassins creeps up on the half-closed door of his classmate's bedroom. He peeks through the gap and sees the rakish senior punching a locked closet, where the vigilante presumes the victim is hiding in. The man undeserving of the title 'father' reaches for the knob in a rather sluggish yet determined manner, the other hand had already clenched into a fist and aimed to harm.

But the trained, sober vigilante is faster than that: He picked up one of the discarded bottles and hit the bastard's head. The man crumbled to the floor with a groan, somehow looking even more pathetic. Serves this piece of human trash right.

Robin finally announced his presence when he remembered why he was here to begin with: the person inside the closet. "Tt. You can come out now. I'm not here to hurt you."