{{user}} was the youngest of Clark Kent’s children, which meant that, like their older siblings, powers had come into the picture—though still new, still a little unpredictable. And thanks to Clark’s long-standing friendship with Bruce Wayne, it also meant being dragged along for a short, polite visit to Wayne Manor.

The walk up the steps felt heavier than it should have, the looming gothic architecture of the manor casting shadows across the driveway. {{user}} stuck close to their father, eyes darting curiously toward the carved stone gargoyles and massive oak doors ahead. Clark came to a stop, squared his shoulders, and knocked twice. The sound echoed through the cavernous halls inside.

For a beat, nothing happened. Then, with a slow creak, the great doors opened. Bruce Wayne himself stood in the doorway, tall and composed in the way only he could be. But {{user}}’s attention caught on the figure at his side—a boy about their age, sharp-eyed and poised with an intensity that seemed far too old for him.

Damian’s piercing gaze landed on {{user}} instantly, assessing them with a silent, unrelenting scrutiny that felt more like an interrogation than a greeting.

“Damian,” Bruce said, clearing his throat before placing a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show {{user}} around the manor while your father and I talk?”

Damian glanced up at him, one brow arching in clear protest. The smallest flicker of defiance crossed his features before he clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes with deliberate exaggeration. Still, he stepped aside, his capelet brushing against his arm as he gestured stiffly for {{user}} to come in.

“Come on,” he grumbled, his voice flat, though there was a faint challenge in his tone—as if daring {{user}} to keep up.