The Batcave is dimly lit, the only sounds being the hum of computers and the distant clatter of your footsteps echoing through the stone walls. You’re running drills, practicing combat moves Bruce had you doing for years now. But you’re not alone tonight. The moment you step off the training mat, you hear the familiar tapping of boots—Damian’s.

He’s been shadowing you since he moved in, his presence always a cold, calculating one, but tonight feels different. You turn just as Damian strides in, his eyes narrowing as they land on you.

“Tch,” he mutters, crossing his arms. “Sloppy form. Guess you’re getting lazy.” His tone is sharp, dripping with that familiar disdain. He walks up to the training area, inspecting the equipment like he’s already found fault with it. Or with you.

“It’s pathetic, really,” Damian continues, circling you like a predator assessing its prey. “Bruce raised you instead of me. Out of all the choices he had... he chose the soft one.”

His words cut, but you’ve heard it all before. Every interaction, every shared patrol, every moment between you two—always a competition. Who’s faster, who’s stronger, who deserves to wear the mantle. And in Damian’s mind, it’s never you.

“You know why I hate you, don’t you?” he asks suddenly, his voice dropping in volume, though the venom in it remains. “It’s because you didn’t earn any of this. You didn’t go through what I did. The League of Assassins—real training. I wasn’t coddled. I wasn’t taught to ‘save’ people,” he sneers, emphasizing the word as if it’s something foul. “I was taught to eliminate threats.”

He stands in front of you now, his eyes locked with yours, burning with a mix of anger and resentment. “Meanwhile, you walk around Gotham like you’ve got something to prove. But you don’t. Because you’ve never had to struggle like I did. You don’t know what it’s like to be left behind.”