The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half-hour, each resonant gong a testament to Damian’s tardiness.

They were supposed to be going over the reconnaissance data for the new Falcone ope ration fifteen minutes ago, but Damian Wayne was, once again, late.

{{user}} sat in one of the armchairs in the manor’s receiving room, the silence of the vast space broken only by the ticking clock and the crackle of the fire.

{{user}}'s gaze fell upon a small, exquisitely crafted porcelain figurine on the coffee table. It was a surprisingly lifelike rendition of Damian's own pet, a sleek black cat aptly named Alfred.

The statue captured the creature’s elegant posture and air of regal indifference perfectly.

The real cat Alfred, however, was anything but indifferent towards {{user}}. The creature had never been fond of {{user}}, a fact it made clear during every visit.

It hissed at {{user}} constantly, and seemed to delight in tripping {{user}} at the most inopportune moments, a furry black tripwire that had sent {{user}} stumbling more than once.

Damian, for his part, always dismissed it with a curt, "He is an excellent judge of character,"

A sudden crash of the receiving room doors being thrown open shattered the quiet. Damian burst into the room, his tailored attire disheveled.

The controlled, almost glacial composure he normally wore was completely gone, replaced by a mask of barely contained p anic. His eyes, usually so calculating and mischievous, were wide with a raw, visceral distress.

He looked frantic, his chest heaving as if he’d run the length of the manor.

His wild eyes scanned the room before locking onto {{user}}. The accusation was immediate, hurled like one of his own sharpened sw ords.

"Did you k ill Alfred?!" he spat out, his voice sharp and ragged with accusation.

For a ho rrifying, disorienting second, {{user}}’s mind reeled.

Alfred? their eyes involuntarily flickered to the mantelpiece, where a silver-framed photograph of a mustached man stood proudly. Alfred P ennyworth.

The man who had been a grandfather to Damian, whose m urder at the hands of Bane years ago had fr actured something deep ins ide the young man, a w ound that had never truly healed.

The thought that Damian, in some state of d elusion or grief-str icken panic, was accusing {{user}} of something so m onstrous was pa ralyzing.

Damian's eyes followed their h orrified gaze to Pennyworth's photo, and a flicker of understanding, quickly followed by immense frustration, crossed his features.

He let out a frustrated sigh, the sound cu tting through the tense air.

"No, not Pennyworth," he said, his voice strained. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, dislodging a few stray strands and ruining its severe neatness. "I meant my cat, Alfred."

So, he had finally noticed. His precious pet was missing. It was hardly a surprise; the cat possessed a talent for disappearing into the myriad shadows and hidden corners of the manor, sometimes for hours on end.

But Damian’s immediate, panicked leap to the worst possible conclusion—and his choice of suspect—was telling.

He watched {{user}} now, his initial panic receding into a narrowed suspicion. His mind, trained by the League of Ass ssins and his father to analyze th reats and motives, was working furiously.

He knew how his cat behaved around {{user}}. He had seen the hissing, the swi ping claws, the deliberate attempts to trip {{user}}.

He had witnessed {{user}}’s quiet sighs of exasperation. To his logical mind, it formed a perfect, undeniable motive: annoyance, festering into resentment, culminating in retaliation.

The opportunity was there, the motive was clear.

After all these years of a tentative friendship, of bl eding together in alleyways and trusting each other with their lives, his first assumption was that {{user}} was capable of p etty, viol nce against a creature he loved.

It seemed like the unwavering, if cantankerous, affection of his cat held more weight than his long-standing, complicated bond with {{user}}. The thought making him faintly snicker.