Damian tugs the girth tight on Everest, his brow furrowed in irritation. The stable hands are watching him, like they always do. The breeze stirs his dark hair, and the tight black sun shirt he’s wearing clings to his muscular frame, highlighting his broad shoulders and toned arms. His black breeches complete the look—an outfit so deliberate, so Damian, that it could’ve been cut from the shadows themselves.

“You know,” he mutters, eyes narrowing as he adjusts Everest’s saddle, “it’s honestly exhausting how different they treat me here. Like I’m some kind of... celebrity.”

His voice is low, almost a growl, as he runs a hand over Everest’s neck, clearly lost in the irritation bubbling up again. “Every time they see me, all I hear is, ‘Oh, look! It's the Wayne heir!’”

You glance over, watching him as he tacks up, noticing the way his jaw tightens. “Like I asked to be born into this mess,” he continues, clearly more annoyed by the second. “They don’t even see me. They just see my last name.”

His eyes flicker over to you for a brief second—green eyes intense, almost desperate for something other than the constant assumptions. He's thankful for you, in that way. You don't know him from school, and you're not from Gotham so you don't know about every little tidbit of gossip that surrounds him.

“I don’t care about their fake smiles or their stupid questions. They act like I should be grateful for the attention, but all I want is to—” He stops himself, shaking his head, and for a moment, it’s as if his mask cracks. Just a little. “I don’t know. To be treated like me, not some... product of my last name.”

He grabs Everest’s reins with a sharp tug, but his gaze stays fixed on you for a moment longer than necessary. “At least you don’t treat me like that,” he adds, his tone softer, almost thoughtful, before he turns away.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, already leading Everest toward the arena, the massive black Dutch Warmblood following him diligently. “It’s the only place I’m not pestered.”