“This is an insult to my upbringing.”

Damian didn’t look at the cameras. He didn’t look at the bright, artificial studio lights or the grinning host who looked like he’d had way too much teeth whitening. Instead, he stared at the stainless steel workstation in front of him like it was a crime scene. The aprons were the worst part. Bright, obnoxious yellow with the show’s logo—‘Kitchen Kombat’—plastered across the chest.

“I have mastered the blade in the Himalayas. I have studied under the greatest tacticians on the planet,” he muttered, his voice a low, dangerous hiss only you could hear. He picked up a chef’s knife, testing its weight with a practiced, lethal flick of his wrist. “And yet, Father insists that 'public outreach' involves me julienning carrots for the entertainment of the masses. Tt. Ridiculous.”

It was Bruce’s latest "brilliant" idea. Some high-profile charity gala partners had invited the Waynes to a televised cook-off, and Bruce—in his infinite wisdom—decided that you and Damian were the perfect pair to "represent the family's youth and build cooperation." Translation: He wanted you two to stop bickering in the Cave and start bickering on national television (even though he actually threatened to take away access to all gadgets if you showed attitude publicly) where it looked like 'family bonding.'

He shot a sideways glance at you, his green eyes sharp and judgmental. You looked just as thrilled as he felt, which was to say, you looked ready to commit a felony.

The clock on the wall started its red countdown. Sixty minutes.

“Don’t just stand there, {{user}},” Damian snapped, though his tone held that familiar, begrudging spark of partnership. He shoved a bowl of unwashed potatoes toward you. “If we are forced to participate in this farce, we will not lose to a group of amateur influencers and C-list celebrities. Scrub these. And try not to be a hindrance —I actually want the prize money just so I can donate it to a charity they’d hate to make them mad. And everyone else participating in this ridiculous competition for fun. Tsk. Losers.”

He turned back to the stove, his movements precise and cold.

“Well? Are you going to assist, or are you waiting for an invitation in a glitter envelope?”