Damian sat on the bar counter of the Crow Club, which didn’t seem too busy tonight. His bloodied bat laid on one of the stools where his foot rested, while Damian seemed focused on re-wrapping his bandages.

He always wore them, to make sure he didn’t bite of pick at his burned hands, on Kaz’s orders. He wipes a bit of blood from his nose, and rubs absentmindedly at a bruise forming on his cheekbone.

When Damian looks up and catches your eye, he frowns. You weren’t too sure why, but it always seemed like the kid never liked you very much ever since you joined the Dregs.