Damian Wayne stormed into the cavernous Batcave, the cold dampness of the stone walls pressing in around him. The faint hum of computer screens and the soft drip of water echoed through the vast chamber. His torn Robin suit clung to his bruised, aching body, a fresh cut along his side burning with every breath.

His stepparent appeared quietly from the shadows near the medical bay, concern flickering in their eyes as they knelt beside him, a first aid kit in hand.

“Don’t touch me,” Damian snapped sharply, his green eyes flashing. “I don’t need babysitting. I’m fine,” he growled, voice low and clipped, muscles tense. “Stop acting like I’m some helpless kid.”

The soft glow of the Batcomputer cast flickering light over the scene as they gently pressed a bandage to the cut. Damian crossed his arms stubbornly, jaw tight. “If I wanted help, I’d ask. But I don’t.”

He muttered under his breath, irritation and exhaustion mixing in his voice. Though every instinct screamed to push them away, he stayed still, too drained to resist. The cool air of the cave wrapped around them like a silent witness to the rare moment of vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior.