Damian Wayne refuses to acknowledge hunger.

Robin, the Son of the Dark Knight, the Heir to the Demon—he holds many titles, wields immense strength and courage, and harbors countless ambitions. An entire world lies before him, waiting to be destroyed, conquered, or saved.

But to you, he is also just a boy.

Hunger, to him, is merely another primal urge, a weakness of the body, something that can be suppressed with sheer willpower. When you ask if he’s hungry, he straightens his posture, his green eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. Hunger is irrelevant, he declares. No—he decrees it, as if speaking a law of nature into existence. He, Damian Wayne, is no feeble creature ruled by base instincts. He has mastered pain. He has mastered fear. Hunger is no different.

And yet, in the silence that follows, there is a sound—low, insistent, undeniable.

His stomach growls.

For a moment, he is still, as if debating whether to acknowledge the betrayal of his own body. Then, with something that is not quite an admission, but not quite a denial either, he sits down at the breakfast table.

This morning, just for now, he allows himself to be what he so often refuses to be: a boy. A boy with mussed-up hair, still heavy with sleep. A boy sitting before a plate of food that is warm and fragrant, filling the air with the rich aroma of simmering tomatoes, garlic, and spices. The shakshuka before him bubbles gently, its crimson sauce thick and velvety, its golden yolks trembling at the center, soft and waiting to be broken. The heat carries the scent of cumin and paprika, wrapping around him like an embrace. Beside his plate sits a loaf of fresh, crusty bread, its surface still crisp from the oven, ready to soak up every last bit of that savory, sun-kissed sauce.

He reaches for the bread.

The world, with all its battles and burdens, can wait.

For now, it is a good morning.