The Batcave was many things—silent, vast, intimidating—but it had never been this awkward.

Damian stood at the foot of the platform, arms crossed, posture perfect. His expression was unreadable, though the slight twitch in his brow said everything: he was bracing for impact.

Because behind him, silently toeing the edge of a shadow, stood her.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. She hadn’t blinked in three minutes.

Red Hood was the first to break the silence. “You’re dating a miniature Talia.”

“I’m standing right here,” Damian replied, tone flat.

Nightwing gave a low whistle. “She’s got a knife in her boot, doesn’t she?”

“She has three,” Damian answered.

Oracle muttered something about needing a drink. Tim backed slowly away from the terminal. And Bruce? He just stared, contemplative and quiet.

Finally, Alfred appeared with a tray of tea and said dryly, “Shall I set an extra place, Master Damian? Or should we reinforce the table first?”

Damian didn’t smile. But he didn’t deny it either.