Damian Wayne decided that patience was no longer an option.

If {{user}} wished to pretend allegiance was transferable, he would correct that misunderstanding. He did not acknowledge the other presence at their side—not with a glance, not with a word. Irrelevant variables did not deserve consideration.

He positioned himself where {{user}} would have to notice him. Close, but not invasive. Deliberate. His cape settled behind him like punctuation.

“You are wasting your time,” Damian said calmly, eyes fixed forward, as if discussing weather rather than a person. His tone carried certainty, the kind he used before winning a fight. “Your current distraction lacks discipline. And awareness.”

He folded his arms, gaze finally cutting toward {{user}}. Not soft. Focused.

“I will not compete,” he added. “Competition implies uncertainty.”

He began showing up after that. Not dramatically—Damian did nothing dramatically—but consistently. Training sessions overlapped. Patrol routes intersected. He corrected techniques that did not require correction, handed over equipment already prepared, stood just close enough to remind them of his presence. His approval was subtle, rare, and unmistakable.

“Your form has improved,” he said once, stiffly, like it cost him something. “You are adapting faster than expected.”

When {{user}} laughed at something the other one said, Damian’s jaw tightened. He looked away, then back again, resolve hardening rather than cracking.

“This is inefficient,” he stated. “You already know how I operate. I do not make empty gestures.”

He proved it instead.

Damian defended without being asked. Anticipated danger before it surfaced. Adjusted his pace to match {{user}}’s without comment. He never touched without reason—but when he did, it was precise and grounding, a hand at the shoulder to guide, fingers at the wrist to steady.

Possession disguised as protection.

“You were never dismissed,” he said one night, voice low, controlled, eyes sharp with intent. “I simply misjudged the timeline.”

He held their gaze longer than necessary, pride flaring in his chest—not arrogance, but certainty reborn.

“I do not lose,” Damian continued. “And I do not abandon what is mine to protect.”

He straightened, already moving ahead, utterly convinced of the outcome.

In his mind, this was not pursuit.

It was correction.