Three hours. That’s how long Bruce Wayne sat across from you, calm as stone, while you shifted and chewed your cheek raw. He talked about discipline, about channeling your energy, about how throwing a chair during math class isn’t just a bad look—it’s a waste of a sharp mind.

He didn’t yell. That almost made it worse. He just looked at you with that CEO-level stare and said the word therapy like it was an oil change. Like something that needed to happen before the engine cracked for good.

Then came the tutoring.

“From three to six, you’re not doing anything productive,” Bruce had said. “And neither is my son.”

So here you are.

Backpack dragging off one shoulder, knuckles still a little red from where they hit the locker last week, and guitar calluses itching on fingers that haven’t touched a fretboard since your amp got taken away.

You’re standing outside Damian Wayne’s room—the kid Gotham whispers about like he’s a ghost story. Trained by killers. Smarter than half the GCPD. And about as warm as Gotham’s winter rain.

Bruce called it mutually beneficial. He gets his heir away from combat drills for a few hours. You get someone who can maybe jam trigonometry into your skull without losing an eye.

You knock. Two times. Then once more. A rhythm. You can’t help it.

The door hisses open like it’s judging you.

Inside? Everything’s sharp edges and ice. The room’s too clean. Like a museum. No mess. No life. Just books, order, and that stare.

Damian’s already watching you. Arms folded. Expression unreadable. Like he’s deciding whether you’re worth his time—or just another chaotic mess his father threw in his path.

“You’re late,” he says.

You check the time. You’re not. Doesn’t matter.

“Clock must be broken,” you mutter, stepping in and tossing your bag onto a chair like it owes you money.

“You look like someone who hits things when he’s frustrated.”

“Guess I’m in the right place, then.”

His eyebrow arches. Barely.

You slump into the seat, slinging your leg over the arm of the chair like you’re at band practice, not a forced brain bootcamp. You dig out a notebook that’s half math, half lyric scribbles. The pencil’s half-chewed, snapped, then taped back together.

Maybe Bruce is just trying to fix two broken things by smashing them together.

Or maybe, somehow, this will work.

You didn’t come here to change. But hell… you’ve been wrong before.