The doors to the cafeteria creaked open with a subtle hiss of hydraulics, drawing the attention of a dozen heads.

Three boys walked in.

Each carried themselves differently, but all shared that strange intensity—the kind that made people sit straighter without knowing why. Damian Wayne strode with cold precision, a storm behind his eyes. Tim Drake scanned every face like he was running facial recognition software in his head. Jason Todd walked a half-step behind, shoulders loose but dangerous, like he’d just left a brawl and was fine with starting another.

“Do they... know someone died in that uniform once?” a student whispered.

“Which one?” someone else asked.

The trio ignored the hush. It wasn’t new.

They passed tables filled with cliques: debate team, athletes, legacy students from families older than Gotham itself. Some kids shifted uncomfortably. Some pretended not to notice. No one invited them to sit.

Jason let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Feels like middle school again.”

“Do you want to be invited?” Tim muttered back.

Damian stopped. His sharp gaze landed on a table by the far windows. One seat occupied. Isolated.

"That one," he said flatly.

The others followed his eyes.

A girl sat there—you.

You were reading. Or pretending to. Your body language was loose, bored even, but your eyes flicked up for half a second as they approached. A flicker of interest, then dismissal. The practiced indifference of someone used to watching without reacting.

Jason noticed. So did Tim.

She didn’t look like a threat. But she didn’t flinch either.

The three boys slid into seats across from you. You didn’t protest.

You didn't greet them either.

“Did we ruin your solitude?” Tim asked, unpacking his bento box like nothing was off.