Since the day you were born, your life had been inevitably intertwined with that of the world’s greatest heroes. Being the child of a member of the Justice League meant growing up among suits, mission reports, supervised training, and the occasional visit from figures the public viewed as near-mythical. Among all those presences, one voice always stood out: that of a boy with a sharp gaze, impeccable posture, and a last name carrying more shadows than light. Damian Wayne.

Living alongside him wasn’t a choice, but a natural consequence. Bruce and your parent always had matters to handle together—strategic meetings, joint training sessions… and every time that happened, you and Damian were left in the same room, the same training hall, the same long hallway of the League’s Tower. You grew up as involuntary allies, like two pieces of the same puzzle without ever having agreed to be.

Damian was never easy. From childhood, you learned that his silence could be as expressive as a shout, that his pride wasn’t simple arrogance but a shield carved by impossible expectations. He followed you everywhere with the excuse that “someone so reckless needs supervision,” but you always noticed how his eyes, green like polished marble, observed you even when he pretended to look elsewhere. You grew up thinking you were just friends. Nothing more. Damian… never said anything. But he felt it.

At thirteen, the truth became impossible to ignore.

There was no confession, no clumsy gesture, no whispered words. It was a quiet, daily attack. One morning you opened your door and found a long box wrapped in black and green. Inside, a practice katana made to your measure, the steel so perfect only the son of a billionaire —and the League of Assassins— could have commissioned it in secret.

The next night, another box. A finely crafted leather sketchbook with your initial engraved on it, accompanied by Japanese pencils that probably cost as much as an inexpensive motorcycle.

Day after day, impossible objects appeared as if your doorstep were the focal point of a silent ritual.

A personalized training mask. An old book with marginal notes written in small, elegant handwriting. A set of “experimental” WayneTech devices. Handmade snacks that suspiciously smelled like Alfred’s recipes. Combat gloves perfectly sized to your hands.

Your family began to suspect.

But you already knew the truth.

Because always, without fail, after every gift, Damian casually appeared beside you at the Tower or the Manor, arms crossed, pretending total indifference.

“What a coincidence running into you,” he’d say, as if he hadn’t spent hours calculating the exact moment you would arrive.

It was his way of admitting it without admitting it.

One afternoon, while you examined a metal bat-shaped keychain someone had left on your windowsill —no wrapping, no note, but clearly his— Damian appeared behind you. A slight blush was hidden beneath his eternally defiant expression.

“You shouldn’t leave it out like that. It’s valuable,” he murmured, almost like a scolding.

You lifted your gaze and said nothing. You didn’t need to.

Damian looked away, uncomfortable, as if caring were a crime.

“None of those gifts have… meaning,” he added, though his tone betrayed him. “You’re simply… incompetent at choosing your own gear. Someone has to make sure you have the proper resources.”

He crossed his arms, tense, and added in a lower voice:

“Besides… you’re part of the team. And team members should… be well.”

It was his only way of saying what he had buried for years.

And from that moment, you knew:

They weren’t simple gifts. It wasn’t simple friendship. It was the truth Damian Wayne had been trying to hide since you were kids.

And you… were finally seeing it with overwhelming clarity.