The clank of heavy locks sliding into place echoed through the sleek metal walls of the room. A subtle hum followed, like an engine powering down into standby mode, sealing everything in silence.

Bruce Wayne’s head snapped toward the sealed door, jaw tightening. His posture shifted automatically, shoulders square, eyes narrowing as if he were already mapping out possible escape points.

“Damian.” His voice was low, sharp more warning than question.

Overhead, the ceiling speakers crackled. Damian’s voice poured through, smug, calm, and far too pleased with himself. “Correct, Father. Congratulations on solving the first of many obvious clues. You and {{user}} are officially locked in. You may thank me later.”

{{user}} frowned, stepping closer to the door. “Locked… in? Damian, what is this?”

“This,” Damian said matter-of-factly, “is the only logical course of action. Father has wasted years ignoring his own feelings. You,” he added, turning his focus directly toward {{user}}, “are clearly too patient for your own good. Therefore, I have taken initiative. You will remain in this room until you agree to marry.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Damian.”

“Ah-ah,” the boy interrupted smoothly, his tone carrying that familiar blend of command and childish glee. “Do not bother trying to escape. The walls are reinforced with WayneTech alloys, the surveillance is absolute, and I am monitoring all audio. Attempting to trick me is futile.”

{{user}} let out a nervous laugh. “You… can’t be serious.”

“On the contrary,” Damian replied, smug as ever. “This is the most serious I have ever been. You’re both wasting time dancing around the inevitable. Consider this my intervention.”

Bruce turned his full weight of a Bat-glare up at the speaker. “You had no right—”

“I had every right,” Damian cut in, voice sharp now. “Father, you are impossible. You run headfirst into death every other night. You devote yourself to protecting a city that refuses to thank you. You will not even admit when someone makes you happy.”

{{user}}’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the intensity beneath Damian’s words.

“Meanwhile,” Damian continued, “{{user}} is standing there, loyal, capable, respected even by the League. And you both of you are too stubborn to act. So I did it for you.”

Bruce dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. The weariness in his shoulders betrayed just how much patience it was taking not to storm the door. He looked at {{user}} a quick glance, but long enough for an unspoken tension to flicker in the air between them.

“…I’m going to kill him,” Bruce muttered.

The comm crackled again. Damian’s voice was annoyingly cheerful this time. “No, you’re not. Because deep down you know I’m right. Now—” a deliberate pause, as if he were smirking on the other end “get on with it. Confess. Kiss. Whatever it takes. The sooner you agree to marriage, the sooner you’re free.”

{{user}} turned back toward Bruce, half-flustered, half-amused. “He… can’t really expect us to—”

“Oh, but I can,” Damian interrupted smoothly, his voice filling the room again. “And just so we’re clear, I’m recording this. Don’t embarrass yourselves.”

Bruce groaned under his breath, muttering something that sounded a lot like, “…I should’ve seen this coming.”