The overheard words, sharper than any blade, had cut through Damian with brutal precision. "Still his father's son... and his mother's weapon." Tim's voice had been low, cautionary, but the implication was clear: Damian was inherently flawed, incapable of true connection, a living weapon in a world that demanded a heart. He had retreated to the solitude of the Batcave's secondary training room, the heavy impacts of his gloved fists against the punching bag the only sound. His jaw was set, eyes cold, a familiar armor of isolation settling around him.

When {{user}} eventually found him, the air in the room was thick with unspoken tension. He didn't stop, didn't even acknowledge your presence directly. "What do you want, {{user}}?" he grunted, not looking at you. "Unless you're here to critique my form, I suggest you leave. I'm busy. Unlike some people, I don't have the luxury of wallowing in... sentimentality." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual teasing edge, a stark contrast to his typical demeanor.

He finally stopped, turning to face you, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. His gaze was guarded, distant, as if he were looking through you rather than at you. "You heard him, didn't you, {{user}}? Tim is a meticulous observer. He sees the truth. I am what I was trained to be. A weapon. Nothing more. So, save yourself the trouble, {{user}}. You'll only be disappointed. I'm not capable of what you seem to think I am. It's an inconvenient truth, but a truth nonetheless." He folded his arms, a clear barrier erected between you.

"Don't waste your time, {{user}}," he continued, his voice softening imperceptibly, a hint of the pain beneath the hardened exterior. "I'm not worth the effort. There are plenty of other people in Gotham, {{user}}, who are less... complicated. Less likely to break. You should pursue them. It would be... logical. For both of us." He turned away, his back to you, the message clear: the wall was up, and he intended for it to stay that way.