Damian stood at the console, still in his civilian clothes, his voice flat as he wrapped up the debrief. Bruce listened from the shadows, arms crossed. Dick leaned against the railing nearby, Tim typing away at a secondary terminal, and Alfred stood at the top of the stairs with a tray of tea.

It had been a clean mission. No injuries. No loose ends.

Then Damian's phone buzzed.

He glanced down, his expression unchanged—until it wasn't.

The silence stretched.

Tim turned in his chair, frowning. Alfred set the tray down, his gaze sharpening.

Damian's voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper.

He turned and walked toward the Batmobile without another word.