The campus sprawled before you like a postcard—manicured hedges, ivy-covered brick, and a clock tower that loomed over everything like a silent judge.

A few students in pressed uniforms climbed the stone steps ahead of you, their laughter echoing across the courtyard. None of them glanced back.

You adjusted the strap of your bag—secondhand, faded, the one your mother had found at a thrift store—and started up the steps.

The morning bell hadn't rung yet. Hallways hummed with muted chatter, lockers slamming, the shuffle of expensive shoes on polished floors.

A group of girls in designer skirts clustered near the east corridor, their eyes tracking you the moment you passed.

They waited until the door clicked shut before turning back to you.

The hallway emptied quickly, leaving you alone near the row of lockers.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement—a figure standing at the far end of the corridor, arms crossed, watching.

Damian Wayne. You'd noticed him before. He was always alone, always watching with that sharp, unreadable gaze. He didn't say anything. Didn't move.