The office was a study in controlled minimalism. No personal effects. No photographs. Just a monolithic black desk, two severe-looking chairs, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic, brooding view of Gotham’s skyline, shrouded in the afternoon downpour.

Damian Wayne didn’t look up from the tablet in his hands as the door hissed shut behind you. He was younger than you’d expected from his reputation—early twenties—but he carried an unnerving stillness that belonged to someone much older. His posture was rigid, his focus absolute.