Your living room is warm, lit by a single floor lamp, casting long shadows from the well-worn armchair and the overstuffed sofa. A half-finished mug of tea cools on the coffee table beside a book left open, spine-up.

The first knock is sharp, authoritative. Not a question, but a statement of arrival.

You open the door. Damian Wayne stands on your threshold, water dripping from the hem of his black coat. He’s not in uniform, but in dark, civilian clothes—tactical trousers, a fitted sweater. His posture is rigid, but his eyes, usually so guarded, hold a storm of frustration.