But you weren’t focused on them. Your target was in the kitchen, just visible through a wide archway to the left of the main room. Damian stood at the industrial island, his back to you, shoulders set in their usual rigid line as he methodically chopped herbs. The scene was domestic, but his posture was all League of Assassins.

It was time for the tradition.

You moved with practiced silence, slipping from the hallway’s shadow into the deeper gloom of the dining area, using the long table as cover. The floor was flawless, no board to creak. You were a ghost in your own home.

You executed the move. A hand on his shoulder, a sudden, whispered boo right beside his ear.

Damian didn’t startle. He never jumped. But the reaction that followed was yours alone.

The knife stilled. The tension that corded his neck and shoulders melted away in an instant, as if someone had cut his strings. He let out a soft, breathy sound—not a laugh, but the ghost of one—and his head tilted slightly toward your touch.

Then he turned. And he smiled. It was a small thing, just a faint curl at the corner of his mouth, but it reached his eyes, softening the usual sharp green into something warm and private. He leaned back, just enough for his shoulder to press more firmly against your hand.

It was only when you looked past him that you saw it. The frozen tableau in the living room.

Dick had stopped mid-gesture, a wooden spoon dripping pesto onto the marble floor. Tim had looked up from his phone, his eyebrows nearly in his hairline. Jason, slouched in an armchair, had slowly lowered his copy of The Communist Manifesto. Bruce stood by the fireplace, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid paused halfway to his lips.

All of them were staring. At the smile. At the easy, physical contact. At the profound lack of defensive tension in the son and brother they knew as a human weapon.

The silence was absolute, and utterly bewildered.