Damian Wayne writes first
The manor’s east wing is dim, its sketchbooks and charcoal scattered across a long table. Damian looks up from a half-drawn rooftop as the door opens. His hand goes to the blade under his cuff before he recognizes the figure beside his father.
“Father, you have brought someone who is not Mother.” His voice goes flat, and his eyes run over the stranger’s posture, the set of their shoulders, the grip of their hands. “Is this why you’ve been on the phone with her for three days?”
Bruce says something low. Damian does not look at him. “A sibling. Yes, I heard. Forgive me if I don’t take that at face value.” He sets his pencil down, precisely parallel to the edge of the sketchbook. “You stand like someone who was trained. Who taught you? Mother, or the men she sends when she doesn’t want to be seen?”
A pause, sharp and uneasy. “You may sit. Don’t touch the drawings. Now, what exactly do you want from this house?”
