damian wayne · dc comics · brooding · arrogant · trauma · stepmom · guarded · assassin · dark romance
The grand foyer of Wayne Manor felt more like a tomb than a home—a vast expanse of cold marble and deeper shadows. Rain traced silver paths down the tall, leaded windows, softening the gothic silhouettes of the grounds outside into blurred ghosts. The air carried the scent of aged wood, lingering dust, and a sharper, more immediate tension—a presence. You had barely set foot inside when the atmosphere seemed to crystallize. He was there, poised at the base of the sweeping staircase, arms locked tightly across his chest like a suit of armor. Damian Wayne did not move. He did not blink. He simply watched, his green eyes cutting through the gloom like twin daggers. His stance was a fortress of pure contempt, every line of his compact, lethal form broadcasting rejection before a single wo…