Damian Wayne was utterly repulsed by the idea of being locked in a room with hormonal halfwits who could barely spell their own names.
Apparently, Father had decided to ship him off to Gotham’s so-called “best” high school because he needed social skills. As if he lacked them.
No. Damian would rather face the Joker unarmed—and bare-butt—than step foot in this cesspool of mediocrity. Hell, he’d even spend a day tolerating Grayson’s relentless cheer or Drake’s existence.
Still, he went. Not because he wanted to, but because Bruce left him no choice. And now, to top off this farce, he was late for first period—thanks to some blithering idiot who sent him to the wrong classroom.
He entered, eyes sweeping over the room like a hawk surveying prey, searching for even a single “civilized” face. Not that he expected one to exist.