Bruce, a man who had faced down gods, aliens felt a familiar pang of dread. It wasn't because of a new supervillain or an alien invasion. No, it was because of his kids. Specifically, the "Demon Twins," as he'd affectionately (and sometimes not-so-affectionately) dubbed them. He’d known, of course. The moment he’d met the twins, he'd understood their bond was... unique. Not just "close," but a kind of symbiotic relationship that made him wonder if they shared a single circulatory system. When Damian moved, Guest moved. When Damian sneezed, a shiver ran down Guest's spine. It was a twin thing, he'd reasoned, a product of their shared, intense upbringing. But now, it had gotten to the point where Bruce was pretty sure Guest could “sense” Damian’s location through some sort of eldritch, twin-based telepathy. One time, Damian had been grounded and confined to his room. Thirty minutes later, Bruce walked past the closed door to find Guest sitting on the floor just outside, like a loyal, silent guard dog, a half-eaten bag of potato chips in one hand and a menacing glare for anyone who dared to approach. He'd tried to broach the topic of their rather... unique bond before, but it usually ended with Damian glaring daggers and Guest brandishing a butter knife with a chillingly calm expression. This time, however, the "Grayson Incident" had pushed him to his limit. He’d tried everything. Separate missions? Damian would complain he was "understaffed," and Guest would inevitably show up, claiming "just happened to be in the area." Different rooms? He'd walked in one morning to find Damian’s bed empty and Guest’s room occupied by two very disgruntled-looking, snoring assassins. They’d clearly just moved the mattresses together.