The following morning, New York.
The first rays of golden light pierced the Manhattan skyline, draping the glass curtain walls in a fiery cloak.
The surface of the Hudson River shimmered like molten gold, and the ferry cut through the rippling waves, startling a flock of white pigeons scavenging for crumbs in the square.
The warm aroma of coffee and bagels drifted from a street-corner food truck. The giant screen in Times Square hadn't yet lit up, and only cleaning crews were quietly washing away the traces of last night's revelry.
After locking up his brand-new, used bicycle, Damian walked toward the gates of Midtown High School with the weary expression of someone who believed, "I don't need to amount to anything—just surviving another day is victory enough."
Before he even reached the classroom door, he could already hear Flash Thompson's signature booming voice echoing from inside:
"From today on, I'm the man at Midtown High! As for that Z? Total coward—doesn't even dare show his face! One little move from me, and he was already—"
Damian pushed the door open, expressionless.
The noisy classroom fell dead silent. Every student turned to look at Flash—now standing on the podium—with a mix of pity and anticipation.
Oblivious, Flash kept ranting, spit flying:
"—I hit him with a right roundhouse and a left front kick till he was on his knees begging for mercy! Showed him who really runs this place—"
Damian quietly walked up behind him and tapped his back with one finger.
Flash, mid-boast, whirled around impatiently. "You wanna try my—?"
The words died in his throat.
His face went from smug to stark terror—as if he'd just seen a ghost.
Damian yawned lazily, half-lidded eyes fixed on him. "Sorry," he said casually, "I didn't catch that. Could you repeat it?"
The classroom tensed. A few students bit their lips to stifle laughter; others exchanged knowing smirks. Flash's face flushed crimson, then drained pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"I… I was just—"
He swallowed hard, then, under the weight of dozens of mocking stares, suddenly blurted:
"I'm telling you, you spineless coward! You damn East Asian—"
Before he could finish, Damian's eyes snapped sharp.
In one fluid motion, he seized Flash's right wrist with his left hand, yanked him forward, and swept his ankle with his right foot.
"Huh—?"
Flash barely had time to register his loss of balance before Damian changed tactics—releasing his wrist and driving his right elbow like a striking viper into the nerve cluster under Flash's armpit.
"Ah—!"
As Flash stiffened in pain, Damian dropped low, surged forward, and slammed his shoulder into Flash's gut—executing a textbook seoi nage that sent the burly rugby player crashing onto the floor with a thunderous BANG!
The classroom shook.
Damian dropped a knee onto Flash's chest. His right hand shot out, seized Flash's jaw, and twisted upward with surgical precision.
There was a soft click. Flash's mouth fell open—but all that came out was a hoarse wheeze.
Damian stood, brushing imaginary dust from his palms, his voice icy:
"You never learn, do you, Flash? You know I hate racists—and I especially hate racists who try that crap to my face."
"What's wrong? Do you have a death wish?"
"Go to the clinic. Get your jaw reset. While you're at it, get your mouth scrubbed clean. If I ever hear you spew that garbage again, I'll shove a whole bar of soap down your throat and make you swallow it."
He paused, then added with a shrug:
"Not that it's my job to raise you. I'm not your dad. Now get out. Now."
With that, Damian strolled to his seat and slumped into it like a boneless ragdoll.
The room remained frozen in silence, every eye locked on Flash, writhing on the floor.
Finally, one of Flash's lackeys snapped out of it, motioning for a few others to haul their groaning leader up and drag him toward the infirmary.
Just as they were shuffling out, Peter Parker walked in—blinking in confusion.
He glanced at Damian, slouched like an invertebrate, then at the retreating group, and asked with genuine curiosity:
"Hey… what happened to Flash? You look like you just had a circumcision."
Damian shifted, found a more comfortable angle, and drawled:
"Oh, nothing serious. During our bilateral exchange, we failed to reach full consensus due to irreconcilable differences in positioning, resulting in some… unconstructive physical engagement."
He sighed dramatically.
"We deeply regret the escalation in communication methods. However, we remain committed to resolving disputes through dialogue."
He turned to Peter with a deadpan stare.
"Don't make me beg you, Shakespeare."
Then, in a flat tone:
"That idiot was spewing racism, so I beat him up. If he tries it again, I'll make him scrambled eggs—with his own eggs."
He glanced around. "Where's Gwen? Weren't you two walking together?"
At that, Peter's face fell. He slumped into the seat next to Damian with equal lethargy.
"Don't even get me started. Ever since those new vigilantes—Mr. Night Owl and Princess Night—started showing up, crime's dropped like a rock. Uncle George isn't working overtime anymore, so now he's got time to personally chauffeur Gwen to and from school."
He groaned.
"Uncle George has only barely accepted that I'm a primate. At this point, Australopithecus looks better groomed than me. How am I supposed to win his approval?"
Damian shook his head slowly, eyes brimming with theatrical sympathy. A sad, wistful smile tugged at his lips.
"…Hehehe."
Peter's eye twitched. "Why are you laughing?!"
Then he caught himself.
Wait. This idiot doesn't even have female friends. His closest interaction with a woman is the convenience store clerk downstairs—who's not only proudly LGBT, but has more chest hair than scalp hair!
How could he possibly understand relationship problems?
Peter sighed in sudden, ironic relief—feeling oddly enlightened.
Just then, Gwen Stacy walked in, ar
ms crossed, expression stormy.
The moment Peter saw her, he shot up like a spring and bounded over, all gloom forgotten.
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.