Chapter Text
Damia arrived at school early. She arrived earlier than necessary, earlier than most of the staff. The building was still quiet, the hallways empty except for a few custodians finishing their morning routines and the occasional teacher unlocking their classroom.
She walked with her head down, hair tucked behind her ears. It was a habit she was still adjusting to, the short strands feeling wrong every time her fingers found them. Her hands were tight fists in her coat pockets. Not from cold but from tension, from the knowledge of what waited for her later today.
Another session with Colt. Another performance. Another reminder of exactly who owned her. She tried not to think about it. Instead, she tried to focus on the simple mechanics of walking. Left foot, right foot, breathe, repeat. But her mind kept circling back anyway. To his office. To the amber lamplight. To the way he'd touched her hair yesterday and said she'd been beautiful before.
Past tense. Conditional. Contingent on her obedience.
She forced the thoughts down and kept walking.
"Damia?"
The voice came from behind her. Her entire body went rigid. She stopped walking, her shoulders drawing up, her breath catching in her chest.
He found me already. It's too early. I'm not ready.
But when she turned, slowly, carefully, preparing herself–
It wasn't Colt. It was Dupain-Cheng, jogging toward her with his backpack bouncing, his expression bright and open and completely unthreatening. He was smiling. Genuinely. No agenda written in the curve of his lips. No sharp edges hidden behind his eyes. He just carried a smile that looked like it existed for its own sake.
"Hey!" Dupain-Cheng exclaimed, slightly breathless from jogging. "I hoped I'd catch you early. I wanted to ask–"
He stopped, seemed to notice her posture. The way she was still tense, still braced for impact, still not quite believing he wasn't a threat. His smile softened.
"Je suis désolé," he muttered, switching to French without thinking. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just– I was hoping you might have time to give me another tour? I know I got one yesterday, but I forgot literally everything the moment they left me in that classroom. I got lost three times trying to find the bathroom."
His cheeks went pink with embarrassment.
"I know that makes me sound incompetent. I promise I'm usually better at, you know, basic navigation. But this place is huge and everything looks the same and I'm terrible with directions even in Paris and–"
He stopped himself, laughing slightly.
"Sorry. Rambling again. You probably have things to do. I shouldn't–"
"It is fine," Damia heard herself say. The words came out quiet. Without proper consideration. But true nonetheless. She didn't have anything to do. Not until later. Not until the inevitable. And spending time with Dupain-Cheng, with his nervous rambling and genuine embarrassment and complete lack of ulterior motive, that felt safer than being alone with her thoughts.
Dupain-Cheng's face brightened. "Really? You don't mind?"
She shook her head.
"Okay. Great. Thank you. You're seriously saving my life. I was about to start leaving breadcrumb trails."
They started walking, Damia leading him through the empty hallways while morning light filtered through tall windows.
"So this is the math wing," she supplied quietly, gesturing to the corridor they were passing. "Mrs. Chen teaches Algebra II in that room, Mr. Patterson has Calculus there, and–"
"Wait, which one is which?" Dupain-Cheng interrupted, but not rudely. Just genuinely lost. "They all look the same."
"Room numbers," Damia said, pointing. "Math is all 200s."
"Oh. That's... actually really simple. Why didn't anyone tell me that yesterday?"
"They probably did."
Dupain-Cheng laughed. "Yeah. You're probably right. I have a terrible habit of not listening when I'm nervous. My maman says I hear about thirty percent of what people tell me the first time."
There it was again. That casual mention of his mother, spoken with such easy affection. Like having a mother who cared about him was normal. Expected. Not something rare and precious.
They continued the tour, venturing towards the science wing, language arts, the cafeteria (which Dupain-Cheng claimed looked like a castle), the gym, the auditorium. Dupain-Cheng asked questions that weren't intrusive. He asked about class schedules, about where to buy lunch, about whether the library had a good selection. Nothing personal. Nothing that required her to explain herself or defend herself or pretend to be okay. Just practical questions from someone who genuinely needed help.
And Damia answered. Because he didn't expect anything from her except basic information. Because he laughed at himself when he forgot something she'd just told him. Because for these brief moments, walking through empty hallways before the school filled with noise and people and judgment–
She almost felt normal. Not happy. Not safe. But normal. Like a girl helping a classmate find his way around. Nothing more. Nothing less.
They ended up outside what Dupain-Cheng said was his first period classroom: European History with Mr. Kaufman.
"This is it," Damia said, stopping at the door. "You should be fine from here."
"Yeah." Dupain-Cheng adjusted his backpack, that shy smile returning. "Thank you. Really. I know I already said that like five times, but I mean it. You didn't have to do this."
"It is fine," Damia repeated.
Dupain-Cheng reached into his backpack, rummaging around with increasing focus. "Oh! Before I forget–"
He pulled out a small box. A bakery box, by the look of it. Cream-coloured cardboard tied with a delicate lavender ribbon. Not one she recognised
"Um," Dupain-Cheng said, and his cheeks went pink again. "This is for you. For being my welcome buddy. My maman always says you should thank people who help you, and I didn't really have anything else, so I rushed to make these after school yesterday. They’re my papa’s recipe and–"
He stopped, seeming to realise he was rambling again.
"Anyway. Here. Thank you."
He held out the box. Damia stared at it.
A gift. He was giving her a gift. Not because he wanted something. Not because it came with strings. Not because accepting it meant owing him. He was giving her a gift just because she'd helped him.
She took the box with careful hands. It was light. Delicate. The ribbon was soft under her fingers.
"I hope you like macarons," Dupain-Cheng murmured, his voice uncertain now. "If you don't, that's okay. I can–"
"Thank you," Damia managed. Her voice came out smaller than intended. But sincere. Dupain-Cheng's smile brightened again.
"Bon. Good. I'll– I'll see you around?"
She nodded. He gave her one more smile, then glanced at the classroom.
"I should probably– the teacher might show up soon and I don't want to look like I'm just standing around." He gave her an awkward little wave and headed into the empty classroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Damia stood in the hallway, holding a bakery box tied with ribbon, feeling something she couldn't quite name. She stood there for a moment longer. Then carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside were six macarons, pastel colours arranged in perfect rows.
Pink. Lavender. Pale yellow. Mint green. Soft blue. Cream.
They were delicate, beautiful even. Nothing at all like in her world right now. Nothing like the amber lamplight and harsh corrections and hands that took without asking. Nothing like the necklace she couldn't remove and the sessions she couldn't escape and the future she couldn't change. These were just... sweet. Simple. Given freely.
She closed the box carefully and held it against her chest.
"Thank you," she whispered again to the empty hallway.
And for a moment, just a moment, she almost smiled. She turned to leave, taking a few steps toward her own first period class when she realised she'd left her water bottle on the floor near Dupain-Cheng's classroom door. She'd set it down when he'd given her the box. Damia walked back, her footsteps quiet on the polished floor.
As she approached, she heard it. Dupain-Cheng's voice. Soft. French. Coming from inside the classroom through the partially open door.
"Tikki, ça me rend nerveux. En es-tu sûr?--"
Tikki, this makes me nervous. Are you sure–
Damia froze.
She looked at the door. Then looked at the hallway around her. Still empty. No one was there. No one else had entered the classroom. No other student. No teacher yet.
Just Dupain-Cheng. Talking to someone named... Tikki? Someone who wasn't there.
She bent down slowly, reaching for her water bottle near the doorframe, her movements careful not to make sound. And as her fingers closed around the metal bottle, she heard something else.
A small voice. High-pitched. Feminine. Definitely not Dupain-Cheng's. Coming from inside the classroom.
“-- t'entendre depuis là-bas. Mais Marin, tu devrais faire plus attention. Et si–”
…hear you from out there. But Marin, you should be more careful. What if…
The voice cut off abruptly. Then Dupain-Cheng's voice, barely a whisper: "Merde. Tu crois qu'elle a entendu?"
Do you think she heard?
Footsteps approached the door rapidly. Damia straightened, water bottle in hand, just as Dupain-Cheng appeared in the doorway. His eyes went wide when he saw her. Not startled-wide. Panicked-wide. Caught-wide.
"I–" He stopped, swallowed hard. His hand moved to his jacket, pressing against something in his pocket. "Did you– were you–"
He couldn't finish the question, couldn't commit to any one excuse. His gaze wouldn't meet hers. His hands were shaking slightly. His face had gone pale.
"Just talking to myself.” He tried again, very unconvincingly. “I do that sometimes. When I'm nervous. Which is stupid, I know, but–"
He was lying. Damia could tell. Not because she was trained to read people (though she was) but because she recognised the shape of a lie. The desperate way it sat in someone's throat. The way their eyes wouldn't quite focus. The way their body held itself too carefully.
The warmth that had been building in her chest shut down instantly. Her walls, the ones that had lowered fractionally during their tour, slammed back up with brutal efficiency.
He was lying.
Which meant he had secrets. Which meant she couldn't trust him. Which meant this was all, what? Some kind of setup? Some kind of trick?
She didn't know. But she knew better than to trust people who lied about who they were talking to.
"Right," she quipped, her voice flat now. Empty. "Talking to yourself." She turned and walked away quickly.
Before he could say anything else. Before she could make the mistake of believing him. Behind her, she heard Dupain-Cheng start to say something.
"Damia, wait–"
But she didn't wait. She just kept walking until she'd put enough hallway between them that his voice couldn't reach her anymore. The distance grew. The warmth died.
And the bakery box in her hands suddenly felt heavier.
Between second and third period, Damia found an empty corner near the language arts wing.
She sat on the floor with her back against the wall, her knees pulled up, the bakery box balanced on her lap. She should throw it away. She should get rid of anything associated with someone who lied to her. But her hands opened the box anyway.
She stared at the macarons. Still perfect. Still delicate. Still beautiful despite everything.
She picked up the pink one, brought it to her lips, and bit down. It dissolved instantly. It was soft, sweet, impossibly light. Raspberry, she thought. Or maybe rose. Something floral and gentle that melted on her tongue without requiring effort. A food she didn't have to earn. A sweetness not tied to punishment or reward. A gift that asked for nothing in return.
The taste of it made her throat tighten, made her eyes burn, made something inside her chest crack in a way that felt dangerously close to breaking. She set the box down carefully and pressed her hands over her face. She let out a shaky breath.
Do not cry.
You do not cry.
Not over a macaron, of all things.
But it wasn't about the macaron. It was about what it represented; kindness without conditions, generosity without expectation, someone seeing her and thinking she deserved something sweet.
She held the box tightly in both hand, closed the lid, and kept it, even though she shouldn't. Even though he'd lied. Even though trusting anyone was dangerous.
She kept it.
Lunch found her in the library again. Her corner. Her refuge. The table tucked between tall shelves where she could see the entrance but couldn't be easily spotted. She had her notebook open in front of her. The one Colt had given her, with her name embossed on the spine.
But she wasn't writing. She wasn’t drawing. She was just staring through the page like it might reveal answers she desperately needed.
Footsteps approached. Hesitant. Uncertain.
She looked up. Dupain-Cheng stood a few feet away, his expression caught between hopeful and terrified.
"Oh–" He stopped immediately when he saw her. An air of awkwardness around him lingered from earlier that morning. "Sorry! I didn't mean to bother you. I was just looking for– I'll go. Sorry."
He started to turn. Damia closed the notebook, fast. Her movement was protective, panicked. Her hand pressed flat against the cover like she could hide what was inside through sheer force of will.
Dupain-Cheng noticed. His eyes widened slightly.
"I'm not trying to look at anything," he said quickly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I promise. I just– I didn't know anyone else came here during lunch and I didn't mean to intrude."
Silence stretched between them. Damia's fingers stayed pressed against the notebook. Her walls stayed up. Her trust stayed locked behind layers of self-preservation.
Dupain-Cheng shifted his weight, clearly debating whether to leave or try again.
He chose to try again.
"Do you..." He gestured carefully toward the notebook. "Do you draw? I only ask because I noticed you had good sketch supplies and I– I draw too. Fashion stuff mostly. It's kind of my thing."
He pulled out his own notebook. Smaller than hers. It was more worn, clearly used frequently. Pink, with a cursive M. Dupain-Cheng undid the metal lock and opened it to a random page and turned it so she could see.
A dress. Rendered in careful pencil lines with shading that gave it dimension. The design was elaborate with flowing fabric, intricate details at the neckline, a silhouette that suggested movement.
It was good. Really good. The kind of good that came from practice and passion and genuine talent.
Damia blinked. She hadn't expected that. She hadn’t expected him to be skilled at something, nor did she expect to care.
Dupain-Cheng flipped through more pages, showing her different designs. Some dresses, suits, casual wear. Each one rendered with the same careful attention.
"I want to be a fashion designer," he murmured, his voice soft with something that might have been embarrassment or might have been vulnerability. "My parents are on board thankfully. My papa especially, he always looks for fabric stores on my behalf. It started as a hobby but I do really love it. The way fabric moves, the way colours interact, the way you can make someone feel powerful just by what they're wearing."
He looked up at her. "Is that stupid?"
Damia shook her head slowly. "No." The word came out quiet but firm. Because it wasn't stupid. She understood wanting something that other people didn't value. His drawings were beautiful and she could see the care in every line.
Dupain-Cheng's expression softened with relief. "Can I–" He hesitated. "Can I sit? I won't look at your notebook or anything. I just... it's nice to be around someone who gets it. The drawing thing."
Damia considered. In her head she weighed the risks, measured the danger. Then moved her bag slightly to make room at the table. Dupain-Cheng sat across from her, careful to maintain distance, his own notebook open in front of him. He started sketching something new, his pencil moving with practiced confidence.
And Damia–
Damia watched him for a moment. The way he chewed on his pencil cap when he was thinking. The way his shoulders slumped in concentration. The way small lines appeared between his brows when he was working on something difficult.
The way he looked... safe. Unthreatening. Normal.
Her hand moved before she fully decided to do it. Opened her notebook to a fresh page. Picked up her pencil. Began drawing. Not mindlessly. Not as therapy. But with purpose. Intent.
She drew Dupain-Cheng. His posture first. The slump of his shoulders, the angle of his head, the way he held his pencil. Then his face. The softness in his profile, the concentration lines, the slight part of his lips as he focused.
She drew fast. Almost compulsively. Her hand moving with the kind of precision that came from League training but the kind of freedom that came from not being watched. Something inside her loosened while she worked. Like a knot being worked at until one thread finally gave.
She drew until the lines captured him. Until the sketch looked alive. Until she'd put something real on paper that wasn't pain or fear or evidence of her destruction.
When she finished, she stared at it for a long moment. Then looked at Dupain-Cheng. He was still drawing, completely absorbed in his own work.
"May I show you something?" Damia heard herself ask. Her voice was quiet and uncertain, but sincere.
Dupain-Cheng looked up, surprised. "Of course."
She hesitated. This felt dangerous somehow. Exposing. But she turned the notebook around anyway. Pushed it across the table toward him.
Dupain-Cheng's eyes dropped to the page. Then widened. His jaw literally dropped.
"This–" He stopped, looking between the drawing and her face like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "This is me?"
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
"Damia. C'est incroyable. This is– I don't even– how did you–”
He seemed genuinely shocked. Genuinely moved. Not performing. Not manipulating.
"This is like..." He searched for words. "I don't know. A painting? A photograph? Like a moment in time, really. How did you get this done so quick?"
Damia's throat tightened. "I simply draw subjects I deem…" she whispered quietly. “Memorable.”
Dupain-Cheng's eyes got suspiciously bright. He pressed his hand over his mouth for a second, composing himself.
"Can I–" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Can I keep this?"
Damia looked at the drawing. She brought the notebook back to her side of the table and checked the back of the page for any writing. She checked for any journal entries, confessions, anything dangerous.
Nothing. Just blank paper.
She carefully tore it from the notebook along the perforated edge and handed it to him. Dupain-Cheng took it with trembling hands, holding it like it was something precious, fragile. Something worth protecting.
"I don't know how to thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is– my classmate Nathaniel drew me once before, but not like this. Not like I'm..." He trailed off. But Damia understood what he meant. Not like he was worth seeing. Worth capturing. Worth remembering.
She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "It is just a sketch."
"It's not just a sketch," Dupain-Cheng argued firmly. "It's– it's art. You're an artist. Does your family know? Do they see your work?"
Damia's hands curled into fists under the table. "I choose not to show them." The sentence landed sharper than she intended. Dupain-Cheng heard the weight in it anyway.
"Oh," he breathed softly. "I'm sorry."
He carefully folded the drawing and tucked it into his notebook.
"Thank you," he whispered again, choosing not to press her. "For seeing me. For– for making me feel real."
Inside Damia's chest, something very small and very fragile warmed. Not hope. Not trust. But something adjacent. Something that whispered maybe this person was safe.
The bell rang, shattering the moment. Lunch was over. Dupain-Cheng gathered his things quickly.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, that shy smile returning. "We could both draw? Or just– I don't know. Exist in the same space?"
Damia nodded before she could stop herself.
"Okay. Good. Great. I'll… see you then."
He left with careful steps, clutching his notebook like it held something precious. And Damia sat alone at her table, staring at the empty space across from her, feeling the ghost of connection lingering in the air.
The rest of the day passed in that strange, suspended way time had of moving when she was dreading something inevitable. Too fast and too slow simultaneously. Each class bringing her closer to the final bell. Each minute dragging her toward the moment she'd have to face Colt again.
When the bell finally rang at 2:47, she considered running. Just walking out the main entrance and not stopping until she reached the manor. But running had consequences. Running made things worse. So she went through the motions of gathering her things, of walking toward the exit with the flow of students, of pretending everything was normal.
Dupain-Cheng fell into step beside her as she reached the main hallway. Not close. Not touching. Just companionably. "How was your afternoon?" he asked in French, that easy conversational tone that suggested he'd decided they were friends now.
"Fine," Damia stated.
"Liar," Dupain-Cheng teased, but gently. "You have the same look I get when I'm dreading something. What is it? Test? Project? Social obligation?"
He was reading her. Not perfectly, nor completely, but accurately enough that her walls tried to rise again.
"Nothing," she said.
"Okay. Fair enough." He didn't push. "Want to talk about literally anything else? I can tell you about how I nearly set my kitchen on fire trying to make crème brûlée last month. Very dramatic. Lots of smoke."
He kept talking, filling the silence with stories that didn't require her participation. About Paris. About his parent's bakery. About French slang that didn't translate. About how weird Gotham's weather was compared to home. About the cafeteria food and whether it qualified as actual food or some kind of punishment. Easy things. Safe things. Things that let her exist beside him without having to be anything except present. And for those few minutes, walking through the hallway toward the exit, listening to Dupain-Cheng's gentle rambling, irt was the closest Damia had come to feeling normal since everything started falling apart.
Not happy. Not safe. But normal. Like a normal girl walking with a friend. Nothing more complicated than that.
They reached the gate. Dupain-Cheng lifted his hand in a small wave. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow? Library at lunch?"
Damia nodded and started to turn away. Then she saw him.
Colt. Standing near the staff parking area, partially obscured by a row of teachers saying goodbye to students. But visible enough. And watching. His expression was wrong. Pleasant on the surface, that gentle smile he always wore, the professional demeanor that made everyone trust him. But his eyes...
His eyes were cold. Calculating. Not smiling at all. He was watching them. Watching her. Watching her with Dupain-Cheng. And he didn't like what he saw.
Colt stepped forward, moving through the crowd with practiced ease.
Dupain-Cheng noticed him approaching and tensed, some instinct recognising threat even if he couldn't articulate why.
"Damia," Colt greeted, his voice carrying that soft, reasonable tone. "I was looking for you. We have unfinished work from yesterday."
He didn't look at Dupain-Cheng. Not once. Didn't acknowledge him. Didn't greet him. Just acted like the boy standing three feet away didn't exist. But his hand settled on Damia's shoulder. Possessive, claiming, cold even through the fabric of her uniform.
Dupain-Cheng's brows furrowed. He looked between Damia and Colt, clearly confused by the dynamic. By the way Colt touched her. By the way Damia went rigid under that touch. By the wrongness of it that he couldn't quite name but definitely felt.
"I–" Dupain-Cheng started.
"You must be the new exchange student," Colt interrupted smoothly, finally looking at him. "Marin, correct? I'm Mr. Colthart, the guidance counselor. If you need anything, my door is always open."
The words were welcoming. The tone was a warning.
Dupain-Cheng's expression shifted into something uncertain. Something that suggested he'd heard the real message under the polite words.
"Come along, Damia," Colt said, his hand on her shoulder tightening fractionally. "We shouldn't keep your work waiting."
He guided her back toward the building. Not forcefully. Not obviously wrong. But claiming. Demonstrating ownership to anyone watching. Damia went silently. Obediently. Because resisting in public was impossible. Because making a scene had consequences. Because she'd learned that fighting only made things worse. She glanced back once.
Dupain-Cheng stood frozen at the gate, watching them disappear into the building. His face was pale. His eyes wide with something that looked like recognition. Not of what was happening exactly, but of the wrongness. Something small and red peeked out of his jacket pocket. Too small for Damia to see clearly from this distance.
But Dupain-Cheng looked down at it and whispered something she couldn't hear.
Colt's office was exactly as she'd left it yesterday. Amber lamplight. Half-drawn blinds. The chair beside his desk that had become her prison.
He closed the door behind them. Not locking it. Locking it was too obvious, too risky. But closed was enough. Closed meant private. Closed meant no one would interrupt. Closed meant she was his again.
"Sit," Colt commanded.
And Damia–
Damia sat.
Because she had no choice. Because tomorrow there would be another session. Because the cage had closed and she still didn't know how to escape.
The door clicked shut.