EUPHORIA

part 3

Chapter 3: The apartment

The Tower had never felt smaller.

Damian observed Raven from the edge of the common room, arms crossed, gloved hands flexing as she shifted nervously near a window. Her energy flared intermittently, a subtle tremor that made the lights flicker and the air hum. The Titans tried to ignore it, but Damian couldn’t. He had been watching since she’d arrived, counting every tremor, every anxious glance, every flinch.

The Tower was too loud, too crowded, too… unpredictable. And it was making her dangerous.

“Enough.” His voice cut through the murmurs of the other Titans like a blade. Everyone froze. Raven’s head turned slowly toward him, eyes wide, still glowing faintly in the dim light. She said nothing.

He stepped forward, long strides deliberate. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?” she asked cautiously, voice small, calm.

“Somewhere quieter. Somewhere I can control the environment. The Tower is… too much for you,” he said flatly. “You can’t function here. You’re a liability — to yourself and to everyone else.”

She looked down, fingers tightening slightly at her sides. “A liability?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re not ready to be around a dozen people who don’t understand you. And I won’t let anyone get hurt because of your… fluctuations.” His eyes flicked to the faint violet shimmer still radiating from her hands. “Not when I can prevent it.”

Raven remained silent. She didn’t protest. Not before, not now. Damian noted that — compliance without trust. Useful, for now.

“Your room in the Tower,” he continued, “is too open. Too many variables. Too much stimulus. I’ll take you somewhere controlled. You’ll stay there until I decide otherwise.”

Her brow furrowed. “And the others?”

“They’ll manage without you,” Damian said shortly. “Your presence here doesn’t serve them. Or you.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He led her through the Tower’s corridors, silent and precise. Every step measured. Every sound accounted for. She followed quietly, head lowered, trailing the slightest distance behind him — close enough to comply, far enough to be cautious.

The drive was silent. Damian didn’t ask questions. Raven didn’t volunteer answers. Her aura pulsed faintly with residual energy, and he adjusted the air circulation and temperature in the car to minimize it. He watched her out of the corner of his eye — vigilant, calculating. When she flinched slightly as a headlight swept across the car, he hesitated for the briefest moment, reaching instinctively to shade her with his sleeve. He pulled back instantly, as if embarrassed by the motion, and continued driving without comment.

The apartment building loomed in front of them. Damian parked on the top level, cut the engine, and stepped out. Raven followed, silent, shoulders tight, eyes scanning every shadow. Damian noted it — awareness, vigilance, discipline. Useful.

Inside, the apartment was stark, functional. Books lined one wall. A small kitchen occupied a corner. The living area was bare except for a sofa and a low table. A single painting leaned against the wall, a landscape he had never hung because he didn’t want distractions.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward a chair by the window. She complied, posture rigid, defensive. Damian briefly adjusted the cushion, straightening it where it had creased — not because he wanted her comfort, exactly, but because the slight misalignment had caught his eye. She noticed, but didn’t comment.

“I’ll set rules,” he said, pacing once across the room, gloved fingers brushing along the back of the sofa. “You stay here unless I allow otherwise. You don’t touch anything you don’t need. You don’t let your energy flare. You don’t invite chaos. Understand?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Good.” He paused, glancing at her hands. The violet glow had dimmed slightly, but he could still sense it coiling beneath the surface. “You’ll stay alive longer if you follow them.”

She remained silent, shoulders squared. Damian studied her for a long moment, noting the tension in her frame. Not trust. Not compliance out of fear. Just… awareness. The kind of awareness that kept people alive. That made her… predictable.

He turned to the window, staring at the city below. Rain streaked the glass, painting the streets in blur and shadow. The hum of the city was muted here. Controlled. Predictable. Safe.

“You’ll stay here,” he repeated, voice flat. “I’ll monitor you. I’ll provide what you need. You don’t leave. And if you break the rules…” His hand moved briefly to the hilt of his sword, a reminder of consequences. “…you’ll regret it.”

She remained silent, shoulders squared, but her gaze flicked toward him. Damian didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t need to. But for a fraction of a second, he noted the slight shiver that ran through her frame and adjusted the thermostat slightly, keeping the air cooler where her energy had been flickering most. He didn’t admit it. He didn’t speak. But the gesture lingered in the space between them, almost imperceptible.

Hours later, Raven sat near the window, head tilted toward the falling rain. Damian remained at the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t speak. He simply observed, noting the tremors, the faint glow from her hands, the tension in her posture.

He didn’t trust her. Not yet. But he had moved her out of the Tower — removed her from the chaos that might break her, or break someone else. That was enough. For now.