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Everyone at Gotham University already knew who Damian Wayne was. Not personally, of course, but in the way people knew public figures—the way you recognized a face from a screen and filled in the rest with assumptions. He had been on television since he was nine years old. Keeping Up With the Waynes had been running long enough that most students had at least seen clips, even if they didn’t follow the show themselves. Most of them had seen the first time he met his father live in 4K. They had seen gala entrances, charity events, or the occasional interview segment where one of the Wayne children said something clever enough to circulate online for a week. And if they hadn’t watched the show, they had definitely seen the memes.
There was the one from when he was ten, staring across a chessboard at someone off-camera and saying, with devastating calm, “Your strategy is sub-par.” That one circulated every exam season. Then there was the other one, the big one, Damian at eleven, grass in his hair and irritation written across his face after being tackled during what had clearly been an on-camera argument with Jon Kent. “You tackle poorly.” That one showed up in sports threads often enough that people who had never watched the show still recognized the kid in the clip.
Occasionally, someone would even do one of those “where is that meme kid now” videos, and the answer, increasingly, was a photo of a nineteen-year-old Damian Wayne walking into a gala or standing beside Bruce Wayne at a charity event. The comment section response to those posts was remarkably consistent. Damn. He got hot.
All of this meant that before he ever set foot in a lecture hall, the campus already had a working theory of him. The theory went something like this: He was extremely rich. He was extremely intelligent. And he was probably a little terrifying.
The intelligence part, at least, was not speculation. During his senior year of high school, Damian Wayne had published a series of peer-reviewed articles that circulated through several departments at Gotham University before he had even applied. Astronomy. Computational modeling. Physics. Historical reconstruction simulations. Work that most graduate students would have spent years developing. People, grad students and professors mostly, had read them; some undergrads had at least attempted to. By the time he actually enrolled, screenshots of the citations had already moved through more than one department group chat.
There were other things people thought they knew about him, too. They had seen him argue with his siblings on television. They had seen him exchange sharp, rapid-fire comments with Bruce Wayne that somehow passed for normal conversation in that house. And if they had watched the show long enough, they had probably also seen Jon Kent somewhere nearby, the two of them occasionally devolving into the kind of chaos that only seemed to happen when cameras were present.
But most of the time, the show framed Damian Wayne the same way the public already tended to think of him, the aloof, focused, intense Wayne prodigy. So when the fall semester started, and people began noticing Damian Wayne walking across campus again, the reaction wasn’t exactly surprise. It was recognition. Someone would glance up from their laptop, pause for a moment, and say quietly to the person next to them, “That’s him.”
And the other person would look over, nod once, and say, “Mmm…yeah…okay sure.”
Because the Wayne kid had returned to campus and everyone already knew exactly what to expect.
Or at least, they thought they did.
*****
The first time most people actually saw Damian Wayne in person, it usually happened in places that were almost aggressively ordinary, like lecture halls, campus walkways, or the line outside a coffee shop that insisted on calling itself an espresso bar. He did not arrive with security, cameras, or any of the other things people half-expected from someone who had grown up on television. He just… showed up. Usually early, usually alone, and almost always already doing something.
The first real moment that people laid eyes on him tended to go the same way…every time. Someone would look up from their laptop or notebook and notice him entering the room. There would be a pause. Then the quiet whisper to whoever happened to be sitting nearby, “Pretty sure that’s him.”
The other person would glance over, expecting something dramatic. Someone louder. Someone who seemed more aware of being watched. Instead, they would see a tall, dark-haired nineteen-year-old moving through the room with an ease that suggested he had already mapped it out. He moved with a precise, controlled posture, a smooth grace, and a quiet focus that made it seem as if the rest of the room existed just outside his attention.
He would sit down, open a notebook, check something on his phone, and begin reviewing the material for the day’s lecture. And somewhere in the middle of that sequence, the second realization would land, usually lagging behind the first by a few seconds.
The first realization was normal, just simply, Oh, so that’s Damian Wayne. The second one was more complicated because television had prepared people to find him intimidating. It had prepared them for sharp comments and the particular brand of dry, cutting humor that had made several of his KUWTW clips circulate for years. What television had not prepared anyone for was the in-person reality that Damian Wayne had grown up into something that looked suspiciously like the lead of a very expensive drama series. The kind where the protagonist rarely smiled and still somehow dominated every scene.
Someone would stare for a moment longer than they meant to. Then they would look back at their friend and whisper, slightly stunned, “…wait.” A beat. “Is he—”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “…wow.”
By the end of the first week of classes, this conversation had happened often enough across campus that it became something like an unspoken understanding. Damian Wayne was exactly what people expected him to be. He was a prodigy and intimidating…he was just also, somewhat inconveniently, distractingly, and devastatingly hot.
And, judging by the way he never reacted to the attention, completely uninterested in the fact.
*****
After the first few weeks of the semester, people began to notice a pattern.
Damian Wayne was almost always looking at his phone and ignoring the rest of the world around him as if it couldn’t quite compete with whatever task was keeping him so engrossed. It wasn’t like it was constant…exactly, but it was often enough that it became one of the small details students associated with him. If someone spotted him crossing the quad or walking between buildings, there was a good chance he would be glancing down at the screen for a few seconds before continuing on his way. Which, given everything else people knew about him, invited speculation.
“He’s probably reviewing something,” someone suggested once while watching him cross the courtyard outside the science building.
“Like research?” another student asked.
“Or case studies,” a third added. “Pre-med stuff.”
That explanation seemed reasonable. Damian Wayne had already published papers circulating through the department. It made sense that someone like him would be using every spare moment to read something complicated.
Occasionally, someone suggested something even more dramatic, “Maybe it’s Wayne Enterprises,” someone else said. “Like corporate stuff.” That theory lasted about three days before someone pointed out that Bruce Wayne had an entire executive board, and like several other kids for that. Still, the general assumption remained the same. If Damian Wayne was looking at his phone, it was probably because he was doing something important.
The reality was slightly less impressive. Damian crossed the quad one afternoon with the same focused expression he usually wore while walking between buildings. His phone vibrated. He glanced down at the screen.
Jon: Did you sleep?
Damian continued walking.
Damian: Yes.
Three seconds passed.
Jon: How many hours?
Damian typed a reply while approaching the steps of the chemistry building.
Damian: An acceptable number.
Jon: That was not a real answer.
The typing bubble appeared immediately after that message posted, but Damian locked the phone before the next message arrived and slipped it back into his pocket as he pushed open the door.
As he enters the building, he passes by two students idling outside waiting for their class to start. One of them nudges the other, “What do you think he’s always doing on his phone?” one of them wondered aloud.
“Who?”
“Wayne.” The first student nods in the direction he disappeared to.
The other student shrugs, then thinks for a moment before responding, “Who knows, maybe talking to someone important like an agent or a research committee?”
That seemed like the most logical explanation.
*****
The next shift in the campus narrative happened the way most academic reputations do. In class.
More specifically, in a class, Damian Wayne had no obvious reason to be taking. It was an upper-division seminar, mostly juniors and seniors, the kind of course that required two prerequisites and a professor willing to personally sign off on the enrollment list. Most of the students already knew each other from previous classes. The atmosphere was familiar, slightly competitive, and built around the quiet understanding that everyone in the room had already survived several years of difficult coursework. Which meant the unfamiliar face was noticeable.
Someone leaned slightly toward the student beside them and whispered, “Is that—”
“Yeah.”
Damian Wayne sat in the second row, already reviewing and editing something in a notebook while the rest of the room gradually filled.
The professor started class the way they usually did, by posing a thought-provoking question to the room. It wasn’t a trick question, exactly, but it was the sort of thing that usually took a few minutes of discussion before someone attempted an answer. A short silence followed as students glanced down and sifted through their notes. The silence stretched on and a creak sounded as someone shifted in their chair.
Then Damian spoke in an even, precise, authoritative tone that commanded the room. He outlined the problem, referenced two competing models, and explained, briefly and with a level of clarity that suggested he had already spent time thinking about it, why one interpretation was mathematically cleaner than the other. When he finished, the room was quiet.
The professor blinked once. Then nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Wayne,” they said after a moment. “That’s… essentially the direction I was hoping someone would take.”
Several students turned in their seats. Not openly staring, exactly. But close enough. The rest of the discussion continued after that, but the tone of the room had shifted slightly. Nobody questioned why he was in the room, even internally after that.
It wasn’t until later that afternoon that someone in the cohort finally did the obvious thing and looked him up. This time not just searching for arbitrary celebrity news or information, but to see if there was anything on his academic prowess...and the articles appeared immediately. The breakthroughs he pioneered in astronomy, modeling, holographic and simulation projections, historical recreations, and far-space trajectory calculations. Every paper published in peer-reviewed journals and cited again and again by experts in their respective fields. All real, not just reality television hype.
Screenshots circulated through department group chats within the hour. The message attached to them was usually some variation of the same sentence. Oh, crap, he’s the real deal.
By the end of the week, the campus understanding of Damian Wayne had adjusted slightly. He was still the intimidating, inconveniently hot Wayne heir, but now there was a new addition to the list. Apparently, he was also exactly as smart, smarter perhaps even, as he had been portrayed on the show. Which, as several students quietly realized after thinking about it for a while, was maybe the most intimidating part.
*****
Eventually, someone asked the question that always came up whenever a campus developed a collective fascination with a person. It started the way these things usually did: with a group of students sitting around in that liminal space between socialization and studying. “Okay,” someone said finally, glancing up from their laptop. “Serious question.” The rest of the table looked over. “Does Damian Wayne date anyone…like is he dating, has anyone seen him dating?”
The answers, predictably, were inconsistent. “I mean… probably?” someone offered.
“He has to,” another student said. “Look at him.”
“That’s not evidence.”
Someone else leaned back in their chair, “I think he has a boyfriend or something…? Isn’t there a guy on the show?”
“What guy?”
“The one who’s always around him...the reporters’ kid…?”
A brief pause followed while several people tried to remember.
“Wait,” someone said slowly. “You mean the one he was fighting in that meme?”
“Yes. That one.”
“Jon something.”
“Jon Kent,” someone else supplied.
“That’s it.”
Another pause.
“Are they—”
“No idea,” someone said immediately.
“The show never says.”
Which was true. Keeping Up With the Waynes had been running for years, and while the public had seen Damian and Jon together often enough that the internet had formed several very strong opinions about the situation, the show itself had never confirmed anything one way or the other. They appeared together, frequently in the midst of an unserious argument about a deeply unserious topic. Occasionally, they were seen working on something side by side or showing up at the same event. And that was it. Which meant that, as far as the public record was concerned, Damian Wayne’s actual dating life remained something of a mystery.
The campus eventually settled on a general working theory. He probably had someone, but since no one could prove it, the possibility technically remained open. Every once in a while, someone decided to test that theory. One of those attempts happened outside a lecture hall late one afternoon. Damian was packing his notebook into his bag when someone approached him.
“Hey,” the student said, slightly nervous but determined. “I was wondering if you’d want to get coffee sometime?”
Damian looked up at them, seeming to consider the question for approximately one second before stating calmly and without any particular emphasis, “Thank you for your offer, but no, thank you.”
The student blinked, “Oh.”
Damian gave a small nod, finished adjusting the strap of his bag, and left the room, the entire exchange lasting less than ten seconds.
By the end of the day, three different versions of it had already circulated through group chats. The general conclusion people reached was simple. If Damian Wayne was dating someone, they were probably very lucky. And if he wasn’t…well…It seemed unlikely anyone on campus was going to be the one to change that.
*****
By the middle of the semester, Damian Wayne had settled into something that looked suspiciously like a campus myth. Not famous in the loud, disruptive way some students managed to become. Just… known. People knew which classes he took. They knew he spent a lot of time in the science buildings. They knew he sometimes disappeared in the evenings and showed up the next morning looking exactly the same as always…composed, focused, and already halfway through whatever work the rest of the class was just beginning.
They knew he walked quickly, was almost always reading or looking at his phone, and was on track to finish his degree in two years. And they knew, thanks to a series of very quiet but very consistent observations of people attempting to shoot their shots, that attempting to flirt with him was probably not going to work.
The story of Damian Wayne existed now in dozens of small pieces. Group chat screenshots. Secondhand class anecdotes. Someone’s friend who had once worked with him on a lab assignment. All of it combined into a general campus understanding. The Wayne kid was brilliant, intimidating, and hot…but in that way that seemed to read that he was deeply unconcerned about it.
One evening, a small group of students sat on the steps outside the library, watching people cross the quad on their way back to the dorms. It was a quiet night filled with soft conversations, the distant sound of someone laughing, and the occasional door opening somewhere across the courtyard. One of the students nudged the person beside them, “Hey.”
“What?”
They tilted their head slightly, “Wonder where he’s going so late? Think it’s a date?”
Across the quad, Damian Wayne crossed the courtyard with the same steady pace he always used, a backpack slung over one shoulder and his attention briefly fixed on the phone in his hand.
Their friend tilts their head watching him, “Nah, I don’t think so…looks like he just left the library or something. He’s on his phone again…could he be talking to his…boyfriend? girlfriend?”
Someone at the steps watched him for a moment, “Doubt it,” they said quietly, “Kid’s practically untouchable.”
Another student nodded and sighed, “Yeah...unfortunately.”
They watched him disappear into the darkness on the other side of the quad. None of them noticed the small message appearing on his screen as he walked.
Jon: You’re still awake.
Damian: Obviously.
Jon: Go to sleep.
Damian did not answer that one; instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking.
Behind him, on the library steps, another group of students looked up, and someone asked softly with raised brows, “That’s Damian Wayne?”
And everyone around them nodded, “Yup…that’s him.”
And everyone knew exactly what that meant…or at least, they thought they did.