Chapter Text
Damian sat on the edge of his bed on the third floor of Wayne Manor, staring at the moonlight spilling through the window. He had long since accepted the truth: America was the worst, and his father didn’t see him as family. After his first fight with Tim, Bruce had locked him away in this isolated wing, cut off from the rest of the household. But no door, no wall, could block out the voices below.
He heard everything. Every argument, every whisper. The quiet disdain in their words, the assumptions they made without ever speaking to him.
How did they have so much to say about him when they never even tried to know him?
For years, this room had been his prison. His existence was reduced to a handful of interactions—school, galas, the occasional mission. He was tolerated, not welcomed. Only Alfred spoke to him like he belonged, but even that wasn’t enough to make this place feel like home. The ghosts that roamed the manor were more comforting than his own blood.
It hadn’t always been this way. Once, there had been Jon—his one real friend. But then Jon returned, older and different, and suddenly Damian was just another problem to leave behind. To make things worse, Jon had joined the Justice League and started talking about him as if he were some villain in the making. As if Damian hadn’t already known what it felt like to be abandoned.
Damian came to the Manor when he was nine.
He didn’t stay long.
Bruce sent him away—to a boarding school, just for a year. “It’ll be good for him,” he told Alfred. “Structure. A clean slate.”
Damian never called it by name. Just the school. Like it didn’t deserve more.
Only a few knew what that place really was. Collin, Maps, Hikari, Elias, Maya—they picked up the signs early, even if he didn’t say much. His Gotham friends understood the silence between his words.
And then there were the others. The ones who’d been there with him. Kids with tired eyes and quiet scars. They understood without needing an explanation. Some of them had been there longer than he had. Some had dreams just as bruised.
He never told his overseas friends. Not Hikari in Japan. Not Elias in Norway. Not Niko or Amira. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was protection. Maybe it was both. Some truths felt like matches—too dangerous to light.
When he came back, the house was the same. But he wasn’t.
Tim said something careless. Damian snapped. Voices rose, fists maybe too. Afterward, Bruce didn’t ask questions. Just told him to cool off. Locked the door behind him. The third floor became his world.
By thirteen, Damian stopped caring about the rules. He snuck out for the first time one night, with no plan, no real goal. But his instincts told him he’d be fine. And that was when he met Collin. What started as a chance meeting became something more. Collin taught him that his abilities didn’t have to be about survival alone. They could be about creation. Soon, more kids joined them, and together, they found an outlet—street art, music, anything that allowed them to reclaim a piece of themselves. A piece of the world that had cast them aside.
But it wasn’t just about finding freedom—it was about vengeance, too. After one particularly brutal night, when the kids had been cornered by a group of former students from the school, Damian’s rage sparked something deeper. The first mission wasn’t dramatic. No rooftop fights. No explosions. Just patience, quiet fury, and a plan.
The place that had tried to break him—tried to break all of them—was still there. Still running. Still a prison for kids who didn’t have the power to fight back.
Damian had memorized every detail. Where the cameras were. Which hallways were safe. Who to trust, and who to fear. He wasn’t going to let that place continue to haunt them, to crush anyone else.
The group came together, silent and sure. They didn’t destroy it—they transformed it. Staff gone. Leadership replaced. Counselors brought in. The building redesigned. Systems rebuilt. A place once used for silence and shame now echoed with music and laughter.
They stayed until every student had a voice again.
And then Night n Black happened.
Damian had always been a lone wolf, but his friends—his band—taught him how to stand beside others. They made him a leader, not because he wanted it, but because he needed to be one.
But in all of this, he never talked about what had happened, not to anyone. Not to Bruce. Not to Tim. Not to anyone.
There were nights when he’d gather with the band in their hideout, and someone would make a joke. The laughter would grow louder, filling the walls, and for a moment, it was all too much. Too real. He would close his eyes, just for a second, and breathe. Just breathe.
The door slammed open, the sharp bang echoing in his room.
“Hey! What did you do, you demon?” Tim’s voice was thick with accusation.
Damian barely spared him a glance. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”
Bruce’s voice followed, weary yet firm. “Why are you yelling in the middle of the night?”
Tim turned on him. “Don’t act like you don’t know! My case file is missing, and I know he took it.”
Tim stormed forward, grabbing Damian’s collar. Damian remained unimpressed, unmoved.
“I haven’t touched your things, Drake. Now let go. I have school tomorrow.”
Before Tim could snap back, a new voice cut in from the doorway.
“What’s going on?”
Bruce stood there, gaze shifting between them, unreadable as ever.
Tim, seething, gestured at Damian. “He took my case, and—”
“I took it,” Bruce interrupted. “To get you to sleep.”
Tim froze, his anger faltering.
Bruce turned to Damian, his voice softer but distant. “Wake up earlier tomorrow. You and Tim will be going to school together.”
Damian stiffened. Him and Drake—together?
Before he could respond, Bruce added, colder this time, “Don’t cause any trouble for him.”
Damian’s lips curled into something bitter. “Yes, Mister Wayne. I won’t cause any trouble for your son.”
Bruce hesitated, as if the words had struck something in him. But instead of addressing it, he simply turned away.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
Damian lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The murmur of voices below continued, as inescapable as ever.
Tomorrow would be a long day.