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The night was cold.
The kind of cold that made Gotham seem quieter than it really was.
Robin landed beside the Red Hood on one of the buildings in Park Row. The yellow cape of his uniform moved with the wind, while the older one’s helmet reflected the distant lights of the city.
— You’re smaller. Jason commented, his voice distorted by the modulator.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
— You’re slower.
Silence.
Then a muffled sound that might as well have been a laugh.
That was how it worked for them. Provocations instead of hugs.
The communicator crackled.
Batman’s deep voice echoed calm, but carrying tension.
— Movement at the warehouse south of your position. Toxin signatures detected. Possible trap.
Toxin.
— Understood. Jason’s voice replied immediately.
Robin said nothing. He didn’t need to.
They moved across the rooftops, synchronized despite their differences. Robin’s style was precise, calculated, almost elegant. Jason’s was direct, brutal — like an inevitable impact.
The warehouse appeared ahead. Too dark.
The doors were slightly open.
Too quiet.
Robin landed first, slipping inside without making a sound.
There were henchmen scattered through the building, stacked crates and improvised equipment. The chemical smell was faint, but present.
The Joker wasn’t there.
But the Scarecrow was.
Scarecrow was moving through some crates with almost obsessive care. His movements were strange — too delicate for someone who worked with fear and poison. As if what he was handling was fragile.
As if it was precious.
Robin bent his knees, ready to jump.
— Not yet, brat.
Jason placed his arm in front of him, stopping him.
— We’ve located Crane at the old abandoned factory on Bristol Street, near the side alley of Park Row. I’m sending the full location.
The communicator clicked again.
Nightwing’s voice came through, steady:
— We’re ten minutes out.
Down below, the movement continued.
And then—
A laugh echoed through the warehouse.
Loud.
Uncontrolled.
Unmistakable.
Until he appeared.
The Joker stepped out from the shadows, holding something unknown in his hands, too small to be a conventional weapon, too large to be insignificant. With his other hand, he distractedly adjusted the flower pinned to his purple suit.
Jason stiffened.
His entire body tensed under the jacket. His breathing became heavy, almost irregular.
Memories he never talked about.
— I’m not staying in the dark again… like a coward. Robin murmured, too low for the communicator to catch.
Hood noticed.
But didn’t comment.
If the Joker was there, there was no more waiting.
Damian jumped from the mezzanine straight onto one of the henchmen, drawing the katana in a clean and precise motion.
The blade stopped a few centimeters from the man’s throat, forcing him to the ground.
— Nobody moves. Robin ordered.
The henchmen panicked.
Scarecrow stepped back.
And the Joker’s smile only widened.
— Ahhh… he opened his arms theatrically. — The family is really growing…
Jason came down right after.
And this time, there was nothing light about his movements.
The sound of glass cracking echoed through the warehouse.
But the Joker didn’t have time to finish the motion.
Jason fired.
The bullet hit the clown’s hand, knocking the vial aside. The cylinder flew, hit one of the metal beams and fell to the floor.
It didn’t break.
Yet.
— NOW! Jason growled.
The warehouse exploded into motion.
The henchmen rushed forward. Robin was already among them before they even realized it. The katana traced precise arcs, disarming, knocking down, neutralizing with surgical efficiency.
Nothing lethal.
But decisive.
Scarecrow tried to reach the crates.
Hood intercepted him with a direct kick to the chest, throwing him against a stack of wood.
— You’re not going anywhere, Crane.
The Joker laughed while stepping back.
— Violence, violence… always so predictable!
One of the henchmen stumbled and fell exactly where the vial had rolled.
Thin glass.
Weight.
Impact.
The cylinder shattered.
The sound was almost delicate.
But the mist that began to spread had nothing delicate about it.
Green.
Dense.
Fast.
— Masks! Robin shouted.
He activated his filters immediately.
Hood grabbed Crane by the collar to pull him away from the cloud but the toxin was already rising.
And the seal on his mask had shifted during the earlier impact.
It was only a second.
A minimal failure.
Enough.
Jason breathed.
The mist entered.
He shoved Crane to the ground, but the movement was already strange. Too slow.
— Hood? Robin noticed.
Jason took two steps back.
His breathing became irregular.
The warehouse disappeared.
Replaced by old wood.
Darkness.
The smell of gasoline.
Distant laughter.
No.
Not again.
He tried to pull air in, but his chest felt compressed.
Shadows moved around him, not henchmen.
Walls closing in.
Explosion.
— NO! Jason fired at one of the beams, which in reality had nothing there.
Robin turned immediately.
The remaining henchmen began to retreat, confused.
Scarecrow, even on the ground, started laughing behind his mask.
— The toxin was adjusted… amplified fear…
Jason staggered.
His hands trembled.
He wasn’t in the warehouse anymore.
He was trapped again.
In the dark.
Alone.
— Hood! Robin approached, but kept strategic distance.
He knew what the toxin did.
And he knew Jason wasn’t seeing reality.
The Joker watched with a satisfied smile.
— Ohhh… this is poetic, isn’t it?
Damian felt his blood boil.
But forced his mind to cool.
Anger now meant mistakes.
Mistakes meant more toxin.
He neutralized the last two henchmen with quick strikes, then positioned himself between Jason and the villains.
— Focus on my voice. Robin said firmly, projecting authority. — You’re not there. You’re in Park Row. You’re with me.
Jason fired again, this time almost toward him.
Damian dodged by centimeters.
Jason’s fear wasn’t weakness.
It was an open wound.
And Scarecrow had pressed exactly there.
The communicator crackled.
— We’re arriving! Nightwing’s voice echoed.
The Joker took a step back, far too satisfied.
— Well… I’d say we already got what we wanted.
And began retreating into the shadows.
Jason fell to his knees.
Hands on his head.
Breathing uneven.
His world was still burning.
And Damian realized something he would never admit out loud:
He was afraid.
Not of the Joker.
But of losing his brother again.
Jason wasn’t fighting them.
He was fighting the past.
He moved like a cornered animal, broken breathing, fingers trembling on the trigger. The helmet reflected the warehouse lights, but behind the red lenses there was no focus — only panic.
— No! he roared, firing at a wall that didn’t exist.
For him, the beams were rotten boards.
The floor was cracked concrete in an abandoned warehouse.
And the smell… the smell was the same.
Gasoline.
Smoke.
Explosion.
— Hood. he called, firm.
— You are under the effect of the toxin!
But Jason didn’t hear.
He saw a silhouette standing in the darkness.
Tall. Still.
Watching.
Waiting.
— You were late. his voice came out hoarse, full of accusation.
— You are always late.
And then he lunged.
Damian didn’t have time to dodge completely. He was grabbed by the collar and thrown against a metal column. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
Jason pointed the gun at him.
His hand trembled.
His finger pressed the trigger.
But he didn’t fire.
Because even in the middle of fear, some part of him still recognized.
Still fought.
— Don’t leave me there. he whispered. And that was worse than the scream.
Footsteps echoed at the entrance.
Heavy.
Controlled.
A staff flew and hit the weapon, knocking it from Jason’s hand.
— Enough! Nightwing’s voice sounded more tense than usual.
And then the larger shadow took shape.
Batman.
Jason turned to him immediately.
But he didn’t see the present.
He saw abandonment.
He saw closed doors.
He saw silence.
He attacked with everything he had.
Batman intercepted the blow, but did not counterattack. He simply held. Absorbed. Endured.
Jason hit him as if every punch could rewrite that day.
— You left me! he shouted, his voice breaking halfway.
It wasn’t anger.
It was pain.
Batman held Jason’s arms firmly enough to restrain him, but not to hurt him.
— I never stopped looking for you. he said quietly. Not as a symbol. As a man.
Jason laughed.
An empty sound.
— Too late.
Dick approached from the side, pulling the injector from his belt.
— Batman.
A single warning.
Jason was still fighting, but the movements were already losing coordination. The toxin burned through the nervous system, distorting everything.
The needle pierced his neck.
Jason tried to resist.
Tried.
But the body failed before the mind.
The blows weakened.
The breathing uneven.
His knees gave out.
Batman caught him before he hit the dirty floor of the warehouse.
The silence that followed was worse than the gunshots.
Jason went limp in Batman’s arms.
It wasn’t a sudden fall.
It was as if the energy had simply drained away. His body still tense, even unconscious. As if even sleeping he couldn’t truly rest.
— He’s unconscious. Nightwing murmured, putting the injector away. — But that was only a sedative. Not the cure.
Batman already knew.
Crane never repeated formulas. Never used the same composition twice. Always changing concentrations, vectors, latency time. The toxin wasn’t a product.
It was an ongoing experiment.
And Jason had been tonight’s test.
Damian watched in silence, fists clenched at his sides.
— How long? he asked.
— Depends on what Scarecrow changed this time. Dick answered, his voice more serious than usual.
— Could metabolize in hours. Could last days.
Days.
The word settled too heavily inside the warehouse.
Jason moved slightly, even unconscious. His breathing irregular, as if still running from something invisible.
Batman adjusted his arm under Jason’s weight, holding him with absolute firmness.
— We need to take him to the Batcave now.
No discussion.
Robin stepped closer. His gaze fell on Jason’s partially exposed face. There was something unsettling about his vulnerability. Red Hood didn’t seem made for unconsciousness.
It looked wrong.
— He’ll wake up confused. Dick said quietly. — Maybe aggressive.
— I know. Bruce replied.
But there was something different in his voice.
Not strategy.
Guilt.
Batman’s communicator emitted a short signal.
— Scarecrow is contained. he reported. — Secondary transport to Arkham.
None of the three commented on the fact that the Joker had escaped.
Again.
Damian looked toward the shadows of the warehouse.
He understood now.
The toxin hadn’t been made to kill.
It had been made to open wounds.
Jason moved again.
A murmur escaped his lips. inaudible, fragmented.
But it sounded like a plea.
Batman tightened his jaw.
— He won’t be alone.
It wasn’t an order.
It was a promise.
Dick placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder for a second.
— You did what you could.
Damian didn’t answer.
Because part of him knew that if he had been faster… stronger… more—
He cut the thought.
It wasn’t about him.
It never was.
Batman began walking toward the exit, carrying Jason as if he were still light. As if he were still the boy who needed to be taken home after a patrol that lasted too long.
The night remained cold.
---
The Batmobile cut through Gotham’s streets in silence, the deep rumble of the engine almost blending with the wind that rushed through the empty avenues of Park Row.
Inside the car, no one spoke.
Batman was driving. His posture rigid, eyes fixed on the road.
Beside him, Nightwing monitored the vital signs on the tablet connected to the car’s medical system.
Up front, the communicator crackled.
Dick activated the channel.
— Red Robin, we need the cave ready.
A brief pause.
Tim Drake’s voice answered almost immediately through the system.
— I’m already on my way to the medical wing.
He hadn’t been on patrol that night.
Tim and Barbara Gordon had stayed behind, responsible for the mission’s communication hub, monitoring signals, intercepting transmissions, and tracking Scarecrow’s movements.
Barbara’s voice joined the channel moments later, calm and focused.
— I’m pulling the data from Crane’s latest formulas. If he altered the toxin’s composition again, we’ll need to identify it before Jason wakes up.
Dick let out a quiet breath through his nose.
— He hasn’t woken up yet.
— Yet. Barbara replied.
The word hung heavily in the air.
In the back, Jason lay across the seat.
His helmet had been removed. His face was far too pale under the red lights of the dashboard. His breathing still uneven, as if his body were caught somewhere between wakefulness and nightmare.
Damian sat beside him.
In silence.
He stared forward, rigid as always. Chin raised, posture perfect.
But one of his hands held Jason’s.
It was a simple gesture.
Almost imperceptible.
And yet deeply strange for anyone who knew Damian.
He didn’t touch people.
He didn’t seek comfort. He didn’t offer it.
Except with Jason.
His fingers were firm around the larger hand, as if anchoring his brother there. As if letting go might make Jason disappear again.
Damian didn’t look at him.
But he didn’t let go.
Anger burned silently in his chest.
Anger at the Joker.
Anger at Gotham.
Anger at a world that allowed this to keep happening to Jason.
But there was something else too.
Something older.
Memories he rarely allowed himself to revisit.
Sand.
Stone.
Blood.
The League of Assassins.
His grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul, believed pain created perfection. That weakness had to be crushed before it could take root.
Damian had learned that far too early.
There were days when his legs simply would not stay straight after training. When every muscle burned and his breathing failed.
Even then, he had been forced to fight.
Always.
And Jason… Jason questioned it.
Even when he couldn’t.
Even when he knew he had no right.
Even when it meant punishment.
Damian remembered.
Jason waiting in silence after he climbed out of the Lazarus Pit. Water still dripping from his hair, green eyes glowing with something that wasn’t exactly sanity.
He was always there.
Waiting.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Sometimes he argued with Ra’s al Ghul.
Sometimes he simply stayed at Damian’s side.
And there were days when Damian only discovered later that Jason had been punished for it.
Whipped.
Without complaining.
As if it didn’t matter.
Talia al Ghul tried to stop it when she could.
But the League was not a gentle place.
And Jason… Jason never seemed to mind carrying part of that weight for him.
Damian tightened his fingers slightly around Jason’s hand now.
The car continued moving through the night.
Jason shifted.
A small movement. Unconscious.
His brow furrowing as if he were still trapped inside the toxin.
Damian spoke quietly. So quietly that perhaps no one but Jason could hear.
— You’re not there.
His fingers tightened a little more.
— I’m here.
Up front, Dick watched the reflection in the mirror for a moment.
But he said nothing.
And neither did Bruce.
The Batmobile glided onto the Batcave platform with a low metallic sound.
The cave was illuminated only by the lights of the medical wing. The rest remained in shadow, as it always did.
As soon as the car stopped, Nightwing opened the back door while Batman carefully lifted Jason out.
Even unconscious, his body was still tense.
As if he were still fighting something invisible.
The stretcher was already waiting.
Tim Drake appeared on the other side of the medical platform, gloves on his hands, his expression focused.
— Put him here.
Bruce laid Jason down carefully.
The sensors began beeping immediately as they were connected to his chest and wrist.
Irregular heartbeat.
Unstable breathing.
Traces of the toxin still circulating.
— Oxygen saturation is fluctuating,
Tim murmured, already adjusting the monitors.
On the main screen, Barbara Gordon was following everything from the command center.
— I’m analyzing the data we collected at the warehouse, her voice echoed through the cave’s speakers. — The chemical signature doesn’t match any of Scarecrow’s latest formulas.
— Of course it doesn’t, Dick replied tiredly. — Crane never repeats a recipe.
Tim was already preparing a syringe.
— I’m going to need a direct sample.
He gently pulled Jason’s arm and inserted the needle into the vein.
Dark blood began filling the collection tube.
— If we can identify how the toxin is binding to the nervous system, we might be able to synthesize an antidote, Tim explained, more to organize his own thoughts than to inform the others.
But that would take time.
Too much time.
And everyone knew it.
While they worked, Damian did not move.
He was still wearing the Robin suit. The yellow cape draped behind the chair, the mask still covering part of his face.
His back hurt.
The impact against the metal column in the warehouse still pulsed beneath the uniform.
But he ignored it.
He was sitting beside the stretcher.
Holding Jason’s hand.
As if it were the only thing keeping him there.
Time passed.
Minutes.
Maybe more.
Damian couldn’t say.
The cave was filled with quiet sounds — the hum of computers, Tim’s footsteps moving between workstations, the occasional click of keys as Barbara analyzed data.
Jason remained motionless.
His breathing still uneven.
Damian kept holding his hand.
He didn’t let go.
Even when his fingers began to go numb.
Even when the pain in his back began climbing up his spine.
He would not abandon Jason.
Not after everything.
Not after the League.
Not after all the times Jason had waited for him beside the Lazarus Pits, as if that was simply what brothers did.
The silence was broken by a gentle voice.
— Master Damian.
Damian immediately lifted his eyes.
He would recognize that voice anywhere.
Alfred Pennyworth.
The butler stood a few steps away.
Hands clasped behind his back, as always.
But there was something different in his gaze as he looked at Jason on the stretcher.
Concern.
Old.
Deep.
Damian turned his head slightly to face him.
— Pennyworth.
His voice came out low.
But steady.
He still had not released Jason’s hand.
— Master Damian.
Alfred Pennyworth observed the boy for a moment before speaking again.
— I believe it would be wise for you to change into something more comfortable.
Damian did not move.
— No.
The answer was immediate.
Flat.
— I will stay here.
Alfred sighed softly, stepping a little closer to the stretcher where Jason Todd lay.
— Master Damian, he said calmly, your presence beside your brother is admirable.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
He already knew that came before a “but.”
— However, Alfred continued, you are injured, exhausted, and still wearing a uniform that has clearly fulfilled its purpose tonight.
Damian tightened his grip slightly on Jason’s hand.
— I’m not leaving.
Silence.
Alfred looked at him with that gaze none of them had ever truly been able to ignore.
— You will.
No room for negotiation.
No discussion.
It was the same voice that had raised Bruce.
And every Robin after him.
---
Damian remained seated for a few more seconds… as if he were still deciding whether to defy that order.
But then he slowly released Jason’s hand.
— If he wakes up—
— I will be here, Alfred replied immediately.
Damian stood up.
His back protested instantly.
He ignored it.
Without saying anything else, he walked toward the locker room.
Some time later.
Damian was still there.
The clothes he was wearing now clearly weren’t his.
An oversized T-shirt, probably Dick Grayson’s, hung almost to the middle of his thigh. The sweatpants were Tim Drake’s and had to be rolled up twice at the cuffs.
Everything was too big.
But it was comfortable.
And strangely warm.
He still hadn’t returned to the medical wing.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because, for some reason, he was just standing there.
Breathing.
Jason felt the pain before he felt anything else.
A throbbing pressure at the back of his head.
Heavy.
Like something was pushing against his skull from the inside.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The lights in the Batcave’s medical wing were dim.
Quiet.
It took him a few seconds to understand where he was.
Then he tried to sit up.
Mistake.
His body felt like it was made of lead.
Every muscle heavy, slow, as if the toxin were still clinging to his nerves.
Jason took a deep breath.
Tried again.
This time he managed to rise from the stretcher, bracing himself against the edge.
The room was empty.
Almost.
In the corner of the room, Alfred Pennyworth was sitting in a chair.
Head leaned back.
Sleeping.
Jason watched him for a few seconds.
He had always known Alfred was old.
But something felt different now.
Maybe the deeper wrinkles.
Maybe the exhaustion that seemed permanently etched into his face.
Jason looked away.
That hurt in a strange way.
Alfred really needed a break.
Jason breathed in slowly.
He needed to go to the bathroom.
Simple.
Easy.
But when he tried to take the first step, he realized his body was still too heavy.
Even so, he started walking.
Slowly.
Each step carefully measured.
He left the medical wing and crossed part of the cave.
Ahead, the glow of the computer hub illuminated the space.
Tim Drake was there, leaning over the monitors, analyzing endless lines of chemical data.
Next to him were Stephanie Brown and Duke Thomas.
Which was strange.
Duke would normally be asleep at this hour.
Or maybe not.
Jason had no idea what time it was.
Or how much time had passed.
He didn’t say anything.
He just kept walking, trying to reach the hallway.
Then he heard it.
A laugh.
Low.
Almost a whisper.
Jason frowned.
Ignored it.
Kept walking.
The laugh came again.
A little louder.
Closer.
He clenched his jaw.
No.
Not now.
But the laughter continued.
And continued.
Growing louder.
More familiar.
Until it became impossible to ignore.
The cackling echoed through the cave.
Shrill.
Uncontrolled.
Unmistakable.
The same laugh still trapped somewhere in the corners of his mind.
The Joker’s laughter.
Jason grabbed his head with both hands, as if that could make the voice stop.
The memories surged forward.
The warehouse.
The cold, hard floor.
The ropes.
The dirty suit.
And the sound.
The sound of the crowbar.
No.
No.
No.
Not again.
Not again, please.
No, please.
Bruce… please…
Jason repeated the words to himself like a desperate prayer.
Please, Bruce… get here in time.
A scream echoed through the cave.
Loud. Harsh.
Damian was in the locker room and was already running before he even realized it.
Dick and Bruce were at the entrance of the cave, coming down from the manor.
Tim, Stephanie, and Duke turned immediately when they heard the scream.
Jason’s voice cut through everything.
— No… not again… not again…
— Please, Bruce… don’t let me die…
— This nightmare… not again…
Bruce tried to approach Jason.
— No… no, Bruce! Please, don’t let him take me!
Bruce stopped for a moment. He still couldn’t get close enough.
— Tim, do you have anything yet? he asked without taking his eyes off Jason.
— Not much… but maybe it’ll work for now.
Tim was already moving before Bruce even finished the sentence. He ran to the workstation where he had been working.
Bruce tried again.
Slowly.
— Jason… son… can you hear me?
He finally managed to place a hand on his shoulder.
The touch startled Jason.
— Please… don’t let me die… I don’t want to…
— Jay, look at me.
Bruce said it quietly, firmly.
But Jason didn’t see the cave.
He was still in the warehouse.
Tim came back, holding a syringe.
— This will calm him down for now… but it might not work. I didn’t have time to test it.
The guilt weighed heavily in his voice.
— It will work. We have to try.
It was Damian who answered.
He looked at his father, his eyes pleading.
Bruce held Jason while Tim injected the medication.
Jason grunted softly, bringing a hand to the spot where the needle had pierced his skin.
For a moment… everything fell silent.
Then Bruce saw it.
His son’s eyes.
Before, they had been glassy, filled with terror…
Now they only looked tired.
Very tired.
Huh
And Jason’s eyes were looking directly at him.
His breathing was shallow.
— I thought, Bruce… — his voice came out strained — I thought that after every friend… every innocent who was killed…
He swallowed hard.
— …I would be the last person.
Jason didn’t look away.
You could feel the pain in every word.
— If it were you…
He raised his hand, pointing a finger at Bruce.
— If it were you… tortured and humiliated…
His voice faltered for a moment.
— I would have hunted him. I would have gone to heaven and hell.
Jason’s gaze hardened.
He breathed with difficulty.
— …and ended that damn clown.
Bruce took a few seconds before answering.
Jason’s words still echoed through the cave, heavy as concrete.
He opened his mouth… but no answer seemed enough.
— Jason…
His voice came out low, hoarse.
— I know you think I failed you.
Jason let out a weak, bitter laugh.
— Think?
He slowly shook his head.
— No, Bruce. I know.
Bruce took a step closer.
— I searched for you. I never stopped—
— No.
Jason cut him off.
A single word, but firm.
— Don’t do that.
He looked away for a moment, rubbing the back of his aching neck.
— Don’t turn this into a story about how you tried.
Silence.
Jason looked back at Bruce.
— It was only him, Bruce.
Each word came out heavier than the last.
— Only him.
He pointed again, his hand trembling with exhaustion and anger.
— I’m not talking about Penguin. — I’m not talking about Two-Face.
His breath faltered for a second.
— Only him, Bruce.
Jason’s eyes were wet now, but his voice remained hard.
— Because he took me away from you.
Bruce took another step.
Slowly.
As if any sudden movement might shatter the moment.
— Jason… son… I—
— No.
Jason stepped back a little.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough to show there was a barrier there.
— Don’t call me that right now.
The cave fell silent.
Bruce looked smaller than Damian had ever seen him.
Jason took a deep breath, shoulders heavy.
— You let him live.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t need to.
— And every time he breathed… Bruce…
Jason swallowed hard.
— It was like you were choosing him.
Another pause.
Quieter.
More painful.
— Instead of me.
The silence that followed felt endless.
No one in the cave moved.
Not Tim.
Not Stephanie.
Not Duke.
Cass was there too — Jason didn’t even know when she had appeared.
Even Alfred had woken up, but he remained where he was, watching.
Jason breathed unevenly, as if every word had torn something out of him.
Bruce finally spoke.
— I never chose him.
Jason let out another weak laugh.
There was no humor in it.
— No?
He ran a hand over his face, tired.
— Because from where I’m standing, Bruce… that’s exactly what you did.
Bruce stepped closer again.
Jason didn’t step back this time.
But he didn’t yield either.
— If I crossed that line, Bruce said quietly, — I wouldn’t come back.
Jason frowned.
— So?
Bruce hesitated.
It was a simple question.
But the answer weighed tons.
— Then… I wouldn’t be the man who raised you.
Jason stared at him for a few seconds.
Then he slowly shook his head.
— You still don’t get it.
His voice sounded tired now.
— I didn’t need you to be a symbol.
His eyes glistened, wet.
— I needed you to be my father.
The words hit Bruce like a blow.
Jason continued before he could answer.
— I was there, Bruce.
His voice lowered.
— Tied to that floor… listening to him talk… laughing…
Jason’s hands started to tremble.
— I thought you were coming.
Damian felt something tighten in his chest.
Jason closed his eyes for a moment.
— I kept thinking that.
His breathing faltered.
— Until the very last second.
Silence.
Bruce couldn’t speak.
Jason opened his eyes again.
Tired.
— And when I woke up afterward…
He let out a shaky breath.
— You still hadn’t done anything.
Damian didn’t realize when he started moving.
But suddenly he was there.
Standing beside Jason.
Without asking permission.
Without saying anything.
His hand grabbed his brother’s arm.
Firm.
As if saying: you’re not alone anymore.
---
Jason looked down.
At the small hand holding his.
For a moment… the tension on his face eased.
Just a little.
But it was enough.
Bruce noticed.
And something in his expression broke.
Because even now… after everything…
Jason was still there.
Hurt.
Angry.
But alive.
And Damian…
Damian was holding onto him like he had no intention of ever letting go.
And then, before he could doubt himself, he stepped into Jason’s arms.
It wasn’t a proper hug.
It wasn’t graceful.
Damian Wayne didn’t know how to do that.
If Ra’s ordered him to kill someone, he would do it without hesitation.
If he needed to dismantle a weapon, hack a system, execute an impossible plan, he could do it.
But this?
This was unfamiliar territory.
His arms stayed stiff for a second before finally wrapping around Jason carefully.
As if Jason were made of glass.
— You’re not dead, Damian said quietly, almost like he was convincing himself. — So stop talking like you are.
His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Jason froze.
Too surprised to react.
Damian rested his forehead against his brother’s chest for a moment.
A small gesture.
Instinctive.
— I waited for you too, he murmured.
Jason blinked slowly.
The confusion in his eyes was obvious.
— What?
Damian took a breath.
He hated explaining feelings.
— After the Lazarus Pit.
The silence in the cave grew heavier.
— When Grandfather forced me to fight even when my legs could barely hold me up… Damian continued, his voice quieter now. — you stayed and waited.
Jason froze.
Old memories surfaced too quickly.
The small boy, soaked from the Lazarus Pit, shivering from cold and pain.
Ra’s demanding he fight again.
And Jason…
Jason arguing.
Jason getting beaten for it.
Jason still waiting outside afterward.
Damian gripped the fabric of Jason’s shirt a little tighter.
— Talia did what she could, he said. — But you…
He hesitated.
— You never cared about being whipped because of me.
Jason let out a heavy breath.
— Kid…
His voice faltered.
Before the moment could turn into something even harder to handle, another voice gently broke in.
— Come now, Master Jason.
Everyone looked.
Alfred Pennyworth was standing beside them now.
Tired.
But steady.
He placed a careful hand on Jason’s arm.
— You need to rest, sir.
Jason looked ready to protest.
But his own body betrayed him when he tried to move.
His legs wavered.
Alfred was quick to help him stand.
— Easy, sir.
Jason slung an arm over the butler’s shoulders, reluctant.
— I can walk.
— Naturally, sir, Alfred replied calmly. — But do allow an old man to pretend he’s useful.
A small, tired smile appeared on Jason’s face.
Damian immediately moved to the other side.
Uninvited.
Helping support part of his weight.
Jason glanced sideways at him.
— You’re not leaving, are you?
Damian answered without even hesitating.
— No.
Simple.
Final.
On the other side of the cave, Bruce Wayne watched in silence.
He didn’t interfere.
He didn’t say anything.
He simply stood there in the shadow of the upper platform, watching Jason Todd being guided back toward the medical wing.
The night dragged on.
Slow.
Heavy.
The computers continued their quiet humming while Tim Drake analyzed the toxin data.
At some point, Stephanie, Cass, and Duke were sent to rest.
Jason slept.
Or something close to it.
His body still reacted unevenly to the improvised sedative.
Damian didn’t leave his side.
Sitting in the chair beside the medical table.
Still wearing the loose clothes he had borrowed from his brothers.
His hand still holding Jason’s.
Hours passed.
The silence of the cave was broken only by the soft sound of footsteps.
“I knew you’d still be here.”
Damian didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Grayson leaned against the wall beside the medical table.
Arms crossed.
Tired eyes.
But gentle.
He watched the scene for a moment.
Jason sleeping.
Damian rigid beside him.
“You should get some rest, Dami.”
Damian didn’t answer right away.
“He might wake up,” he said finally.
Dick pulled another chair closer and sat down.
“If he wakes up, I’ll be here.”
Silence.
Damian tightened his grip on Jason’s hand.
“He doesn’t like being here.”
Dick let out a quiet sigh.
“None of us do.”
Damian finally looked at him.
“Do you also think this is Father’s fault?”
His brother didn’t answer immediately.
He rubbed a hand over his tired face, fingers pressing briefly against the bridge of his nose before speaking.
“When I found out what happened to Jason…” his voice came out low. “I was with the Titans.”
Damian frowned, waiting.
Dick continued, looking at Jason’s unconscious form.
“I wasn’t in Gotham. I wasn’t here when he needed me.”
He exhaled slowly.
“So when I got the news… I was angry.”
Damian tilted his head slightly.
“At the Joker?”
Dick gave a humorless laugh.
“At everyone.”
Then he looked directly at Damian.
“At the Joker… and at Bruce.”
Damian narrowed his eyes.
“So you also think he failed.”
Dick took a few seconds before answering.
“I did.”
The word was heavy.
Honest.
“I thought he had let Jason die. I thought he had shut himself down so much that he didn’t even try to get justice.”
Damian clenched his jaw.
“And now?”
Dick looked at Jason on the table.
At his chest rising slowly with uneven breaths.
“Now I think the Joker destroyed an entire family that night.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“And he keeps trying to do it every time he comes back.”
Damian crossed his arms.
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
Dick tilted his head.
“You want to know if it’s Bruce’s fault?”
Silence.
Damian didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Dick spoke again, more quietly.
“I think Bruce made a decision none of us completely agree with.”
He rested his elbows on his knees.
“But I also think that if he kills the Joker… then the Joker truly wins.”
Damian didn’t look convinced.
“Jason wouldn’t agree.”
“I know,” Dick said.
Then he added, almost in a whisper,
“And to be honest… when I saw what that clown did to him…”
Dick looked away for a moment.
“I wanted to kill him too.”
Damian finally looked back at Jason.
And his hand tightened slightly around his brother’s.
Then Dick spoke again, softer now.
“But you staying here until you collapse won’t help Jason.”
Damian frowned.
“I’m not going to collapse.”
“Of course not,” Dick replied with a small smile. “You’re the most stubborn Robin that ever existed.”
That earned him an irritated look from Damian.
“Drake is worse.”
“Oh, definitely,” Dick agreed.
“But he’ll also go to sleep when I tell him to.”
Damian hesitated.
Dick leaned forward slightly.
“Go get some rest, Dami.”
His voice was calm.
Gentle.
“I promise I won’t leave.”
Damian looked at Jason.
His chest still rising and falling slowly.
Still alive.
Still here.
After a long moment, Damian finally let go of his brother’s hand.
Slowly.
“If he wakes up…”
“I’ll call you.”
Damian nodded.
He walked toward the exit of the medical wing.
But he stopped at the door.
Looked back.
Jason was still there.
Then he left.
--
The room was silent.
The mattress was too soft.
Damian hated it.
His body remained rigid on the sheets.
Accustomed to sleeping on hard surfaces.
Accustomed to resting with one eye open.
Hours passed.
He didn’t sleep.
He couldn’t.
Not with Jason like that.
Not with his words echoing in his head.
“I thought you would be the last person.”
Damian closed his eyes.
And made a decision.
A decision that might not have a way back.
He rose from the bed.
Silent.
Cold.
His gaze steady now.
He knew exactly who was responsible for this.
The Joker.
The man who had broken Jason.
Who kept coming back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Damian took a deep breath.
No.
He wouldn’t wear the Robin mantle.
Robin was a symbol.
It was hope.
Something his father believed Gotham still deserved.
Damian would not walk that path wearing that mantle.
Not tonight.
He opened the old cabinet hidden in the back of the room.
Where he still kept things Gotham should never see.
Things from the League.
He took that suit.
That identity.
The identity that existed before Robin.
Before Bruce.
Before hope.
If someone had to cross that line…
It would be Damian al Ghul.
Not Robin.
Because he would not allow the Joker to destroy Jason Todd a third time.
Damian made no sound.
He had already changed clothes.
No red.
No green.
Nothing that resembled Robin.
He wore black.
The uniform from when he still belonged to the League of Assassins.
The light fabric allowed silent movement. A short cape rested over his shoulders, almost invisible in the darkness.
Damian walked to the hidden compartment behind one of the panels in the room.
He opened it.
Inside were things Bruce never approved of keeping.
Weapons.
Things from a previous life.
He picked up one of the katanas. The blade slid from the sheath with a soft sound.
Cold.
Perfect.
Then came the daggers.
Three of them.
And a small set of shurikens.
All League weapons.
Weapons made to kill quickly.
Without hesitation.
Without error.
Damian stored everything with precise movements.
Then he looked at the room one last time.
At the bed still messy.
At the Robin uniform folded on the chair.
He spoke quietly, as if someone might hear:
“The Robin mantle will not be stained by this.”
He closed the window behind him.
And disappeared into Gotham’s night.
His destination wasn’t random.
Damian knew Jason Todd better than most of the family.
Jason always said he trusted no one.
But he still had places.
Refuges.
Safehouses scattered throughout Gotham City.
Damian knew one of them.
An old abandoned building near Park Row.
Jason never explicitly said it was a hideout.
But Damian knew.
He always knew.
The boy landed silently on the roof of the building.
The metal door leading inside was unlocked.
Of course it was.
Jason liked quick exits.
Damian entered.
The hideout was simple.
A table.
Some disassembled weapons.
A chair.
An open ammunition box.
Damian walked toward it.
Inside were two types of bullets.
Rubber ones.
And real ones.
He picked up one of the real bullets.
Turned it between his fingers.
Bruce had made Jason stop killing.
Forced him to use ammunition that didn’t take lives.
But Jason never threw the old ones away.
Never.
Damian closed his hand around the bullet.
The plan was clear.
He wouldn’t kill the Joker with a League weapon.
No.
That would be… too distant.
Too impersonal.
He would kill the Joker with one of Jason’s guns.
One of the weapons Jason could no longer use.
A justice Jason had been prevented from carrying out.
Damian placed the bullet back in the box and picked up one of his brother’s pistols.
Heavy.
Cold.
Real.
He checked the chamber.
Loaded it.
The click echoed through the silent hideout.
Then he spoke to the darkness:
“I will finish this for you, Todd.”
That night,
Damian looked exactly like an al Ghul.
---
The night seemed endless in Gotham City.
Damian crossed half the city.
First Park Row.
Then the docks.
Then the alleys that smelled of old chemicals and gasoline.
He interrogated criminals.
The way he had learned in the League of Assassins.
Without mercy.
Without long conversations.
One man talked.
Another tried to lie.
The third finally pointed him in a direction.
“Th—the clown…” the man stammered, his nose still bleeding. “He bought chemicals… from an old warehouse… near the railway…”
Damian released him.
The man collapsed to the ground, trembling.
“If you are lying,” Damian said coldly, “I will return.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He leapt back onto the rooftops.
The air was colder now.
Hours had passed.
But Damian felt no exhaustion.
Only one thing.
Anger.
The image of Jason Todd in the cave wouldn’t leave his mind.
The scream.
The desperation.
“Bruce… please.”
Damian clenched his jaw.
He reached the abandoned railway shortly before dawn.
Rust-covered tracks cut through a dead industrial district.
And there it was.
A warehouse.
Dim lights glowing inside.
Damian did not approach through the door.
He climbed.
Up the side walls.
Silent.
He reached a broken skylight on the roof.
Looked down.
And froze.
Down below stood the Joker.
With his back turned.
Working at a table filled with bottles.
Chemicals.
Syringes.
Small containers filled with green gas.
He was whistling.
Completely unconcerned.
As if no one in the world could touch him.
As if he were still playing with the city.
Damian slowly drew his katana.
The metal slid from the sheath with a nearly inaudible sound.
His eyes were cold.
Precise.
Killer’s eyes.
Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson had finally found his prey.
And the Joker…
Had no idea.
The broken skylight creaked softly in the wind.
Damian Wayne made no sound.
He crouched.
Calculated the distance.
The movement.
The breath.
And then he dropped.
The fall was silent.
Controlled.
He landed behind a stack of crates, absorbing the impact before slowly rising.
Ahead of him, with his back turned, stood the Joker.
Whistling.
Mixing chemicals.
Spinning a small container of green gas between his fingers like a toy.
Cold.
Decisive.
Damian moved forward.
One step.
Another.
Every motion calculated with the precision he had learned in the League of Assassins.
The Joker remained distracted.
Talking to himself.
“Hmm… maybe a little more toxin… or perhaps—”
The sentence died.
Because something cold touched his neck.
The blade of a katana.
Resting directly against his artery.
Silent.
Still.
The whistling stopped.
For one full second, the warehouse became completely silent.
The Joker blinked.
Slowly.
Then his lips curled into that crooked smile.
“Oh…”
He slowly raised his hands.
The blade pressed slightly deeper into the pale skin of his neck.
A thin line of blood appeared.
The clown’s green eyes slid sideways, trying to see who stood behind him.
“Hmm… small… light… silent…”
The smile widened.
“Ah.”
He chuckled softly.
The Joker leaned slightly into the blade, as if the cold metal were nothing more than a curiosity.
For a moment he stayed quiet.
Then his lips spread again into that twisted grin.
“Well, well…”
A small laugh escaped his throat.
“What are you doing here, little bird?”
He lifted his hands slightly, theatrical.
“Did Batman finally decide to send me the newest model?”
His eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Or did he simply let you loose to come play with me?”
Damian’s blade pressed harder against his neck.
“Batsy doesn’t like it when people die,” the Joker continued, almost thoughtfully. “Always so… strict with those rules.”
Then he let out another low laugh.
“Does he know you’re here?”
The air in the warehouse seemed to freeze.
Damian felt something hot rise in his chest.
But the blade did not tremble.
“You tortured him.”
For a brief moment, the Joker looked confused.
“I had fun,” he replied, almost thoughtfully. “Hours of wonderful fun.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
The katana moved only a few millimeters.
More blood appeared against the pale skin.
“Today,” Damian said coldly, “you die.”
The Joker let out a short giggle.
“Oh, I love it when the family starts solving its problems on its own.”
Then he spoke, almost in a whisper.
“Batman would be so proud.”
And for a moment…
The entire warehouse seemed to hold its breath.
Damian did not remove the katana from the Joker’s neck.
He knew.
One careless movement could ruin everything.
The blade remained steady.
Right against the artery.
The Joker stayed still, but the smile was still there—wide, patient… as if waiting for the next act of the show.
Slowly, without moving the blade, Damian brought his other hand to the holster.
And drew Todd’s pistol.
The cold metal weighed heavily in his hand.
The quiet click of the gun being cocked echoed through the warehouse.
The Joker’s smile grew wider.
“Oh…”
he murmured, almost impressed.
“Well now, this just got interesting.”
But Damian did not answer.
He raised the gun.
He aimed.
Directly at the clown’s head.
His finger pressed lightly against the trigger.
Then—
He stopped.
Something caught his attention.
In the corner of the warehouse.
Leaning against a rust-stained wall.
An object.
Old.
Heavy.
Far too familiar.
A crowbar.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop.
The image of Todd flashed through his mind.
The scream.
The panic.
The broken body.
Damian felt his stomach tighten.
The gun lowered a few centimeters.
His eyes darkened.
Colder.
Older than someone his age should be.
The Joker noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Ah…”
He let out a low laugh.
“You found my toy.”
The katana pressed harder against his neck.
More blood slid down pale skin.
Damian finally spoke.
Low.
Emotionless.
“That’s what you used.”
It wasn’t a question.
The Joker’s smile widened.
“Let’s just say… it was a noisy night.”
Silence.
Heavy.
The kind of silence that comes before something irreversible.
Damian looked again at the crowbar.
Then at the gun in his hand.
And finally back at the clown.
The decision had not been made yet.
But it was very close.
The silence in the warehouse was suffocating.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
The katana still rested against the Joker’s neck, thin and steady against pale skin.
Then Damian made a decision.
Slowly, without taking his eyes off the clown, he pulled the blade back and sheathed it across his back.
The movement was controlled.
Calculated.
Now one of his hands was free.
“Don’t move,” Damian said, voice low and firm.
The Joker tilted his head, curious.
“Oh… are we changing the rules now?”
“Stay. Still.”
There was no emotion in the voice.
Only decision.
Without lowering the gun, Damian slowly moved sideways, keeping the weapon aimed at the clown’s face.
One step.
Another.
His eyes never leaving the target.
Until he reached the corner of the warehouse.
The object was still there.
Heavy.
Rusty.
The crowbar.
Damian crouched without lowering the gun and picked it up from the floor.
The metal scraped lightly against the concrete as he lifted it.
The Joker saw.
And began to laugh.
“Ahhh… so that’s it?”
He spread his arms slightly.
“You want to recreate the classic?”
The gun rose a few millimeters.
“Say that again,” Damian said.
The Joker’s grin widened even more.
“So the Bat finally let the little bird—”
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse.
The bullet struck the Joker’s leg.
He fell sideways with a hard impact, a laugh bursting from his throat mixed with pain.
Blood began to spread across the floor.
Damian didn’t move.
The gun remained pointed directly at his head.
In his other hand, the crowbar felt heavy.
“I’m not playing games, Joker.”
His voice came out low.
Cold.
“Today… will be your last laugh.”
Blood streamed from the Joker’s wounded leg, forming a dark stain on the warehouse floor.
But he was still smiling.
Always smiling.
Slowly, putting his weight on his good leg, he began to stand.
Damian Wayne noticed the movement instantly.
The pistol remained aimed.
“Stay on the ground.”
The Joker ignored him.
He took a crooked step.
Then another.
“Oh, little bird…” he chuckled. “You really think—”
Suddenly he lunged.
His hand shot to the lapel of his suit.
The purple flower.
The classic flower.
It spun.
A jet of acid shot toward Damian.
“Tch.”
The sound of disdain escaped Damian’s lips.
He was already moving.
His body twisted to the side with trained precision, the acid slicing through the air where he had stood a second earlier.
The corrosive liquid struck the floor behind him, hissing.
Damian didn’t hesitate.
The crowbar rose.
The heavy metal caught the dim warehouse light.
Then came down.
Hard.
The impact was sharp.
Violent.
The metal struck the side of the Joker’s head.
His body collapsed onto the floor with a heavy thud.
The echo of the blow spread through the warehouse.
For a second, everything stood still.
Damian breathed slowly.
The crowbar still in his hand.
Heavy.
Stained.
His eyes were cold.
Without hesitation.
Without mercy.
—
In the Batcave, the silence was different.
Heavy.
Thick.
The lights in the medical wing were dim, casting long shadows over the equipment and monitors.
Jason lay on the gurney, unmoving.
His breathing was still uneven.
Tim’s sedative had helped calm his body… but not his mind.
Even unconscious, Jason shifted.
His fingers tightened around the sheets.
His brow was furrowed.
As if he were fighting something none of them could see.
Beside the gurney, Dick sat in a chair.
Leaning forward.
Elbows resting on his knees.
He watched Jason in silence.
Tired.
Very tired.
Across the room, Bruce Wayne stood still.
Arms crossed.
His gaze fixed on his son.
Neither of them spoke.
The only sound was the steady beep of a monitor.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face.
“He shouldn’t have had to go through this again.”
Bruce didn’t answer right away.
His eyes remained on Jason.
“I know.”
Dick let out a heavy sigh.
“No… I don’t think you do.”
Silence fell over the cave again.
The only sound was the heart monitor beside the gurney, marking steady beats. Slow, but stable.
Tim was leaning over the improvised lab bench, finishing the final adjustments to the vial of serum. The bluish glow of the screens reflected in the dark circles beneath his eyes.
He hadn’t slept properly in days.
“Done,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Bruce stood a few steps behind him, arms crossed, watching every movement.
Tim carefully drew the syringe, filling it with the translucent liquid.
“This should neutralize most of the toxin,” he explained, voice low and clinical.
“But it’s not instant.”
He approached the gurney.
Jason remained still, his chest rising and falling slowly. The toxin’s marks were still visible on his skin, dark lines spreading along his arms.
Tim cleaned the injection site.
“Even after the injection…” he continued, “his body will still need time to flush out the rest. It could take a few days.”
Bruce nodded.
“Will he wake up?”
Tim hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Probably. But maybe not today.”
The needle slid into Jason’s arm with precision.
Tim slowly pressed the plunger, releasing the serum into his system.
The monitor beeped faster for a few seconds—
Then stabilized again.
Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Now we wait.”
Damian was already far away.
Very far from the warehouse.
He hadn’t cleaned anything.
He hadn’t tried to hide what happened.
The body.
The blood.
Everything remained exactly as it was.
The monster who killed his brother.
(Maybe he was a monster too.)
Now he stood at the top of Wayne Tower, the cold dawn wind pulling his cape behind him. Gotham still slept beneath him, silent and indifferent.
Damian watched the horizon.
He didn’t know if he should go home.
The sunrise was beautiful today. Shades of orange and gold began to cut through the dark sky, reflecting off the glass buildings.
For a moment, the city almost looked peaceful.
Almost.
The crowbar was still in his hands.
The cold, chipped metal pressed against his fingers, heavy… too real.
He didn’t let go.
Damian knew what that meant.
He couldn’t be Robin anymore.
Not after everything.
Not after breaking Grayson’s trust.
Not after disappointing his father.
Robin didn’t cross that line.
But he had.
His gaze remained fixed on the rising sun.
He was a weapon.
Not a son.
That was how he had been raised.
And above all… he was an al Ghul.
And he would never stain that name.
---
The Batcave was strangely quiet.
It was already past ten in the morning.
Artificial light illuminated the computers, the metal platforms, and the vehicles lined up in their places. Even so, the place felt heavy, as if the air itself had become too dense to breathe.
Everyone was there.
Bruce Wayne stood in front of the main computer, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the screen without really seeing anything.
Beside the gurney, Tim Drake adjusted the latest data on the medical monitor.
Dick sat in one of the chairs, body stretched out.
Lying there, still unconscious, was Jason.
His vital signs were stable, but weak.
Tim sighed quietly.
Bruce said nothing.
Then a voice came through the speakers.
Clear. Controlled.
“Bruce… we need to talk.”
Barbara Gordon.
Bruce closed his eyes for a second before responding.
“Not now, Barbara.”
His voice came out rough.
“I’m not in the headspace for it.”
There was a brief pause.
On the other end, Barbara seemed to choose her words carefully.
When she spoke again, her voice was more serious.
“Bruce… this is urgent.”
Tim immediately looked up. Dick straightened slightly in his chair.
Bruce turned his head a little toward the communicator.
“What is it?”
Another second of silence.
Then Barbara said:
“The Joker is dead.”
The air in the Batcave seemed to freeze.
Tim went completely still.
The monitors beside Jason continued their soft beeping.
Bruce slowly turned his face toward the computer screen.
“Repeat that.”
“The Joker was found dead in a warehouse near the railway tracks,” Barbara said.
“The police are already on site… and Bruce…”
She hesitated.
“It wasn’t a clean death.”
Tim swallowed.
Dick felt his body go light.
Bruce said nothing.
For several seconds, no one breathed.
The quiet beeps of the monitors sounded absurdly normal after what had just been said.
Bruce Wayne didn’t blink.
“How?” His voice came out low.
On the other end of the line, Barbara answered after a brief pause.
“We don’t know exactly yet.”
Tim frowned.
Barbara continued, her tone serious.
“But… it was brutal.”
The air in the Batcave grew heavy.
“The body shows multiple signs of beating,” she said. “A lot of them.”
Tim Drake stopped typing.
“How many is ‘a lot’?”
Barbara took a breath before answering.
“Enough for the forensic team to say whoever did this… didn’t stop for a long time.”
Silence.
She continued:
“They also found gunshot wounds.”
Tim lifted his head.
“Gunshot wounds?”
“Yes. One shot to the leg.”
Another second.
“And another to the hand.”
Dick slowly straightened in the chair beside Jason’s gurney.
Barbara continued.
“His tongue was cut out.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Very heavy.
“And his hands were mutilated.”
Tim felt a chill run down his spine.
“That… doesn’t sound like an impulsive attack.”
“No,” Barbara replied.
She hesitated before finishing.
“It feels… personal.”
Bruce’s eyes slowly moved toward Jason.
Still unconscious.
Breathing slowly.
Dick was looking at him now too.
Bruce Wayne remained still for several seconds after Barbara Gordon’s report.
His gaze remained on Jason.
Then he spoke.
“Barbara.”
His voice was low. Controlled.
“Call everyone.”
There was a short silence on the other end of the line.
“Everyone?” she asked.
Bruce finally turned toward the large monitor in the cave.
His eyes were cold now.
Operational.
“The entire family.”
Dick Grayson slowly lifted his head from the chair beside the gurney.
He already knew what that meant.
It wasn’t just a meeting.
It was an investigation.
Barbara spoke again.
“I’m already calling them.”
The Batcave screens began lighting up one by one.
Encrypted channels opening.
Calls being sent.
“Sending alert to Stephanie Brown…” Barbara said while typing.
“Calling Duke Thomas…
Attempting contact with Cassandra Cain…”
Tim was already standing.
His fingers flew across the main keyboard.
“I’m pulling the railway cameras,” Tim Drake said. “Maybe we can build a timeline.”
Dick stood slowly.
His eyes returned to Jason for a moment.
“Bruce…”
Bruce didn’t look at him.
“Not yet.”
Dick understood.
They couldn’t discuss this near Jason.
Not now.
“Send me every camera feed from the railway.”
A new window opened on the Batcave’s main screen.
Security footage.
Shadows.
A warehouse.
Bruce watched everything in silence.
While behind him, on the gurney, Jason breathed slowly.
And somewhere in Gotham…
—
The next minutes passed quickly.
Too quickly.
The Batcave began to fill.
Stephanie had already been there for a few minutes, leaning against one of the metal workbenches, watching the medical monitors beside the gurney.
Her eyes drifted back to Jason from time to time, as if still confirming he was really there.
Breathing.
“Did he move again?” she asked quietly.
“No,” Tim Drake replied without looking away from the data. “Just a muscle reflex.”
Duke arrived down the side staircase of the cave.
“Update?”
Tim pointed at the monitor.
“Serum’s working. Slowly.”
Duke nodded.
“Slow is still better than nothing.”
A shadow landed silently on the railing above the platform.
Cassandra.
She climbed down without making a sound.
As always.
She stopped beside the gurney and watched Jason for a few seconds.
Sharp eyes analyzing the rhythm of his breathing, the movement of his chest, the tension in his fingers.
She didn’t say anything.
But the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.
He was alive.
Tim pulled up an image on the main screen.
A warehouse.
Dark stains on the floor.
“We need to talk about something else too.”
Stephanie frowned.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Tim took a breath.
“The Joker is dead.”
Silence.
Duke was the first to react.
“…What?”
“Dead,” Tim confirmed.
Stephanie blinked a few times.
“Okay… wait… dead how?”
Dick Grayson answered from across the room.
He was sitting now, elbows resting on his knees.
“Beaten.”
Tim zoomed in on the photos.
“Violently.”
Stephanie grimaced.
“Wow.”
Duke studied the screen longer.
“That was personal.”
Cassandra tilted her head slightly.
She was looking at the photos too.
Violence.
Rage.
That hadn’t been a fight.
“It was,” Dick said.
Before anyone could continue, footsteps echoed through the cave.
Slow.
Uneven.
Everyone turned their heads at the same time.
Alfred Pennyworth appeared first.
And beside him…
Jason.
Jason was standing.
But clearly forcing his body to cooperate.
One hand rested on Alfred’s shoulder.
The other pressed against his ribs.
His face was still pale.
His eyes tired.
Cassandra moved first.
Two silent steps.
She stopped close enough to look at him carefully.
To confirm.
He was really awake.
“Hey…” Jason muttered, squinting slightly at the light.
He gestured vaguely with one hand.
“Why’s it so loud?”
He made a small motion toward them.
“Keep it down.”
Stephanie crooked a small smile.
— Well, look who decided to get up.
Tim was already walking toward him.
— Jason, you shouldn’t—
— Relax, doc, — Jason cut in.
His voice was still rough.
— I just came to see what the morning drama was about.
Alfred adjusted his support carefully.
— I must note, gentlemen, — he said calmly, — that Master Jason’s usual sense of humor seems to have returned this morning.
Jason let out a small grunt.
— I was going to thank you, Alfred.
— Was? — Stephanie asked.
— Maybe.
He was about to finish the sentence.
But he stopped.
His eyes slowly moved across the room.
Until they landed on a small figure stepping out of the shadows of the cave.
Damian.
Jason frowned.
Watching him.
From head to toe.
The clothes.
The lack of color.
The blood.
And then he spoke, his voice still rough:
— Brat…
A second of silence.
— You’re wearing League gear?
The sentence echoed through the cave.
And immediately made Bruce Wayne turn his head.
Sharply.
His eyes found Damian.
— Damian.
Bruce Wayne’s voice echoed through the Batcave.
It wasn’t loud.
But it was enough to make the air feel heavier.
Damian didn’t answer.
He simply stood still for a moment.
Then he reached behind his back.
And dropped something on the floor.
The metallic sound echoed through the entire cave.
Everyone looked down.
A crowbar.
Worn.
Covered in dried blood.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Drake went completely still.
Brown brought a hand to her mouth without realizing it.
Thomas frowned, his eyes moving from the object to Damian.
Cain didn’t look away from the boy.
She had already understood.
Even before the words.
It was Damian who broke the silence.
His voice was calm.
Cold.
— I killed the Joker.
The words fell into the room like a stone into still water.
Jason didn’t move for a few seconds.
His eyes were fixed on the crowbar on the floor.
The air slowly left his lungs.
As if it had been ripped out of him.
— …What? — he murmured.
Dick Grayson stepped forward immediately.
— Damian—
— He won’t hurt anyone again, — Damian continued.
His voice firm.
Without hesitation.
— He won’t hurt you.
Now his eyes were on Jason.
Direct.
Sincere.
— Never again.
Jason blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The expression on his face was impossible to read.
Anger.
Shock.
Something deeper.
Bruce still hadn’t moved.
Not yet.
But Bruce Wayne’s eyes were locked on Damian Wayne.
The boy didn’t speak for a moment.
Then he knelt.
The movement was slow.
Deliberate.
The sound of a blade leaving its sheath echoed softly when he drew the katana. The sword gleamed beneath the cold lights of the Batcave.
Without hesitation, Damian placed it on the ground.
In front of Bruce.
He took a deep breath before speaking.
— Bruce… (he was not worthy of calling him father.)
The word came out firm.
— I understand my actions.
His head remained raised for now.
— I swore loyalty to the mantle of Robin. I swore that I would not take a life.
The silence in the cave was absolute.
— However… I failed to keep my word.
Damian lowered his gaze to the sword.
— I could not be better.
His voice did not tremble.
— And I ended up becoming your greatest failure.
Richard closed his eyes for a second when he heard that.
But Damian continued.
— However… I do not regret it.
Now his eyes returned to Bruce.
— The Joker deserved to die.
Those words weighed in the air.
— He hurt Todd. He hurt Barbara. He hurt countless people.
Jason went completely still upon hearing his own name.
Damian went on:
— I could no longer keep ignoring that.
The boy then pushed the sword forward with the tip of his fingers.
It slid across the metal floor until it stopped at Bruce’s feet.
The sound echoed through the cave.
— I will accept my punishment.
No visible emotion on his face.
— Even if it is death.
Drake lifted his head abruptly.
— Damian—
But he didn’t finish.
Damian continued:
— I am not worthy of being Robin.
The boy lifted his hands to the hood of the League uniform.
He removed it.
Exposing his neck.
Bronzed skin marked by small, old scars.
He lowered his head.
Until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
The posture was ancient.
Formal.
An absolute submission.
— I am not worthy of being a Wayne.
His voice was low now.
— I will accept my death as an Al Ghul.
The silence that followed was crushing.
Stephanie seemed unable to breathe.
Duke stood rigid.
Cassandra watched Damian without blinking.
Jason was still leaning on Alfred.
But now his fingers were trembling.
Dick took a step forward.
— Bruce… he’s just a child—
But Bruce raised a hand.
Dick stopped immediately.
Bruce looked at the sword on the floor.
Then at the kneeling boy.
Still.
Waiting for his sentence.
And in the entire Batcave, no one dared to move.
Damian still kept his forehead almost touching the cold floor of the Batcave.
He had shut his own body down.
Breathing slow.
Heart quiet.
He would accept it.
Anything.
Then he heard footsteps.
Heavy.
Slow.
They were not Bruce’s calculated steps.
Nor Dick’s light ones.
They were uneven.
Dragging.
Before Damian could react, two hands grabbed him by the shoulders.
Warm.
Rough.
Trembling.
And pulled him up.
— Habibi… thank you.
The voice broke.
Damian froze.
Jason was kneeling in front of him.
Still supporting himself awkwardly, his body clearly in pain, yet still there.
His arms wrapped around Damian tightly.
Too tightly.
Almost desperate.
— Thank you… thank you… thank you…
Jason repeated the word as if it were the only one he could say.
His body was shaking.
Damian felt it.
Felt the tremor running through his brother’s arms.
— I… — Jason swallowed hard — I couldn’t.
His voice came out hoarse.
Low.
— I tried so many times…
He held Damian tighter.
— My body… freezes when I get near him. I start shaking.
Jason took a deep breath, as if trying not to break right there.
— I get chills when I hear his laugh.
His fingers grabbed Damian’s uniform.
— I dream about it every night.
Silence.
The distant echo of the cave seemed to watch.
— Thank you… thank you, Dami.
Jason rested his forehead against the boy’s shoulder.
— You… you ended it.
Behind them, no one moved.
Dick stood completely still, eyes wide.
Stephanie wiped tears she hadn’t even noticed were falling.
Tim looked away for a second, trying to regain control.
Duke took a deep breath.
Cassandra continued watching Damian.
Attentive.
Bruce was still standing.
But something in his face had changed.
Jason let out a small, broken laugh.
— Damn… look at me.
He pulled back slightly, holding Damian’s face with both hands.
— You were ready to die.
Jason shook his head.
— What a stupid idea.
He pressed his forehead against Damian’s.
— You’re not a failure.
His voice was firm now.
— You’re my brother.
Jason breathed deeply again.
Damian could still feel Jason’s fingers gripping his uniform.
Firm.
Protective.
Almost desperate.
— I won’t let Bruce hurt you, — Jason said, his voice hoarse. — I won’t, Dami.
He shook his head, as if he had already made a decision.
— We can leave.
Jason held Damian’s face with both hands.
— We can rent a house. Anywhere. Small, whatever.
His breathing trembled.
— It’ll just be you and me.
He let out a humorless laugh.
— No Ra’s. No Talia. No Bruce.
His green eyes were desperate.
— Just you and me, Damian… and I’ll protect you forever.
Damian felt the corner of his eyes burn.
Hot.
Wet.
He clung to Jason as if he were the only solid thing in the world.
As if he were an anchor.
Because deep down…
He didn’t want to die.
Not now.
Then a voice came from behind them.
Low.
But impossible to ignore.
— Damian.
Damian’s body went rigid.
Jason immediately turned.
— Bruce, I’m serious. Back off.
His voice was hard now.
— I won’t let you hurt him.
Bruce didn’t answer.
He simply walked toward them.
Step by step.
And then… he knelt.
Right there.
At the same level as the two of them.
Jason froze for a second, clearly confused.
Bruce took a deep breath.
— I… know I’m not a good father.
The sentence came out heavy.
Difficult.
— I know I should have been better before.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to gather the words.
— But…
His voice faltered.
Damian lifted his eyes.
And froze.
Bruce’s eyes were wet.
— God knows how hard I try for this family, — Bruce continued quietly. — But sometimes… I can’t be the best for you… for my children.
Jason blinked.
He clearly hadn’t expected that.
Bruce then opened his arms.
And pulled them both.
Jason and Damian.
Into an embrace.
Big.
Strong.
Protective.
— I’m not proud that you killed the Joker, Damian.
His voice was broken.
Sincere.
— But I could have lost you too.
Bruce’s hand moved to Damian’s hair.
Brushing a few rebellious strands away.
Tucking them behind his ear.
A small gesture.
But full of care.
— I could have lost you, son.
The word hung in the air.
Son.
— I wouldn’t forgive myself.
Damian couldn’t speak.
His chest hurt.
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment.
And whispered:
— …thank you, Damian.
Silence.
The entire Batcave seemed to have stopped.
— Thank you for doing… what I could never do.
Behind them, Dick took a deep breath.
Tim lowered his head.
Stephanie was holding Cassandra’s hand.
Duke stared at the floor.
Because in that moment…
No one in the Wayne family knew exactly what they were supposed to feel.