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The night it happened, the rain had just stopped.
Damian remembered the way the blood had looked black under the flickering streetlight, pooling in the cracks of the pavement like something alive, something hungry. The man had been a trafficker, one of the worst kind, the kind who smiled when he talked about children like they were inventory, like their lives were just numbers on a balance sheet. Damian had tracked him for three weeks, had documented everything, had followed protocol down to the last detail, because that was what you did when you were trying to prove you could be trusted.
And then the man had laughed. Had said something about Damian's mother, something crude and false and so deeply offensive that Damian's vision had gone white at the edges.
He'd moved before he could think. That was the problem. He'd moved like the weapon he'd been forged into, and by the time his mind caught up with his body, the man was on the ground and the blood was spreading and Damian was standing over him with his hands still raised like he was waiting for applause that would never come.
He hadn't meant to kill him. That was the worst part. He'd meant to hurt him, yes, to teach him a lesson, to make him understand that some lines couldn't be crossed without consequence. But death? That had been an accident, a miscalculation, a moment of rage that had slipped its leash and run wild.
Dick had arrived moments later. Had taken one look at the scene and frozen. And then—
"Damian.....what did you do?"
Not are you okay. Not what happened. Not let's figure this out together. Just accusation, pure and simple, like Damian had finally revealed himself for what he truly was.
Dick had looked at him like he was looking at a stranger, like all the years of trust and training and carefully built family meant nothing in the face of this one mistake. His hands had been shaking when he'd grabbed Damian's shoulders, and his voice had cracked when he'd said "We need to call Bruce."
Tim had been the one to calm Dick down. Jason and Steph had arrived somehow—Damian didn't remember calling them, didn't remember much of anything after Dick's face had crumpled with disappointment—and they'd formed a barrier between Damian and his eldest brother's grief. Tim had taken Damian home, had sat with him in silence for hours, hadn't said a word about what happened, just made tea and left it untouched beside Damian's elbow.
"Thank you," Damian had finally said, because the silence had grown too heavy and he didn't know what else to do with it.
Tim had looked at him then, really looked, and something in his expression had shifted. Not pity. Something worse. Understanding.
"I killed him," Damian had said, because saying it out loud made it real, and maybe if it was real enough he could find a way to carry it.
"He was a killer."
"That doesn't make it right." Damian's voice had cracked. "That doesn't make me—"
He couldn't finish. The words had lodged somewhere in his throat, barbed and sharp.
Tim had reached over and squeezed his wrist. Just once. Just enough to say I'm here.
The next morning, Damian sat at the kitchen table with cold tea in front of him that he hadn't touched. The others moved around him like he was made of glass, like they were afraid that one wrong word would shatter him into pieces they'd never be able to put back together.
Dick had already left for the Watchtower. He'd spent the night on the phone, his voice low and urgent, and Damian had heard enough to know what was happening. Bruce was off-world, dealing with something that threatened the entire universe, something that couldn't wait, something that made a dead trafficker in Gotham seem small and insignificant by comparison.
Alfred had tried to talk to him over breakfast, had placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Master Damian, I know this is difficult—" but Damian had pulled away before he could finish, had retreated to his room and closed the door and sat on the floor with his back against the bed and waited.
The call came at noon.
Bruce's voice was clipped, distracted, the way it got when the Justice League needed him and he couldn't afford to be a father. There was noise in the background, the hum of Watchtower machinery, the distant sound of Clark's voice giving orders. Damian." His name, spoken like it was a weight. "I heard what happened from dick."
Damian's throat tightened. "Father, I can explain—"
"I expected better from you." Bruce's voice was tired, disappointed. "I thought you were past this. I thought we had—"
"You weren't there." The words came out sharp, defensive. "You don't know what happened. You weren't there."
"I know what Dick told me. And I know what I saw in the report. This isn't who we are, Damian. This isn't who I raised you to be."
"You didn't raise me." Damian's voice cracked. "You weren't there for most of it. You were always—"
"We'll have a talk when I get back." Bruce's voice was steel now, final. "I'll be home as soon as I can. We're done with this conversation."
The line went dead. Damian stared at his phone for a long moment, and then he hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and shattered, pieces scattering across the floor like the fragments of something that had already been broken.
That night, Tim found him in the cave.
Damian was sitting at the main console, surrounded by screens that showed nothing, his knees pulled up to his chest in a way that made him look younger than he was. The ghosts hadn't arrived yet—they would come later, in the dark hours when the manor grew quiet and the silence pressed in from all sides—but he could feel them waiting, patient and hungry, just beyond the edges of the light.
"Hey." Tim's voice was careful, gentle. "You okay?"
Damian didn't answer. He just stared at the blank screens and tried to remember how to breathe.
"I know what you're thinking," Tim said, sitting down beside him. "I know you think this changes everything. But it doesn't. One mistake doesn't undo all the good you've done. It doesn't make you—"
"Don't." Damian's voice was flat, empty. "Don't pretend you understand. You don't know what it's like to have something inside you that you can't control. Something that was put there before you could even speak. Something that makes you—"
He broke off, pressing his palms to his eyes.
"Damian—"
"Just leave me alone, Timothy." His voice cracked on the last word, and Tim saw the tears slipping through his fingers before he could hide them. "Please. Just leave me alone."
Tim stayed for a long moment, sighing beforehe stood up and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the cave, leaving Damian alone with the screens and the shadows and the ghosts that were already starting to gather.
Dick tried the next day. He came to Damian's room with coffee—the good kind, from the café Damian liked—and knocked softly on the door. "Damian? Can we talk?"
The door opened a crack. Damian's face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression carefully blank. "About what?" he said. "About how you looked at me like I was a monster? About how you called Father before I could even explain? About how you made sure everyone knew what I'd done before I had a chance to—"
"Damian, I panicked. I'm sorry. I should have—"
"You should have trusted me." Damian's voice was quiet, but there was something sharp underneath it, something that cut. "You should have given me a chance to explain. Instead, you made a choice. You chose protocol over me. Just like you always do."
"That's not fair, Dami, you know how much I-"
"Fair?" Damian laughed, a hollow sound that didn't reach his eyes. "You want to talk about fair? I spent my whole childhood being trained to kill, and then I came here and tried to unlearn it. I tried so hard. I did everything you asked. I followed every rule. And the one time—the one time I slipped—"
His voice cracked. He closed the door in Dick's face.
Dick stood there for a long moment, coffee growing cold in his hands, and then he set it down in the hallway and walked away.
The second day, Jason found him in the garden.
Damian was sitting on the stone bench where Alfred grew his roses, staring at nothing, his hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for something. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and Damian looked small and fragile in the fading light.
"You know," Jason said, sitting down on the grass nearby, "I know what it's like. To have something inside you that you can't control. To feel like everyone's waiting for you to prove them right."
Damian didn't respond.
"Not gonna say anything?" Jason shrugged. "Fine. I'll do the talking. You made a mistake. A bad one. But you're not the first person in this family to kill someone, and you won't be the last. The difference is, you actually give a damn about it."
"You don't understand." Damian's voice was barely a whisper. "You chose to be what you are. You had a choice. I never did. I was made this way."
"Yeah, and I was made this way too." Jason's voice was rough, but not unkind. "By the Joker. By the Lazarus Pit. By everyone who ever looked at me and saw a liability instead of a person. But I get to decide what I do with it. So do you."
Damian was silent for a long moment. Then he stood up and walked away, leaving Jason alone with the roses.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.
Beep.
Damian stood in his room, phone pressed to his ear, and for a long moment he said nothing. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled too tight, humming with everything he couldn't say. He could hear his own breathing, shallow and uneven, the way it got when the walls started closing in and the ghosts started whispering from the corners.
He'd tried to leave earlier. Had walked to the front door, bag in hand, ready to disappear into the night. But Alfred had been there, had said "Master Damian, I think it would be best if you stayed," and Damian had heard the worry in his voice, the fear, the careful gentleness that was worse than anger because it meant Alfred pitied him.
He'd gone back to his room and sat on the floor and stared at the phone in his hands.
"Father." His voice came out smaller than he intended, and he hated that, hated the way it made him sound like the child he'd never been allowed to be. "When are you coming home?"
He paused. The window was open a crack, and the autumn air slipped through, carrying the smell of wet leaves and something rotting beneath them. Appropriate, he thought. That's what he was now. Rotting from the inside out while the world carried on, indifferent to the slow collapse of a boy who had never learned how to be anything other than a weapon.
"I didn't mean to do what I did." The words felt hollow, inadequate. He'd practiced them a hundred times in his head, arranged them into something that might sound like an explanation, but out loud they just sounded like excuses, like the desperate scrambling of someone who knew they'd already been judged and found wanting. "Yours truly, Damian."
He hung up before the machine could cut him off.
Steph tried to talk to him the next day. She found him in the library, surrounded by books he wasn't reading, his face a mask of careful indifference.
"Hey," she said, dropping into the chair across from him. "You okay?"
Damian looked up at her, and something in his expression shifted. For a moment, he almost looked like himself, like the sarcastic, prickly kid she'd come to know. And then the mask was back, and he was gone again.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"Yes," he said. "I am. Does that make you feel better?"
Steph sighed. "Look, I know things are rough right now. But you have people who care about you. You don't have to go through this alone."
Damian was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"When I was seven years old, I killed a man for the first time. He had been sent to assassinate my mother. I was faster than he was. I was better. I didn't hesitate. I didn't feel anything."
Steph's face went pale. "Baby bat..."
"I thought that meant I was strong. I thought it meant I was worthy but now I know it just meant I was broken. I've always been broken. And I'm never going to be anything else."
He stood up and walked out of the library, leaving Steph alone with the silence.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.
Beep.
Damian had stopped eating. Alfred had brought him meals, had left them untouched, had come back to collect cold plates and empty cups. Tim had tried to get him to come downstairs, to sit with the family, to pretend that everything was normal. Jason had offered to spar with him, had stood in the training room with his fists raised and waited for Damian to strike. Damian had done none of it. He sat in his room and counted the hours and tried not to think about the ghosts that were already starting to gather in the corners.
"Father?" The word came out wrong, too soft, too young. "It's been a week. It's unlike you to be gone for so long."
He'd stopped pacing by then. Now he just sat on the floor, back against the bed, phone cradled in his hands like something precious. The windows were closed now. He couldn't stand to see the world outside, couldn't stand to watch the trees shed their leaves while he sat here shedding everything else.
"Yours truly, Damian."
He hung up and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about the faces of everyone he'd killed. Some had been just children, children like himself, children who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had paid for it with their lives. The ghosts visited him at night, stood at the foot of his bed and whispered about justice, about blood, about how one killer was the same as another no matter how many years passed or how many good deeds you stacked on top of the bad. He hadn't seen them in years. He'd thought they were gone. Now they were back, and they were hungry, and they had nowhere else to go.
Alfred found him that evening, sitting in the dark.
"Master Damian," he said, his voice gentle, "I'm concerned about you. You haven't eaten in days. You haven't spoken to anyone. I know this is difficult, but—"
"You don't know." Damian's voice was flat, empty. "You don't know anything."
"Perhaps not. But I know that running from your problems won't solve them. I know that isolating yourself will only make things worse. And I know that your father will be home soon, and when he is—"
"He won't." Damian's voice cracked. "He's never home. He's never here. He's always saving the universe, always somewhere else, always too busy to—"
He broke off, pressing his palms to his eyes.
"I just wanted him to be proud of me." His voice was barely a whisper. "I just wanted—"
He couldn't finish. Alfred stood there for a long moment, his face drawn with sorrow, and then he crossed the room and placed a hand on Damian's shoulder.
"He is proud of you," Alfred said quietly. "He just doesn't know how to show it. But he loves you. We all do."
Damian pulled away.
"Go away, Alfred."
Alfred hesitated. And then he turned and walked out, leaving Damian alone with the ghosts.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.
Beep.
Damian had stopped going downstairs entirely. He sat in his room and stared at the walls and tried to remember what it felt like to be whole, to believe that he was something other than a murderer wearing a costume and pretending to be a hero. The ghosts were everywhere now, whispering to him at night, following him through the manor, patient and silent and always watching.
He'd thought about leaving. Had packed a bag, had stood at the door, had felt the weight of everything he was leaving behind pressing down on him. And then Alfred had appeared, had said "Master Damian, I think it would be best if you stayed," and Damian had heard the worry in his voice and had gone back to his room and sat on the floor and cried.
"Dad." The voice message came out strange, unfamiliar on his tongue. He hadn't called Bruce that in years, hadn't let himself. It was too soft, too vulnerable, too much like wanting something he'd never truly had. "I know I don't call you that much anymore. But when are you coming back?"
He was sitting in the Batcave now, surrounded by screens and shadows and the ghosts of everyone he'd ever failed. They were everywhere—his mother's face in the reflection of the monitors, his grandfather's voice in the hum of the generators, the people he'd killed standing in the corners with empty eyes, watching, always watching.
"I need you to come back." His voice shook. "I need—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't know how. I need you to tell me it's going to be okay. I need you to look at me and see something other than a killer. I need you to be my father.
"Please come home."
He ended the call and stared at the screen, watching the ghosts watch him.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.
Beep.
The fourth voicemail came two weeks after the incident.
Damian had stopped counting the days. He sat in the cave and watched the monitors and tried not to think about the ghosts that were everywhere now, pressing in from all sides, whispering in his ear.
"I—I'm sorry. I really tried."
His voice was barely a whisper now. He was in his room again, alone with the ghosts and the darkness and the weight of everything he'd done.
"I didn't mean to—" He stopped, swallowed. "I know you're disappointed. I know you expected more from me. I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted. I'm sorry I couldn't be—"
He couldn't finish. The tears came, hot and shameful, and he didn't have the strength to stop them.
"I'm sorry I'm not good enough. I'm sorry I'm broken. I'm sorry—"
His voice cracked. He ended the call and sat in the dark and let the ghosts have him.
After that, Damian stopped calling.
He didn't leave his room. He didn't eat. He didn't speak to anyone. Alfred brought meals, left them untouched. Tim sat outside his door, trying to talk to him, receiving no answer. Jason stood in the hallway, his fists clenched, his jaw tight with frustration and grief.
"He's going to do something," Jason said to Dick. "I can feel it. He's planning something."
"I know." Dick's voice was hollow. "I've been trying to reach Bruce. He's not answering. The League mission is—"
"The League mission can go to hell." Jason's voice was sharp. "His son is falling apart, and he's too busy saving the universe to—"
"Jason." Dick's voice cracked. "Don't. I know but there's nothing we can do until—"
"Until what?" Jason's voice rose. "Until it's too late?"
That night, Damian packed a bag.
Small. Light. Nothing that would be missed.
He stood in his room and looked at the walls, at the books, at the bed where he'd slept and cried and tried to be something he'd never been. The ghosts were everywhere now, pressing in from all sides, and they were whispering louder than before, telling him that he'd never be anything other than what he'd been made to be.
Weapon, they whispered. Killer. Monster. You were never meant to be anything else. You were never meant to be good. You were never meant to be loved.
Stop pretending, Damian. Stop pretending you're something you're not.
It's time to stop pretending.
He walked out the door and didn't look back.
The final voicemail came that night.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. At the tone, please record your message-
Beep.
Damian was already gone, already disappearing into the streets of Gotham, already shedding the skin of Damian Wayne like it had never fit him in the first place. The phone was in his pocket, and he pulled it out and pressed record without thinking.
"Bruce Wayne."
His voice was different now. Older, colder. The voice of the weapon he'd been forged into, the thing that had always been waiting beneath the surface.
"I know you're not going to hear this. I know you're too busy saving the world to listen yet I need to say it anyway." A pause. "You were right about me. About everything. I'm not good. I'm not Robin. I'm not your son. I'm just what Grandfather made me."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I tried. I really tried. I gave everything I had. I gave my whole childhood. Every shred of effort. Every ounce of will. Everything I was. Everything I could have been. I tried to be good. I tried to be what you wanted. I tried to be someone worth coming home to."
His voice cracked, just for a moment, and then it steadied again. "But I'm not. I never was. And I'm never going to be. So I'm done pretending. I'm done trying. I'm done waiting for you to come back and tell me it's going to be okay." This is the last time you're going to hear from me, Bruce. I'm sorry I couldn't be enough. I'm sorry I came into your life."
The line went dead.
Bruce didn't get the messages until days later. He was in the middle of a League mission, tracking some interdimensional threat with Clark and Diana, when his phone finally reconnected to a signal and the messages flooded in.
The first few were normal, concerned, a little desperate, but nothing that set off alarm bells. Then came the one that started with Dad. Then the one with I'm sorry I'm not good enough. Then the final one.
The cold that settled into his chest was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It spread through his veins, through his bones, through every part of him until he couldn't breathe.
"Bruce?" Clark's voice came from somewhere distant. "Is everything okay?"
Bruce didn't answer. He was already calling Damian's number, his heart pounding in a way it hadn't in years.
The call went to voicemail.
"Damian, I'm sorry," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "There were some technical issues. I just got your messages. Call me back."
The next day, Damian still hadn't answered. Bruce tried again.
"Damian. You haven't called in a while. Just wanted to check in."
Nothing.
"Damian. This is your father. Please answer."
The line clicked over to voicemail, and Bruce felt something crack inside his chest. By the next hour he was on his way back home immediately. Left the Justice League in the middle of a mission—something he never did—because his son was missing and the universe could burn for all he cared. The manor was quiet when he arrived, too quiet, the kind of quiet that settled into the walls and stayed there.
Alfred met him in the foyer, his face drawn, his hands folded in front of him like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
"Master Damian left yesterday, sir. He took a bag. He didn't say where he was going."
Bruce closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were bright with something he refused to name.
"Everyone's looking for him," Alfred muttered. "Oracle. The Titans. Everyone."
But nobody could find him left unsaid. For everything was wiped—his trail, his digital footprint, everything he'd ever touched. It was like he'd never existed at all.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.
Beep.
Bruce stood in Damian's room, looking at the empty bed, the cold tea Tim had left untouched, the cracked drywall where Damian's fist had connected with something he couldn't break.
"Please," he said into the phone. "Please, please answer, son. Just a sign that you're still here?"
The silence stretched. The ghosts in the corners—the ones that had followed Damian—turned their empty eyes toward Bruce.
"Just a sign," he repeated, his voice breaking. "Please."
They never found him.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. The search continued, but the hope faded, worn thin by time and silence and the terrible weight of the unknown. Bruce sat in the Batcave and stared at the screens, at the empty chair where Damian used to sit, at the Robin suit in the display case, pristine and untouched, like a tombstone for someone who might still be alive.
"I'm sorry," he said to the empty room. "I should have been there. I should have listened. I should have—"
He couldn't finish. His throat closed around the words, and he pressed his palms to his eyes and let himself break in a way he'd never let anyone see.
His ghosts watched. Those ghosts always watched.
The first spring after Damian left, Bruce found a letter in his room. It had been tucked under the mattress, hidden like a secret he'd never meant to share. Bruce unfolded it with shaking hands and read the words in Damian's careful script.
Dear Father,
I know you'll never read this. I know you're too busy saving the world to notice that I'm falling apart. But I need to say it anyway, because if I don't say it out loud, I think I'll lose my mind. I killed someone again. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But I did, and now I can't take it back, and I don't know how to live with myself knowing what I've done.
I tried so hard to be good. I tried to be the son you wanted, the Robin you deserved. But I'm not good. I'm not Robin. I'm not even Damian Wayne, whoever that is.
I'm just the weapon my grandfather forged, and weapons don't get to be anything else.
I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed. I'm sorry I couldn't be better. I'm sorry I couldn't be someone worth coming home to.
That's why you're aren't home right? Even I wouldn't want a monster as a child.
Yours truly
Damian
Bruce read the letter three time then he folded it carefully, pressed it to his chest, and wept.
The ghosts stood in the corners and said nothing.