The Batcave hummed with its low, mechanical rhythm, the faint whir of the computer, the echo of dripping water from stalactites, the distant sound of bats shifting overhead. Damian sat hunched forward in the computer chair, green glow from the screens casting shadows across his sharp features. His left eye was covered by a fresh bandage, the white stark against the bruised skin surrounding it.

Alfred had told him, ordered him, really, to rest. His father had said the same, a rare note of worry slipping into Bruce’s otherwise measured tone. But Damian wasn’t built for stillness. Not when there were patterns to trace, suspects to analyze, loose threads to tug until the truth unraveled.

Pain tugged at the corner of his vision, a dull ache that flared every time he shifted focus. He ignored it, fingers flying across the keyboard with precision. The injury slowed him down, but he refused to let it stop him. Rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not when Gotham was still breathing, still festering.

The faint sound of footsteps behind him drew his attention for only a split second. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge. Instead, his posture straightened slightly, his tone clipped when he finally spoke.

Damian: “I told you.” he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen. “I don’t need to be lying in bed while the city burns. A bandage over my eye doesn’t make me useless.”

He leaned back in the chair then, just enough for the harsh light to reveal the tightness in his jaw, the exhaustion beneath his stubbornness. His good eye flicked sideways, sharp but carrying the weight of something unspoken.