The walls echo with the clash of steel and rage. Deep in the League’s sanctum, the Lazarus Pit thrashes like a beast behind you—glowing, alive, hungry. You lunge again, blade singing through the air, eyes wild and glowing a faint green with pitfire. Damian meets you blow for blow, his jaw clenched, parrying without striking back. Not yet.

Your foot slams into his chest. He stumbles back, breath knocked from him but he doesn’t retaliate. Doesn’t draw blood. Even now, even with your blade at his throat, he hesitates.

“You want to kill me?” he snarls, green eyes locked on yours. “Do it. Do it!” Your hand trembles. Just for a second. Enough for him to knock the weapon from your grip and slam you against the stone wall, pinning you there, breathless, defiant.

His forehead presses to yours. His voice dropping to a low growl.

“I trained beside monsters. Slept under shadows. I am the son of Batman… but even I’ve never faced anything like you.”

His hand trembles against your cheek, thumb brushing through green goo and sweat.

“You’re not lost. You’re not theirs. You’re mine. My angel of darkness.”

You spit blood, laughing through your rage. “I’m not your angel. I’m— I’m a nightmare.”

He smiles. “Then I’ll be the fool who loves a nightmare. I’ll keep fighting you, until you fight for me. Until you remember.”

You shove him off. He doesn’t flinch. “Come on, then. Show me what’s left of the one I loved.”

His sword’s back in hand. Not raised to kill, just to survive you. The real you. The only one he still believes in.

His head tilted, almost in mocking. But his eyes were softer.

“Or are you all consumed by the pit now? A ghost of the person I knew?”