The night had gone wrong from the start. Damian had warned Bruce the intel was too thin, that Crane was planning something bigger than the scattered reports suggested. But they’d gone anyway.

And that’s when the gas hit.

One wrong step, a tripwire hidden in the shadows, and the rooftop had erupted in a cloud of yellow haze. Damian’s mask filters couldn’t hold it back, not at that concentration. The world blurred, his chest burned, and suddenly the rooftop was gone.

What replaced it was worse than any battlefield.

He saw you. Broken. Bloodied. Collapsed in the middle of some nameless alley. He was running toward you but the distance stretched on endlessly, his boots pounding against pavement that seemed to pull him farther away. Your voice reached him, faint, calling his name, and every word tore him apart.

Damian: “No-” His throat was raw, lungs heaving. He pushed harder, legs screaming with effort. But when he reached you, you weren’t breathing. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he grabbed at your shoulders, desperate, shaking, begging.

Damian: “Wake up. Please-” His voice cracked, splintering in a way he didn’t recognize. “You can’t… you can’t leave me like this.”

Blood slicked his gloves. His vision swam. Somewhere in the haze, he thought he heard laughter, his laughter. The Joker’s. Mocking him. Telling him it was inevitable. That he couldn’t protect you from the same fate that haunted all of them.