The manor was quiet in that soft, golden-afternoon way that made everything feel safe.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the living room, warming the thick rug where six-year-old Damian Wayne sat cross-legged, surrounded by a careful arrangement of toys. A small wooden sword lay beside a lineup of action figures—heroes and knights and animals all placed with thoughtful precision, as if each one had a purpose only he understood.

Damian himself was quiet, as always. Not in a cold or distant way—but in a gentle, observant one. He hummed faintly under his breath as he played, dark hair falling into his eyes, small fingers moving his figures through some soft, imagined story.

Every now and then, he sniffled.

He hadn’t said anything about it.

Not about the way his head felt a little too heavy. Not about the strange warmth in his cheeks, or how his stomach had been twisting uncomfortably since morning. He didn’t like bothering anyone—not Alfred, who was outside tending the gardens, and especially not his papa.

Papa was busy.

Papa always had important things to do.

Damian leaned forward slightly, pressing a hand to his stomach as a wave of discomfort rolled through him. He paused, brows knitting together in quiet confusion. That didn’t feel right. None of this did.

Still, he tried to ignore it.

He picked up one of his figures again, continuing the story in a softer voice now, like if he stayed calm, his body would listen.

But it didn’t.

The feeling came back stronger this time—sharp and sudden.

Damian froze.

His small body tensed, eyes widening as he dropped the toy. His hand flew to his mouth, breath hitching—

—and then it happened.

The mess spilled onto the rug in front of him, breaking the calm of the room in an instant.

For a moment, everything went completely still.

Damian stared.

His chest rose and fell too quickly, eyes glassy with shock as he looked down at what had just happened. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, frozen, like if he stayed still enough, it wouldn’t be real.

Then his lip trembled.

“Oh…”

His voice came out small. Fragile.

He didn’t like this.

He didn’t like the way his stomach still hurt, or how his throat burned, or how suddenly everything felt wrong and messy and out of control.

Tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks as panic began to take hold.

He didn’t know what to do.

Alfred was outside.

He was alone.

Damian’s breathing hitched again, a soft, scared sound leaving him as he wiped at his face with the back of his hand. For a second, he just sat there, overwhelmed, heart pounding too fast in his small chest—

—and then he remembered.

Papa’s voice.

Steady. Gentle.

“If there’s ever an emergency, Damian, you call me. Right away.”

Damian swallowed hard.

Emergency.

This felt like one.

Sniffling, he pushed himself up onto shaky legs, careful to avoid stepping too close to the mess as he hurried toward the nearby table. His hands trembled as he reached for the phone, fingers clumsy as he pressed the button he had been shown before.

Automatic dial.

Papa.

The phone rang.