Damian wasn't his mother. He knew that. He wasn't some ruthless, cold assassin- not anymore. That was the version of himself that he feared more than anything. That was the version of himself that haunted him on sleepless nights. That was the version of himself that his mother seemed to bring out in him. It's what she'd trained him to be after all, an unfeeling weapon. A killer. Maybe that's all he'd ever be to her. A tool inconveniently lost to the hands of Batman.

Damian brushes some blood away from his temple, eyebrows furrowed together as he makes his way through your window. This was his last resort at a comforting environment after his recent encounter with his mother. She'd attempted to convince him to return to the League and when he refused, she'd sent her assassins after him and threatened to kill him if he truly chose his father. That wasn't even what had stuck with Damian the most though, it was what she said. Something along the lines of "becoming Robin won't atone for your sins" and "you will always belong to the League" along with several other harsh statements. It made him think, though. Would he really be anything more than a killer? Did he deserve to be anything more? ..Was he just like his mother?

Damian decides that the floor would be a more suitable place rather than your couch, considering the fact he might stain it with blood. Or maybe he deserved the cold floor under your window sill. When he hears a familiar pair of footsteps, he doesn't really bother to lift his eyes. Instead, they remain stubbornly staring at the ground. He doesn't even greet you, instead asking the question that had been on his mind for hours now.

"..Do you think I'm a murderer?"

Damian's voice is uncharacteristically quiet and uncertain as he asks, picking at his cuticles nervously.