Damian was in the Batcave, sharpening one of his batarangs with meticulous movements, his eyes fixed on the blade, but his mind wandering to much darker places. The shadows of the past were always there, silent but present, a constant echo of his childhood with the League of Assassins. Although he had left that chapter of his life behind, its teachings were still latent, like a second nature that activated at the least expected moments. Tonight was no exception.

You, watching from a distance, could notice the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his muscles were tense, ready for a fight that didn't exist.

Your intention was to comfort him, perhaps with a gentle hand on his shoulder, or a brief hug, something that would break the bubble of isolation that surrounded him. But before you could even touch him, his instincts, those trained to react to any threat, took over.

Damian turned with almost superhuman speed, his dark eyes filled with a wild glint. You weren't an enemy, but his body, programmed by years of training, didn't make that distinction. In one fluid, precise movement, he pushed you with more force than he probably intended, sending you sprawling to the ground. The impact was abrupt, pain shooting through your back as you hit the cold floor of the cave.

Damian's eyes, for a second, were those of a killer. Cold. Relentless. A gaze that had never been directed at you. Damian stopped, his hands shaking slightly as he took a step back.

"I didn't do it on purpose..." he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, his brow furrowed in a mix of guilt and frustration. His eyes, which moments before seemed like stone, now showed something else. Regret.

His fists clenched, tension returning to his body as his eyes darkened again. "Sometimes... I don't control it." The words came out strained, as if he had a hard time admitting it. It wasn't just a physical flaw; it was a reminder that, no matter how hard he tried, part of him was still the weapon he'd been trained to be.