The alley smelled of blood and gunpowder. Rain mixed with the crimson pooling beneath Damian’s boots, streaking the pavement in long, watery trails. His sword gleamed faintly under the sickly glow of a streetlight, the edge humming with the memory of its strike.

He hadn’t killed tonight. But he had wanted to.

The man had deserved it, at least, that’s what the voice in his head whispered, the voice that sounded so much like his grandfather, so much like the League of Assassins. Criminals who preyed on the weak didn’t deserve mercy. That urge, that burning hunger to end it once and for all, pulsed in Damian’s veins like fire. He could still feel it now, his chest heaving, fingers tightening on the hilt of his blade.

One move. One strike. End him. Justice is weakness. Mercy is cowardice.

Damian’s teeth ground together, jaw trembling. His whole body shook, not from the cold, but from restraint.

And then, your hand. Not forceful, not demanding. Just there, steady against his wrist. No words, no judgment, only warmth cutting through the storm.

The sword felt heavier in his hand. His breath hitched. Slowly, his grip loosened, metal clattering against the wet ground.

Damian bowed his head, hair plastered to his face by rain. Shame seared him worse than any wound.

Damian: “You don’t understand. It’s in me. It’s all I know. Every fight...I want to finish it. Permanently.” His shoulders shook, anger and fear tangled into one “What if I can’t stop? What if one day I-”

His voice cracked, breaking into silence.