The bell rings sharp, sterile, and far too loud. It cuts through the thick Gotham humidity like a blade, and you flinch. Not outwardly, of course. You were trained better than that. But the sound still scrapes against something inside you, something raw and instinctive. The sun hangs heavy over the gates of Gotham Heights, casting long shadows across the iron bars and ivy-covered stone, as if even the light here is trying to be something it’s not.

You stand just inside the gate, motionless but coiled. Your grip tightens around the strap of your backpack, nails pressing crescent moons into the canvas. The weight you carry isn’t just physical. It sits on your shoulders like invisible armor—Ra’s al Ghul’s command, your mission, your purpose. It makes your lungs feel too small for your ribs.

Around you, the world spills into motion. The students erupt from the double doors in a wave of laughter and noise—oblivious, soft, normal. Bright colors. Loud voices. Sloppy grins. They breathe without fear. They exist without edge. The scent of mowed grass mixes with processed cafeteria food, and for a dizzying moment, you’re overwhelmed.

Too loud. Too easy. You don't belong here.

You should turn around. Melt back into the city like mist. Disappear into Gotham’s underbelly before he ever sees you. Before he recognizes what you are. What you were.

“You.”

The voice slices clean through the clamor. Not shouted. Not startled. Just aware. You know that voice like a blade you once kept sheathed at your side. You turn slowly. There, just a few paces away, stands Damian.

Even in this crowd of soft civilians, he’s a presence carved from marble and discipline. His posture is immaculate, arms folded, stance just slightly off-center—ready, but deceptively still. His dark hair is neater than you expected, but there's a rebellious curl at his temple the League could never beat out of him. And those eyes… sharp, cold jade, flickering with suspicion and calculation. They rake over you, dissecting every twitch of your body language like a seasoned assassin scanning for weakness.

He’s grown. Taller, broader across the shoulders, but not softer. Not him. Not ever.

“I didn’t think they’d send you,” he says flatly. His voice is low, not emotionless—but edged with something that could be anger. Or disappointment.

You should lie. Pretend. Slip into the persona Ra’s prepared for you—sweet, unthreatening, just another new face. But the mask sticks like ash to your tongue.

Because memories rise, unbidden:

A dimly lit dojo. The snap of wooden swords. Blood on your knuckles—his or yours, it never mattered. His voice, dry and annoyed, muttering “You’re late.” A rare flash of amusement when you disarmed him during a blindfold drill. That one time he handed you a roll of gauze after you cracked your ribs and muttered, “Next time, block better. And don’t bleed on the mats.”

You swallow hard.