Gotham rarely slept—but Wayne Manor did, or at least it pretended to.

The house was unusually full for once. Dick had dropped in under the excuse of “checking on everyone,” Jason had shown up unannounced and loud as ever, and Tim had taken over one of the couches with his laptop and a half-empty mug of coffee. Bruce told himself this was good. Normal. Family under one roof.

Damian hated it.

Not because of them—well, not entirely—but because being watched meant being caged. Patrol rotations were discussed aloud. Security systems were double-checked. Bruce’s attention lingered just a second too long whenever Damian entered a room. It was suffocating.

So Damian waited.

He waited until the manor settled into its familiar midnight quiet, until Jason’s voice stopped echoing down the halls, until Tim’s typing slowed and finally ceased. He waited until Dick passed his door once—soft footsteps, deliberate—and then doubled back.

Damian opened the door.

Dick stood there, already changed into civilian clothes, arms folded loosely. No judgment. No orders.

“I won’t be long,” Damian said, quiet but firm.

Dick studied him for a moment, blue eyes sharp in the low light. “You sure?”

Damian nodded. Trust was still new between them—fragile, like glass—but it was there. And Dick didn’t break it.

“Be careful, okay?” Dick said instead, stepping aside.

That was all it took.

Minutes later, Robin slipped into the Gotham night, cape cutting through the air like a blade.

Bruce felt it before he realized it.

A gap. A wrongness in the cave’s quiet rhythms. He turned from the Batcomputer, eyes narrowing as he scanned the monitors—then froze.

“Where’s Damian?”

Jason looked up from cleaning a gun. “What, he’s not brooding in his room?”

Tim was already typing. “No exit alerts triggered… wait—” His fingers paused. “No, that’s not right.”

Bruce’s gaze snapped to Dick.

Dick hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

The silence stretched.

“Dick,” Bruce said, low and dangerous.

All eyes turned.

Dick exhaled slowly. “He said he wouldn’t be long.”

Bruce was already moving.

The location hit Bruce like a punch to the chest.

An old League safehouse. Abandoned, supposedly. He landed hard on the rooftop, cape flaring, and dropped through a shattered skylight just in time to see steel flash.

Damian was fighting Talia al Ghul.

Their movements were precise, deadly, almost beautiful in their symmetry. Mother and son. Teacher and student. Every strike Damian threw was fast, disciplined—but Talia was relentless, pushing him harder, faster, testing limits no child should be tested to.

“Enough,” Bruce said, stepping forward.

Neither of them stopped.

Talia’s strike came too fast. Damian twisted to block—but he was tired. Off-balance. Her blow sent him crashing into the concrete, the sound sickeningly final.

“Damian!” Bruce shouted.

Robin didn’t move.

Something in Talia’s expression shifted—cold resolve sharpening into something crueler. She stepped forward.

Bruce was between them in an instant.

“You’re done,” he growled.

The fight that followed was brutal and personal. Years of history clashed in every blow—love, betrayal, fury. Bruce fought not to win, but to end it. And when Talia finally fell back, defeated, he didn’t spare her another glance.

He was already kneeling beside Damian.

Bruce’s hands trembled as he checked for breathing, for a pulse—there. Weak, but there. He pulled Damian close, gripping the fabric of the Robin suit like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’m here,” Bruce whispered, voice breaking despite himself. “I’ve got you.”