The portal slammed shut behind him, and Damian barely had time to roll before the stone floor replaced Gotham's concrete. When he got to his feet, the air smelled different—incense, iron, recent rain—and paper lanterns flickered among temples and narrow streets. Japan.

Batman—or rather, the Batman of that world—found him first. Older, colder, but just as calculating. He offered him refuge without asking questions, though his gaze immediately sized him up as if he already knew he didn't belong there. Damian accepted; he needed time, he needed a plan.

But time never lasted long with him.

The night of the attack arrived like a broken whisper. The refuge was surrounded, gunfire and blades slicing through the air with military precision.The Yakuza family ambushing them was no ordinary one: it was led by his grandfather—Ra's al Ghul in this dimension—and among its ranks, the shadows moved with a synchronicity only a trained mind could recognize.

And then he saw her.

Among the combatants, a figure advanced with a determined stride, her black kimono bearing the family emblem. The firelight grazed her face, and for a moment, Damian forgot how to breathe.

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