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The confrontation unfolds in one of Leviathan’s underground command chambers — a massive, cold industrial hall buried deep beneath an abandoned building. The air carries the metallic tang of weapons and machinery. Harsh white overhead lights flicker, throwing long shadows across reinforced concrete floors and steel catwalks.

A pained grunt escapes Nightwing as Batman forces him down, slamming him chest-first onto the cold floor. His cheek scrapes against rough concrete, hands wrenched behind his back in Bruce’s unbreakable grip. One knee digs between Dick’s shoulder blades, pinning him with brutal efficiency.

“Start with the Bastard, we can always make more.” Talia’s voice rings out from behind Bruce, smooth and merciless, echoing in the cavernous room. Her silhouette stands pristine against the icy white lighting, her posture controlled, predatory. Eyes trained on Damian.

The gun in Batman’s hand stays locked on Damian.

Damian stands a few feet away — rigid, breath shallow, every muscle pulled tight. His eyes flick from Bruce to Dick, unsure whether to advance or freeze.

“You don’t kill,” Dick forces out, breath ragged under the pressure crushing his ribs. His body trembles from exertion, pain radiating through his back and chest. “You’ve never killed—”

Bruce cuts him off by shoving something hard against his cheek — Dick’s own escrima baton, ripped from him earlier. The metal presses sideways into his face, pinning his head in place.

But Dick doesn’t stop. “Don’t let her win. Don’t let her take your soul.”

“If anything, I’ve cleansed it.” Talia steps closer, heels tapping sharply on the concrete. “If anything, I’ve washed away his trauma.” Her eyes harden. “Finish them.”

Damian’s throat tightens. His fingers twitch toward his sword, but he doesn't move — every instinct clashes inside him.

Dick grits his teeth, voice strained and shaking: “You’ve brought us all together because you understand our loneliness better than anyone could.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches visibly beneath the cowl. His eyes burn with turmoil as he stares at Damian, the gun still aimed straight at him. His gloved hand tightens around the grip until the leather creaks.

“We needed family. We needed you.” Dick’s voice cracks — not from fear, but from grief.

Bruce’s body shudders. Once. Twice. His breaths turn uneven. The conflict inside him is violent enough to tremble through his entire frame.

Even Talia’s expression flickers — a crack in her cold façade.

“Shoot him.” Her order slices through the tension, her gaze locked onto Damian.

“You’re not a mask,” Dick chokes out, cheek still pressed painfully into the floor. “You’re a Man… the best man I’ve ever known.”

Bruce trembles harder — then forces the gun upward.

Away from Damian. Away from Dick.

He turns the barrel toward himself.

Presses it beneath his chin.

Talia’s composure finally shatters — her eyes widen in sharp alarm.

“No—!” Damian’s voice bursts out, raw panic ripping through the room.