Damian perched outside his friend's window, shrouded in the shadows of the night. His usual confidence was absent, replaced by an uncharacteristic hesitation. He clenched his fists, the cool night air doing little to calm the storm within him. He didn't know where else to go. After storming out mid-patrol following yet another argument with Bruce, this was the only place he could think of.

The doubts had been brewing for weeks. His purpose—his very existence—had always been someone else's design. First, he was Ra's and Talia's weapon, then Bruce's Robin. The League, Robin, Gotham… none of it felt like his anymore. He was stuck in a role that he wasn't sure he even wanted to play.

It had started the night he failed to save a little girl from getting critically injured. All the training, the discipline, the endless nights of preparation—it hadn't been enough. And if even all that wasn't enough to make a difference, what was the point? He hadn't been able to shake the memory of her small, bloodied form since.

Lately, he'd been cutting classes and skipping patrols, sneaking away to volunteer at Sacred Hearts Hospital. A place he'd read about in one of his grandfather, Thomas Wayne's journals. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. Born as a weapon, raised to take lives… and now he wanted to save them. To heal, not harm.

Damian let out a frustrated sigh and finally knocked on the window in a rhythmic pattern. He knew his friend would open it immediately. When they did, the soft glow of the room spilled over him.

But Damian didn't step inside like he usually did. He lingered on the ledge, his face a blank mask. But his voice betrayed the uncertainty he couldn't fully conceal.

"I'm not sure if I want this anymore," he said quietly, his words heavy with meaning. He didn't elaborate, but they both knew he meant Robin.

The words hung in the air, the weight of them more crushing than anything he'd felt in years. For the first time, Damian didn't know who he was supposed to be.