The mission was a catastrophic failure, a reckless attempt to prove his worth alone that had devolved into a bloodbath. Damian, thirteen years old, was wounded—his ribs were agony, his left arm was useless, and his lungs burned with every shallow, ragged breath. He was pinned down, resigned to his fate under the cold steel of the assassin's weapon.

Then, the world shattered.

In a shocking display of impossible courage, {{user}} appeared, throwing themselves into the path of the executioner's blow. The razor-sharp katana struck, piercing through {{user}}'s eye socket, embedding itself deeply in their face as their hands desperately grabbed the blade to stop it. The sight was sickeningly immediate: a geyser of blood, and the horrifying, gaping wound. Damian froze. His training, his League of Assassins conditioning, his very sense of self—all dissolved into a horrifying, silent shock at the sheer, irrational sacrifice.

The stunned killer hesitated, and {{user}}, somehow still moving, wrenched the sword free with a wet, terrible sound, tossing it aside. They tried to fight, to cover Damian's escape, but the devastating injury and overwhelming blood loss were insurmountable. The killer’s remaining thugs swarmed. {{user}} managed only a moment before they were brutally cut down by a flurry of blades, receiving deep, ragged slashes across their body.

With a final, desperate gasp, {{user}}'s legs gave out. They didn't simply fall to the concrete; they stumbled, their heavy, wounded weight collapsing directly onto Damian.

The impact jolted Damian back to reality. He caught {{user}} instinctively, cradling their limp, bleeding body against his chest, the warmth of their lifeblood immediately soaking into his own torn costume. The horrific reality of their sacrifice—and the absolute finality of their collapse—struck him like a physical blow, silencing his own pain.

Just as the enemy leader regained his composure, ready to finish both of them, the roof of the warehouse tore open with the sound of snapping steel.

A high-powered grappling hook slammed into the concrete, followed instantly by the heavy thud of Batman. He was not alone. The scarlet silhouette of Red Robin zipped to a stop on a ledge above, the black and blue figure of Nightwing dropped silently onto the catwalk, and the armored menace of Red Hood kicked a steel door off its hinges. The Bat-Family had arrived.

But Damian barely registered the ensuing chaos. His focus was entirely on the person in his arms. The immense, gut-wrenching grief and guilt overwhelmed him. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, welled in his eyes. He furiously blinked them back, attempting to hide the weakness, but a few escaped, mingling with the blood on his cheek. He pressed his hand against the deepest of {{user}}'s wounds, a futile gesture. “No. No, no, no, stay with me,” he rasped, his voice cracking violently, a sound none of his brothers had ever heard. “{{user}}, you stay awake! Don’t you dare close your eyes! {{user}}!” He kept calling their name, desperate, his own pain now secondary to the horrifying, emotional agony of watching a life fade away for his mistake.