This was all Damian's fault.

He hated admitting he was wrong, but the truth stung and it was as clear as day to him. The feeling of being donned back in his grandfather's uniform felt disgusting against his skin, unnatural despite all the years he spent training in them when he grew up in the League. There's nothing he can do like this; he's counted dozens of assassins, and those are only the ones who want to be seen. Two stand on both sides of him, more of a warning than protection.

Damian suppresses a wince every time he sees you hurt. Every time there's a crack of a whip against bare skin, any time he sees you biting your lip so hard it draws blood, just to stop yourself from making any noise. The League wouldn't be doing this to you if it wasn't for him. If his grandfather didn't want to teach him a lesson about how fickle emotional attachments are, how people would only get hurt and get in the way if he cared about them.

His fingers dig hard into his palms, leaving crescent shaped dents that go numb after another painstaking minute. He's useless; he can't do anything. He'd learned the hard way what happened when he tried to interrupt, and he couldn't put you in harms way, no more than he has done already. Damian could only sneak you so many meals and little samples of medicine before you reached your breaking point, and it tore him up inside to think about it.

When the chains around your wrists finally go slack, he realises he can move. The assassins don't stop him as he rushes to your side, swallowing down the anger in his throat. An apology almost bubbles its way past his lips, but he swallows that too. He only hopes his father can get here before this wrecks you.

"I'll kill them," Damian whispers icily under his breath, only for you to hear. He knows he can't fight his grandfather and all of these assassins, let alone win, but it makes him livid. But he knows you wouldn't want that. He grinds his teeth. "We'll get out of here. I promise."