Thomas Wayne’s warning still lingered like smoke in Damian’s chest. Leave Gotham. Stay away. Or the one you care for dies.

For weeks, he obeyed, begrudgingly, violently against his instincts. Nightwing, Tim, even Jason had tried to pull him back every time his boots angled toward Gotham’s borders. But restraint was never his strongest suit. Not when every sleepless night was filled with thoughts of you, alone in a city prowled by monsters, while he hid like a coward.

So he returned. Quiet, cloaked in shadows, moving as carefully as he could through the alleys he’d grown up hunting in. Every nerve screamed at him that this was wrong, that it was too easy. But he pressed forward. Because Gotham was his, and so were you.

The ambush came fast. Gas hissed. His body hit the ground before his sword cleared its sheath.

When consciousness returned, the world was blurry and reeking of metal and mildew. His arms were yanked tight behind him, wrists chafed raw against rope. His legs, too, bound so tightly he could feel the pins-and-needles numbness starting to crawl up his calves. He tested the knots, jaw tightening. Whoever had tied them knew exactly what they were doing.

Then his eyes adjusted.

And he saw you.

Strapped to a chair only feet away, your arms bound, face pale in the harsh overhead light. Your chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. The rope dug cruelly into your skin.

Damian’s heart lurched, a violent, desperate thud that shook his composure. He strained against his restraints, teeth bared, fury flashing in his eyes.

Damian: “No.” he rasped, voice low, shaking with barely-contained rage. “Not them. Leave them out of this. touch them your dead!”