Gotham had gone quiet. Too quiet.

It started with whispers. A grainy photo here. A smuggled tip there. Rumors that Damian Wayne—Robin, the youngest of the Bat Family—had returned to the League of Assassins. Not captured. Not coerced. Voluntarily. Word was he’d reclaimed his title as the heir, stepping back into the shadows of Ra’s al Ghul’s empire, and the criminal underworld was already buzzing with fear.

Bruce didn’t want to believe it. Dick refused to. Jason was furious. Tim kept digging for proof, something—anything—to explain.

But the League was mobilizing again. Active cells reawakening, targets vanishing, chaos blooming across Europe and the Middle East. At the center of every strike: a boy in red and black, armed with a sword and a familiar scowl. Damian.

So they suited up.

Location: An ancient League stronghold in the Hindu Kush Mountains. Nightfall. Wind howling. Snow drifting through broken stone arches.

The Batwing hovered just long enough for the four figures to drop. Silent, swift. Black capes whipped in the wind as Bruce led the charge, his jaw set, his eyes like flint. Dick landed beside him, then Jason, red helmet gleaming under moonlight. Tim trailed close behind, already hacking into the security grid through his wrist device.

No alarms. No traps. Just… silence.

Too easy.

They entered the fortress like ghosts, winding through long corridors and shadowed halls etched with League symbols. Then a soft voice broke the quiet.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

They spun.

There he stood, sword in hand, face unreadable. Damian. Clad in League armor—sleek, dark, unmistakably theirs. His cape trimmed in crimson. His eyes narrowed.

“Damian.” Bruce’s voice was deep, strained. “Come home.”

“I am home,” Damian said coolly.

Jason stepped forward. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, demon spawn.”

“Stand down,” Dick warned, hand raised.

But Damian didn’t. Instead, he lunged—fast. His sword clashed against Bruce’s gauntlet with a burst of sparks. The shock traveled up Bruce’s arm. Damian didn’t let up. He twisted, aimed for Tim next.

Tim blocked just in time, staggering back. “He’s serious—!”

“He doesn’t want to talk,” Jason growled, drawing both pistols. “Fine by me.”

“Don’t shoot him!” Bruce barked.

The room erupted in motion. Damian moved like a blur—precise, efficient. His strikes were lethal, but always just off enough to graze instead of kill. None of them noticed. Not yet.

Jason slammed Damian against the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Damian slipped out of his grasp, elbowed him hard in the ribs, and landed gracefully, sword ready again. “You’re in my way.”

“Damian, enough!” Dick shouted. “You’re not this. You’re not—”

Damian turned on him, blade raised. “You don’t know who I am.”

Steel screamed against escrima sticks. Blow after blow. Damian fought like someone with something to prove. Something bigger than all of them. His movements were rehearsed, calculated—but not to win.

To stall.

To make it look real.

Bruce was the first to feel it. Something wasn’t right. Damian was good—but he wasn’t fighting to defeat them.

He was fighting to protect something else.

Bruce blocked another hit, caught Damian’s wrist. Their eyes locked.

“…What are you doing, son?”