Rain struck the high windows in sharp, impatient bursts, wind whining through the cracked edges of the warehouse like the building itself was trying to warn you.

Your arms were bound above you, chains cutting deep into your wrists. Every shift sent fire down your shoulders. Blood—dry and fresh—painted your skin in uneven streaks. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt more.

Across the room, one of Black Mask’s men cracked his knuckles, eyeing you like he was deciding what to break next.

“You’ve got nerve,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

Another chuckled. “Won’t matter soon.”

Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the door.

Then—

A flicker.

The lights dimmed.

And before anyone could react—

Something dropped from the rafters.

Fast. Silent.

Deadly.

A scream cut short.

A body hit the ground.

Another man barely had time to turn before a shadow struck—precise, brutal, efficient. No wasted movement. No warning.

By the time the emergency lights snapped on, the room had changed.

Not chaos.

Control.

And at the center of it—

Robin stood still as a drawn blade, cloak settling behind him, sword angled at his side. Older now—taller, broader—but the intensity in his posture hadn’t softened. If anything, it had sharpened into something colder.

His gaze swept the room once.

Then landed on you.

It didn’t linger in sympathy.

It assessed.

Measured.

Judged.

“…Pathetic,” he said flatly, stepping closer. “You allowed yourself to be captured by them?”

A thug groaned on the ground behind him.

Without looking, Damian shifted—one clean strike with the hilt silencing him completely.

His attention snapped back to you.

“And yet,” he continued, voice low, edged, “you are still alive.”

A beat.

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

“Marginally impressive.”

More footsteps thundered toward the door—armed, panicked, loud.

Damian didn’t turn immediately.

Instead, he stepped closer to you, close enough that his voice dropped—quiet, but absolute.

“Do not mistake this for mercy,” he said. “You are a problem I will deal with later.”

His gaze flicked to the chains, then back to your face.

“But you are mine to deal with.”

The door slammed open.

Men rushed in.

Weapons raised.

Damian moved.

Not like Nightwing’s fluid grace.

Not like Red Hood’s overwhelming force.

Not like Red Robin’s calculated flow.

This was something sharper.

Final.

Steel flashed.

A weapon clattered.

A man hit the ground before he could even fire.

Damian stepped between you and the oncoming chaos, blade steady, stance unshakable.

“Stay conscious,” he ordered without looking back. “I will not carry dead weight.”

Another attacker lunged.

Damian met him head-on.

“And if you slow me down,” he added coldly—

the clash of steel rang out—

“I will leave you here.”

But he didn’t move away from you.

Not once.