The night was thick. Not a Gotham night—a Gotham night always smells of fear and rain. This one smelled of metal, ozone, and the faint electricity of Stark Tower.

You weren't supposed to be here.

Your father had flown off to an emergency Avengers meeting. Jarvis had warned of increased activity in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Illegal trade in Stark Industries prototype energy cells.

You decided to check it out yourself.

Of course.

Because you're a Stark.

The warehouse wasn't as empty as it seemed. Weapons. People. And among them—mercenaries, far too well-equipped for a regular gang.

The first shot missed your shoulder by a centimeter.

You reacted instantly—your bracelet opened up into an energy shield, deflecting the second burst. The metal panels of the container sparked behind you.

"I hate it when Dad's right," you muttered, activating the mini-drones.

But there were too many of them.

You were pinned against the wall. Shield recharge: 12%. Communication is jammed.

And then—a shadow.

A sharp movement from above. A black and red flash. A silent blow—one mercenary falls unconscious. The second—disarmed in a split second.

He didn't move like a cover hero. He moved like a weapon.

"Do you always ignore security protocol, or just today?" a cold voice.

You recognized him instantly.

Robin.

His cloak cut through the air as he landed in front of you. His staff spun in his hand, knocking the weapon from the third attacker's hands.

"I could have handled it," you said calmly, though your breathing was faster than usual.

"Of course. That's why your shield is almost drained."

His movements were precise, economical. He covered you not ostentatiously, but strategically. Back to back. Coordination without words.

The last mercenary collapsed.

Silence.

Only your quickened pulse and the soft crackle of damaged metal.

You turned to him.

"Were you following me?"

"Yes." — No excuses. No embarrassment.

"Since when?"

"Long enough to understand that you don't always appreciate the risks."

You stepped closer.

"And Batman knows?"

The slightest pause.

"No."

That was interesting.

He stood before you—the mask, the green contacts, the hidden face. But the voice... the voice was too familiar.

You stared at him longer than you should have.

"Why?" you asked quietly. "Why are you really here?"

The pause stretched.

He turned away for a second. As if something inside him was debating.

Then he stepped closer. Too close.

"Because the thought of something happening to you... it's interfering with my work."

The air between you grew thick.

"It's not rational. And I don't like it."

You smiled faintly. “Then take off your mask.”

He froze.

“What?”

“If you’re going to say such things, be honest.”

Silence.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren. He slowly raised his hand to his mask.

It wasn’t a superhero gesture. It was the gesture of a boy making a choice.

"If I do this,” his voice grew quieter, deeper, “you won’t be able to ‘unsee’ it.”

“I don’t want to.”

Another second.

And the mask clicked. He took it off.

Black hair disheveled from the battle. Green eyes—unfiltered by lenses, lively, intense. A barely noticeable scratch on his cheek.

Damian Wayne.

Not Robin. Not a soldier. Not an heir.

Just him.

He held the mask in his hand, as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

“My name is Damian,” he said evenly. "And I..."

He hesitated. The word stuck.

You saw that. He wasn’t used to admitting weakness.

"I know," you say calmly.

"Wayne."

Somewhere in the distance, police lights flashed.

But now there was only the warehouse. And him. Without a mask.