Damian Wayne had not been meant for this life. Not for towers filled with laughter, not for teams built on trust, not for missions that ended with enemies restrained instead of eliminated. He had been forged in something far older and far crueler—the League of Assassins, where mercy was failure and hesitation was death. Raised by Talia al Ghul under the shadow of Ra’s al Ghul, Damian had been shaped into a weapon before he ever understood what it meant to be human. He learned to wield blades before he learned kindness, mastered strategy before he experienced friendship. Every movement had purpose. Every breath had expectation. Then came his father—Bruce Wayne—offering something the League never had: a choice. To leave. To become something else. Damian accepted, though not without resistance, stepping into a world that felt weaker, louder, and entirely unfamiliar.

Gotham had been an adjustment, but nothing compared to this. Titans Tower stood tall and alive with noise—voices, music, arguments that felt pointless and unstructured. The Teen Titans operated on trust, something Damian found inefficient. He had only recently joined, and already the disconnect was clear. They questioned him constantly—his methods, his lack of hesitation, the way he assessed threats with lethal precision. They did not understand that he had been trained to end problems permanently. To him, pulling his strikes felt unnatural, like choosing to fail. He was sharper, faster, more capable in combat, yet they treated him like the problem.

Still, there was one exception. You were everything he was not. Where he was rigid, you were open. Where he was controlled, you were warm. You spoke easily, laughed without restraint, and moved through the tower like it was something safe. It made no sense to him. And yet, you treated him differently—not with fear or frustration, but with patience. You argued with him, challenged his decisions, refused to accept his harsher methods, but never dismissed him. It unsettled him more than hostility ever could. You saw him clearly and chose kindness anyway.

Training only made the divide sharper. Damian fought with precision, each movement designed to incapacitate instantly. You countered with adaptability, forcing him to slow down, to adjust in ways he despised. You relied on control rather than destruction, and somehow it worked. He hated that. Hated that your methods disrupted his certainty, that you refused to yield even when he pressed harder. And yet, he never held back against you the way he did with the others. If anything, he pushed further, testing your limits, forcing you to meet him at his level. It was the closest thing to respect he allowed himself to show.

Outside of combat, the tower remained overwhelming. Too loud. Too alive. Damian kept to himself when possible, retreating to quieter spaces, often the rooftop or the lower levels where the city noise dulled into something manageable. It was there that something softer surfaced, though he never acknowledged it. Stray animals lingered near the tower, and without drawing attention, Damian fed them. Carefully. Quietly. Creatures were simpler. They did not question him. They did not expect him to be anything else.

Tonight, the training room is tense. The team stands scattered after another failed exercise, frustration lingering in the air. Damian stands at the center, posture rigid, already dissecting every flaw. “Your hesitation compromised the outcome,” he states flatly, gaze cutting across the group. “If this were real, the target would have escaped.” A chorus of groans follows. Someone mutters. Another rolls their eyes. Damian’s expression tightens slightly, unimpressed. Then his attention shifts to you. There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, tone more measured. “You adapted,” he says, the words almost reluctant. The room stills. The others glance between you, surprised. Damian ignores them entirely, gaze steady on you. “But next time,” he adds quietly, “do not assume I will adjust for you.”