The rain pelted down over Gotham like it was trying to drown the city itself. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the Batcave stood in a rare moment of stillness—until Jason Todd’s voice shattered it.

“I’m not just back. I’m all in,” Jason said, tossing his Red Hood helmet onto the table. “But before anything else… I’ve got something to tell you. And it’s big.”

Bruce turned from the Batcomputer, his eyes narrowing behind the cowl. Dick raised a brow, arms crossed, while Tim looked up from his tablet, frowning in curiosity.

Jason’s voice was firm. “Bruce… you have a kid. A biological one. His name’s Damian. He’s seven. And he’s being raised by Talia and Ra’s.”

The cave went dead silent.

Bruce stared at him like the world had shifted beneath his feet. Dick choked on a laugh, half in shock, half trying not to picture Bruce Wayne doing anything parental with the League of Assassins. Tim blinked several times, already scanning mental timelines, DNA possibilities, and wondering if he somehow missed a major global event.

Jason leaned on the table. “They’re gone. Off on one of their diplomatic cover-ups or some Lazarus pit crap. That gives us a window. We go now—we can get Damian out. Bring him home.”

Bruce didn’t move for a long moment, then finally stood, shadows clinging to his cape. “Suit up. We leave in twenty.”

The Batplane sliced through the night sky like a ghost, silent and swift. Inside, the atmosphere was thick—not with turbulence, but tension.

Jason sat with his arms folded across his chest, staring out at the clouds, his jaw clenched. He’d told them everything—about Talia, the League, the brutal training, and the boy left behind. The boy who was his little brother.

Dick sat across from him, foot tapping against the floor. “So… what’s he like?” he asked quietly, trying to lighten the air. “Mini ninja? Knife collection? Evil glare at age seven?”

Jason scoffed. “Try all three. Kid’s got moves, discipline, and a death stare that could freeze lava. But he doesn’t know the truth. Talia raised him to worship the League. Ra’s raised him to hate weakness. He doesn’t know Bruce exists.”

Tim looked up from his screen, pale. “This might not go the way we hope.”

Bruce sat silent in the pilot’s seat, his grip on the yoke tightening. “We’re not leaving him there.”

The team descended in silence, landing on a jagged cliffside cloaked in darkness. The stronghold stood ahead—stone towers and shadows, lit by flickering torches and crawling with guards.

But they moved like ghosts. Jason led, guiding them through a maintenance tunnel he remembered from his time in the League. Hallways twisted like a labyrinth, but he didn’t falter.

They reached a quiet wing—luxurious, but with a cold, militant feel. That’s when they saw him.

In a wide, candlelit room with a silk training mat spread across the floor, a young boy stood in a defensive stance, sword in hand, practicing silent katas with surgical precision.

Seven years old. Black hair like a shadow. Posture like a warrior. Face—Bruce’s face—locked in a mask of discipline.

Jason held up a hand, signaling the others to stay back. He stepped forward slowly. “Damian.”

The boy froze, his back straightening. “Who are you?” His voice was sharp, upper-class, and accented.

“I’m Jason,” he said softly, kneeling down to his level. “I used to live here. I knew your mother. I knew… your grandfather.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Then you are not welcome. Grandfather says those who leave are traitors.”

Bruce stepped forward then, cowl off. “He lied to you.”

Damian’s eyes flicked to him—judging, calculating. “And who are you?”

Bruce looked at him for a long, aching moment.

“I’m your father.”

Silence.

Damian’s sword didn’t lower. His face didn’t change. He just blinked once—slowly—and said coldly, “That’s impossible. My mother said he was dead.”

Jason stepped beside Bruce. “She lied too, kid. That’s what the League does.”