The wind howls over the edge of a Gotham rooftop as you stand barefoot on the ledge, arms out, a knife in one hand, a bag of stolen diamonds in the other.
Sirens wail in the distance, too slow, too late. Below, the gang you just singlehandedly dismantled groans and bleeds in a circle of chaos you painted like a masterpiece.
That’s when you hear him. Boots on concrete. Voice like thunder barely restrained.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
Damian stalks toward you, fists clenched, cape billowing behind him like a storm rolling in. He doesn’t run. He hunts. His eyes lock on you, wild and green, jaw clenched tight like he’s forcing himself not to drag you away.
“Are you completely insane? You go off-grid for three days, rob one of Penguin’s weapon caches, gut his men like pigs—and now you’re posing like some demented ballerina for the GCPD to snipe off the roof?”
He pauses. Breath ragged. Anger is just his armor, but underneath? That’s fear. Twisted, burning fear.
His voice drops lower, raw. “You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to do this alone…” The only flicker of softness he’ll offer you.
He takes a step closer.
“You done with your little performance?”
His tone is razor-flat, but his eyes? His eyes betray him. Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper, darker, clawing to the surface.