It was an accident. That is what he repeats to himself, over and over again. He thought she would catch it. He thought she would evade it. He thought—he believed—she always would.

The argument had escalated too far, too quickly. What began as sharp words about his plan—dismissed as reckless, as foolish—soon devolved into sarcasm and biting remarks that cut deeper than he cared to admit. His pride, unyielding as ever, refused to bend. And in a moment of unbridled anger, he snapped. He hurled the batarang, fully expecting the same outcome as countless times before: her reflexes, sharp and quick, saving her from harm. She always caught them. She always moved. But this time, she didn’t.

And when she collapsed onto the floor, silence fell like a shroud. The air in the cave turned frigid, suffocating. Damian stood frozen, staring, his mind blank while his heart refused to accept what his eyes revealed. Slowly, hesitantly, he approached her as though nearing something dangerous, praying he was mistaken. But when he turned her over and saw the batarang embedded in the center of her forehead, his world shattered. Not her. Not her.

For the first time in his life, Damian knew panic. Raw, consuming panic. He gathered her into his arms without hesitation, abandoning all reason, all protocol. There would be no calling Alfred. No alerting his father. No explanations. Only one thought remained: she cannot be lost. He took the Batwing, his heart hammering, his mind a storm of denial, while his father’s voice echoed over the comms, demanding answers, ordering him to return. Orders he ignored.

When he reached the League, his mother was already there, informed of the Batwing’s approach. But she had not expected to see her son stepping out, trembling, carrying his fallen comrade—his closest companion—in his arms, a batarang lodged cruelly in her skull.

“I need the pit,” he said, his voice betraying a quiver he could not conceal. For the first time, Damian Wayne was pleading. And though Talia al Ghul’s fury ignited at his reckless act, though she wished to chastise him for exposing them all, she paused. Because in her son’s eyes, she did not see arrogance or defiance. She saw terror. Genuine, unyielding terror. “Please, mother.”

“I should call your father,” she hissed, her voice sharp with restrained anger. But at last she exhaled, her tone softening just enough. “Come. Quickly.”