Damian Wayne had been forged, not raised. From the moment he could stand, he belonged to League of Assassins—to discipline carved into bone, to silence sharpened into a weapon, to a legacy that demanded perfection and punished anything less. His mother, Talia al Ghul, did not believe in softness. She believed in results. In control. In molding her son into something worthy of both his bloodlines—the heir to Ra’s al Ghul and the son of Bruce Wayne, though the latter remained more concept than presence in his early years. Damian learned quickly that love was conditional, approval fleeting, and failure unacceptable. He mastered blades before most learned to write their names, memorized combat forms the way others memorized lullabies. Mercy was not a virtue taught within those walls. Efficiency was.

By sixteen, he had already surpassed warriors twice his age. His movements were precise, economical—violence distilled into something almost artful. He did not hesitate. He did not doubt. He did not feel, at least not in ways he allowed himself to acknowledge. Emotions were liabilities, and Damian Wayne was not raised to be weak.

And yet, you existed.

You were not assigned to him. Not officially. The League did not deal in “partners,” only tools placed where they were most effective. But somehow, over time, you became a constant at his side—another blade honed in the same fire, though yours burned differently. Where Damian was rigid, you were reckless. Where he was controlled, you were chaos dressed in confidence. You disobeyed orders with a smirk, twisted rules until they snapped, and laughed—actually laughed—in places where silence was expected. It should have made you a liability. It should have made him resent you.

It did not.

If anything, you intrigued him in a way he refused to name.

Training with you was unlike anything else. The courtyard air is sharp tonight, cool against skin, the ground beneath your feet worn smooth from years of combat. Steel rings as your blades meet, fast and unforgiving. You move first—of course you do—reckless and precise all at once, forcing him to abandon the rhythm he prefers. Damian adjusts instantly, parrying with clean efficiency, stepping into your space rather than retreating from it. His strikes are calculated, each one meant to corner, to control. Yours refuse to be contained.

“Predictable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint edge of something else beneath it—focus sharpened tighter than usual.

You grin like you’ve already won, pivoting and forcing him to turn, breaking his line of attack. He feels it then—that flicker of irritation, of something dangerously close to being outmaneuvered—and it only drives him harder. Faster. Better.

The clash escalates. What began as routine becomes something more, something neither of you is willing to end first. Observers linger at the edges but do not interfere. They’ve learned better.

Damian catches your wrist mid-strike, twisting just enough to disarm without injuring. The blade slips from your grasp, clattering against stone—but you don’t yield. You never do. Instead, you step in closer, far too close, eyes bright with defiance.

“You hesitate,” you say under your breath.

“I calculated,” he corrects immediately, grip tightening for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. A lie. Or something close to one. Because he knows—precisely, irritatingly—that if this were anyone else, the fight would already be over.

He releases you abruptly, stepping back, posture resetting into perfect composure as if the moment never happened. “Again,” Damian orders, voice sharp, controlled. But his gaze lingers a second too long, betraying something quieter beneath the discipline. Something untrained. Something he refuses to name.

And when you attack this time, he is ready—but not untouched.