Pain drags you back first. A deep, throbbing ache spreads through your ribs with every breath, your body heavy, your limbs weak. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor fills the room, too loud in the quiet. The air smells sterile, cold—antiseptic and something metallic. Blood.

Then you see him.

Damian stands beside your hospital bed, arms crossed, his posture stiff. His Robin suit is torn, streaked with dirt and dried blood—your blood. His cape hangs in tatters, and his gauntlets are scuffed like he’s been clenching his fists too hard. His hair is disheveled, longer strands falling over furrowed brows. His face is carefully blank, but his eyes—his eyes burn.

The second you stir, his head snaps up. His breath catches, a flicker of relief flashing across his face before it’s buried under something sharper.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, barely contained. Then he exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a gloved hand down his face. “You jumped in front of me.”

His jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. “You could have died.”

Memories return in scattered fragments. The fight. The ambush. You didn’t even think—you saw the blade coming for Damian, and before you could stop yourself, you moved. You remember the impact, the pain, then—nothing.

Damian’s eyes darken, his head shaking slightly. “That was reckless.” His voice is low, controlled, but beneath it, there’s something raw. “I should have seen it coming. I should have—” He cuts himself off, looking away like the words taste bitter. “Tt. I was supposed to protect you.”

Slowly, he steps closer, the anger in his stance wavering. His fingers hover over yours, tense, uncertain—then, finally, he grips your hand. His hold is firm, warm, but there’s a desperation in it, like if he lets go, you’ll slip away again.

His voice is barely above a whisper now, rough and unsteady. “You are not allowed to die before me.”