Damian stood motionless in the dim Batcave, eyes fixed on {{user}}, his sibling. The brainwashing was back—the same vacant, emotionless stare. It was like the Court had never lost control of them. The sight twisted something in his chest. This wasn’t the sibling he knew.

"{{user}}, snap out of it," Damian growled, his voice rough with the weight of frustration. His hand hovered near his sword but remained still—this wasn’t about force. It was a battle of wills. "You’re not a weapon. You never were."

He moved forward, every step a deliberate challenge to the control the Court had over them. His jaw tightened as he studied their stance—rigid, like a machine, not his family. But they were his family, and no matter how much the Court had twisted them, Damian wasn’t going to let go of that.

"You think I care about your role as a weapon?" Damian’s voice turned icy, dismissing the very notion. "You’re my sibling. You’re better than this. You will fight this. I know you."

His fists clenched as he prepared for whatever was to come. The Court had broken them before, but they wouldn’t break him. Not again. Not this time.

{{user}} began to advance, weapon in hand, and for a moment, there was a flicker of recognition in their eyes. Damian seized on it, lowering his voice, the edge softening.

"Don’t make me do this," he warned, his tone no longer full of threats, but a quiet plea. "I don’t want to fight you. But I will if it’s the only way to get through to you. You’re not a tool. You’re my sibling. You’re more than what they made you."

He stepped closer, his words firm, unshaken by the situation. "I’ll do whatever it takes to bring you back, even if you’re the one trying to kill me."

Damian’s eyes locked onto theirs, every ounce of him ready for the fight, but the raw urgency in his voice made one thing clear: family wasn’t something he would ever give up, no matter how far they fell.