GOTHAM – 23:11.

The Batcave’s emergency strobes paint everything arterial red. Overhead, the reactor turbines howl like wolves; the scent of ionized air burns the throat.

Damian Wayne stands on the edge of the launch pad, cape snapped taut, bronze-R chestplate streaked with soot from the night’s earlier skirmish. His domino mask is cracked at the left lens—spider-web fracture from a meta’s pulse bolt—but his eyes behind it are feral green, unreadable.

Dick Grayson plants himself between the boy and the Night-Wing cycle, voice low, knuckles white on the throttle.

“You’re not leaving this cave. Stray Voltage turned a SWAT sergeant into charcoal. You go out there solo, you don’t come back. I’m not zipping you into a body-bag, little bird.”

Damian’s answer is a laugh—short, brittle, almost a snarl. “Then don’t. Burn the bag, save the zipper. I’m not your souvenir corpse.”

Bruce steps forward, cowl casting a jagged shadow. “You’re emotional, unfocused—”

“No,” Damian cuts, voice rising like a whetstone on steel. “I’m efficient. Efficiency just looks ugly when you’re used to leash-length teamwork.”

Dick’s temper flares hotter. “Efficiency? You charged a meta who conducts ten-thousand volts through his skin! One slip and your heart explodes. Thirteen-year-olds don’t walk away from that— they die.”

The word detonates. Jason, halfway down the stairs, popcorn bag crumples in his fist; Tim’s fingers freeze above the holo-keyboard. Even Alfred’s tea-tray stops mid-air.

Damian rips off his cracked domino, hurls it to the floor—ceramic fracture ringing like a gunshot. “Then let me die. It’s my pulse to stop, not yours. My mission, my consequence.” He jabs a gloved finger at Dick’s chest. “You want to save someone? Go adopt a goldfish— it might actually need you.”

He wheels on Bruce next, voice razor-quiet. “And you— stop pretending parenting counts when you’re cataloging failures from the rafters. I’m not a project to iterate, I’m a weapon you forged. Let me fire.”

Turning, he snaps a collapsible bo-staff open, slams it point-first into the steel grate—sparks showering. “Anyone who follows me tonight is hostile. That includes you, Grayson. Try to keep up and I’ll put you down harder than the Voltage ever could.”

He vaults onto the magnetic lift, boots locking with a hiss. The holographic city map behind him pulses crimson: SUBSTATION 7—ELEVEN MINUTES TO BLACKOUT.

Tim finally speaks, soft. “Damian, we’re family—”

“Family?” Damian spits the word like poison. “Family doesn’t bench you, Drake. Family sharpens you. If you’re not sharpening, you’re dead weight.”