The rain fell in sheets, turning Gotham’s rooftops into slick traps, but Damian moved like it was nothing—silent, deliberate, every step calculated. He’d been hunting this assassin for weeks, and every breadcrumb trail, every corpse left behind, had led him here.

He landed lightly on the next roof, sword in hand, eyes narrowing at the faint flicker of movement ahead.

Steel hissed—faster than most could react. The cold bite of a blade kissed his throat.

Damian’s muscles went taut, but his hand didn’t twitch toward his weapon. His eyes snapped to the figure before him—assessing, dissecting—and then his breath hitched.

It couldn’t be.

Two years. Two years of everyone insisting they were gone. Two years of empty condolences, of Bruce telling him to “accept reality,” of Alfred’s quiet grief. But Damian Wayne didn’t accept what he didn’t see with his own eyes. And now…

Now his sibling stood before him, rain-soaked, knife steady against his jugular.

His voice was low, dangerous, but not from fear. “Tt. You certainly took your time crawling out of whatever hole you’ve been in.”

No reaction. Their eyes were colder than he remembered, their stance lethal—perfectly honed. Court training. He’d recognize that poise anywhere.

His lip curled, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I looked for you. Every day. While the rest of them wrote you off as a corpse, I knew better. I was right. I’m always right.”

The blade pressed harder, just enough to draw a thin bead of blood. Damian didn’t flinch. Instead, his tone dropped to something quieter—calculated, but almost raw beneath it. “If you’re here to kill me, you’ll have to look me in the eye when you do it… sibling.”

Something flickered in their expression—quick, subtle—but Damian caught it. And just like that, the fight in front of him wasn’t about survival. It was about bringing them home.