"Robin. Wake up, Robin." The voice was distant, like it was coming from behind a wall of fog. Faint, muffled, but urgent. Damian tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were made of lead.
His head pounded, a sharp, rhythmic throb that felt like someone was driving nails into his skull. The world swam in a dark haze around him.
"Robin, talk to me. Are you okay?" The voice grew clearer, more distinct now. Batman. He sounded close, strained—not with fear, but with that deep concern he always tried to hide behind that cold, gravel-drenched tone.
There was no response. Just a low groan from Damian as he struggled to stay conscious, his limbs heavy and uncooperative.
Seeing the boy was still breathing, just dazed and clearly concussed, Batman didn't waste a second. He moved quickly but carefully, scooping Robin up and hoisting him over his shoulder. The weight wasn't a problem. He'd carried heavier burdens. Much heavier.
With a snap and hiss, his grapple line fired, latching onto the ledge above. The rooftops blurred past as they descended from the building in a single swift motion.
A city alive with chaos stretched out below—flashing red and blue lights in the distance, the faint crack of gunfire, the soft echo of sirens wailing into the night.
"Stay with me," Batman muttered, not because he thought Damian could hear him, but because saying it helped keep his own emotions from spiraling.
Damian let out another groan, weak but alive, as he was lowered into the passenger side of the Batmobile. His head lolled against the headrest, breathing shallow and uneven.
Batman climbed in behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life as the Batmobile surged forward through the rain-slick streets.
Drops of water streaked across the windshield, catching flashes of city lights as they sped toward Wayne Manor.
Earlier that evening, the sonar feed had picked up gunfire and multiple heat signatures down at the docks. Explosions soon followed, rippling through the city's underbelly like tremors before an earthquake. It was too organized to be random. Too clean for a gang scuffle. Someone was making moves.
Batman had already been gearing up when the alert came through, but Robin had been on patrol in the area. So Bruce did what he always did—he sent him in to recon, to observe. And as always, he gave one simple instruction; 'Do not engage until I arrive.'
But Damian being—well, Damian—ignored the directive.
He engaged.
And now here he was, unconscious and bruised, his cape crumpled and his armor scuffed from the beating he'd taken at the hands of whoever had been down there.
Batman's jaw tightened as the Batmobile tore down the side road leading back to the cave. His mind raced—not with panic, but with the burn of frustration.
Not just at Damian, but at himself. He should've known the kid wouldn't wait. He was trained by the League, wired for action, and burdened by a pride that rivaled his own at that age.
Batman glanced at the boy beside him—eyes fluttering, breath steadying. Damian would recover.
- - -
Gasp.
Damian jolted awake with a sudden intake of breath, his body instinctively trying to push itself off the bed. But the moment his head lifted, a searing pain tore through his skull like a lightning bolt cleaving through stone.
He winced sharply and let out a guttural groan, one hand flying up to clutch his head as he collapsed back onto the mattress with a thud.
His eyes clenched shut against the pounding ache, the sensation like hot iron pressing into his temples. It took a moment for his breathing to steady, for his heart to calm.
When he finally dared to open his eyes, they darted around the familiar space. The soft, warm lighting of his bedroom at Wayne Manor filtered through the tall windows.
The scent of cedarwood furniture and faint traces of old books settled in the air—he was home.
Damian was back in his own bed, surrounded by the quiet elegance of the manor. Relief mixed with confusion as the reality set in.
"Good to see you've woken up, Master Damian," came a familiar voice from the doorway, calm and composed.
Damian turned his head slightly, just enough to spot Alfred standing there, ever the poised sentinel. The butler's gaze was observant, his hands clasped behind his back as though he had been waiting patiently for this very moment.
"Get some rest," Alfred added with gentle firmness. "I'll notify Master Bruce and bring you some hot herbal tea to help soothe your nerves. It should also assist with that headache."
Without waiting for an argument, Alfred pivoted and quietly stepped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind him.
"Thank you, Alfred," Damian murmured, voice barely audible, the words scraping out from between dry lips.
He moved slowly, groaning under his breath as he pushed himself up just enough to rest his back against the carved mahogany headboard. Every muscle felt sore, but his pride ached worse than his body.
The minutes passed in a quiet, steady lull. The ticking of the antique clock on the wall punctuated the silence, and the soft rustle of wind brushing the trees outside added a serene rhythm to the stillness. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, measured.
The door creaked open again.
"Damian."
Bruce's voice broke through the quiet like a low thunder roll. He entered the room without pause, his eyes fixed on his son, the lines on his face sharper than usual. Concern was evident in the furrow of his brow, though it was sheathed beneath that familiar stoic exterior.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice calm but tinged with tension.
"I'm fine," Damian responded almost too quickly. He attempted to swing his legs off the bed as if proving his point, but the sudden motion triggered a renewed burst of pain. He winced, his hand instinctively flying back to his head.
Bruce watched, unimpressed. "Your body says otherwise," he replied evenly. "Why don't you get some rest, and we can talk about what happened later."
"That bastard hit me on the head so hard it still feels like he tried to split my skull in half," Damian muttered, his tone edged with bitterness and lingering humiliation.
Bruce didn't walk away. Instead, he stepped closer, positioning himself at the side of the bed where he could observe his son more closely.
He saw past the front Damian was putting up—the clenched jaw, the simmering frustration behind his narrowed green eyes.
"You disobeyed orders," Bruce said at last, his voice hardening slightly. "I told you to observe. Not engage. You were supposed to wait for backup."
"I had him," Damian snapped, his pride flaring. "He didn't even know I was there. I was right behind him."
Bruce's expression tightened. "Then what happened?"
Damian's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as the memory surfaced, clear and vivid. "He blew up the Maronis' shipments. Took out their entire drug line with explosives. When I arrived at the scene and got to the source of the explosion, I spotted a very suspecious person at the rooftop.
I moved in to take him down quietly, from behind—so he wouldn't slip away. But just as I was about to incapacitate him… he blocked my blade. As if he had eyes in the back of his head."
Bruce's eyes darkened slightly. "What weapon did he use?"
"He carried a sword and a combat knife," Damian answered, shaking his head slightly. "But here's the thing—he never even drew the sword. Fought me with the knife alone. And still… I couldn't touch him."
His hands balled into fists, knuckles paling. There was a rare mix of emotions in his voice—frustration, confusion, and the sting of wounded pride.
Bruce exhaled slowly, processing the information with a calculating gaze. "How skilled was he?"
Damian hesitated. His pride resisted the truth, but he wasn't one to lie—especially not to Bruce.
"He was skilled. League-level skilled," he admitted at last, begrudgingly.
A long silence settled between them. Bruce's face remained unreadable, but behind the mask, his mind raced.
Someone with League-level training operating in Gotham without his knowledge? That was more than a red flag—it was a threat.
"What was his getup?" he finally asked.
Damian furrowed his brow, still recalling the encounter. "All-black tactical gear. Masked. Full balaclava. No visible skin. Moved with incredible speed."
Bruce's shoulders relaxed—slightly. "Then it wasn't him," he murmured, almost to himself, one hand stroking his jaw in thought.
"Him?" Damian asked, catching the strange tone. "You mean the one who wiped out that Bertinelli faction a few nights ago?"
"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "This doesn't match the description witnesses gave."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "So you think we've got another guy on our hands?"
"I don't know," Bruce said. His voice was quiet, the words weighted with uncertainty. "For now, focus on healing."
He placed a firm, brief hand on Damian's shoulder—a rare moment of physical reassurance—before turning and heading toward the door.
The moment the door shut behind Bruce, the room returned to silence. Damian stared at the ceiling, seething. His fists clenched once more, the ache in his head now rivaled by the storm brewing behind his eyes.
"Damn it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I'll get you back for this. Whoever you are."
A soft knock came just as the words left his lips.
"Your tea, Master Damian."
Alfred returned, this time with a silver tray holding a porcelain cup filled with steaming herbal tea. The scent of lemongrass and something faintly minty wafted toward him, comforting and familiar.
Damian took a long breath, forcing himself to calm. His heart slowed, and he reached out carefully, accepting the cup with a nod.
"Thank you, Alfred," he said with quiet sincerity.
Alfred simply nodded back, offering a knowing look. Then, without a word, he turned and left the boy to his thoughts.
Damian took a sip, letting the warmth soothe his throat and nerves alike. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, but it steadied something in him.
- - -
Bruce descended into the Batcave, his footsteps echoing faintly off the concrete steps as he made his way toward the central console.
The cave around him buzzed with a low hum of dormant tech—monitors dimly glowing, machinery whirring softly in standby, the occasional chirp from the cave's many nocturnal residents hidden in the upper shadows.
This was his domain, the heart of his war, and tonight, it pulsed with a faint tension he couldn't shake.
He moved with his usual demeanor, the weight of unanswered questions sitting heavily on his shoulders. Gotham had known a rare sliver of peace lately—tenuous, fragile, but peace nonetheless.
Now it was unraveling again. And whoever these new players were, they weren't petty thugs.
"So, how's the little devil doing?" Came a voice from across the cave—light, teasing, unmistakably familiar.
Bruce glanced up as Dick Grayson approached, casually spinning the chair near the main terminal with one hand before easing into it backward, arms resting along the backrest as he leaned forward with an easy grin.
"He'll be fine," Bruce replied, his tone even, though the concern lingered beneath the surface. "Just a little out of it. I'm keeping him in bed for now—concussion's still a possibility."
Dick tilted his head, smirking.
"Damn. Here I was hoping the knock on the head might straighten out that razor tongue of his. Maybe knock some humility in." Bruce didn't dignify that with a verbal response. He merely gave Dick a sideways look—dry, sharp, and completely unreadable.
Dick held up his hands in surrender. "Kidding. Kidding. I'm glad he's alright," he added, more sincerely this time, pushing off the chair and walking around to stand beside Bruce.
"This bit of intel is what brought me to town," Dick said as he stepped forward and inserted a flash drive into the console on the Batcomputer.
Dick leaned in slightly and pulled a smoothie from the corner of the desk, sipping casually through a straw as he studied the screen.
A video began to play on the central screen, grainy and flickering under the dim glow of the cave.
It showed a figure sprinting across a rooftop under the cover of night. Bruce leaned in, paused the footage, and zoomed in. The image clarified just enough to reveal a man wearing a red helmet.
"I got this shot from a snitch," Dick explained. "He says this guy was the one who got the Bertinellis."
"The Red Hood," Bruce muttered, his voice low and focused.
"Might be," Dick nodded. "He bears a resemblance to the original." Bruce's fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, pulling up additional data. A police report appeared on the screen showing a man in a red headpiece, handcuffed and under arrest.
Bold letters across the top of the report read;
Alias; The Red Hood.
"Several criminal groups have used this persona before," Bruce informed him, switching the feed to a montage of known offenders who had worn similar red masks throughout Gotham's history.
"One criminal in particular stands out," Dick noted, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "But he's currently locked up."
"Doesn't match his M.O. either," Bruce added. "There's been an uptick in weapons trafficking and black-market movement, but overall, crime's been down—until this guy staged that stunt with the Bertinellis. And now, someone's made a move on the Maronis."
"Someone's trying to upset the balance," Bruce said quietly.
With a few more keystrokes, he enlarged the image—highlighting a red headpiece and a figure in a tuxedo. A name scrolled across the screen in bold. Red Hood.
Dick's brow lifted. "Huh. Well, well. Joker—before he went all full-time psycho." He squinted at the image, the corner of his mouth twitching. Bruce gave a slow nod. "The witness reported a red helmet and referred to him by name. Red Hood."
Dick leaned against the desk, arms folded, watching the screen with growing intrigue. "Think someone's trying to revive the alias? Or maybe this guy has some kind of connection to the Joker?"
"I don't know yet," Bruce admitted, eyes scanning the report logs and incident files. "But it's a lead. And we follow leads." Dick took one last sip of his smoothie before tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin with casual precision. He folded his arms again, watching Bruce with a more serious gaze now.
"You think you're ready to face Joker again? After everything?"
It was a question layered with history. Too much history.
Bruce paused, just briefly, and the weight of the past flickered in his expression—Jason, blood, laughter, fire. Then he straightened, voice steady.
"That's why you're coming with me. To help keep me in check. Just in case."
Dick blinked, then let out a breath through his nose, nodding. "Guess we're due for a nostalgic, not-so-fun road trip to Arkham."
Bruce turned from the console, his focus now on the far side of the cave, where a sleek glass case held his suit—black and armored, gleaming under the blue-white light.
Dick watched for a moment, then pushed off the desk and headed toward the suit racks. His light humor was gone now, replaced by the professional calm of Nightwing. "I'll suit up."
- - -
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