The wind cuts through the skeletal remains of Gotham's skyline like a blade. I can feel it bite through the shredded edges of my cape as it flutters behind me, its tattered remains a mockery of the symbol it once was. Gotham—what's left of it—smolders in the distance. Ash, dust, decay. That's what it's all come to. The crumbling buildings, twisted steel, the echo of what used to be life here—it's all... dead. And it stinks of defeat.

I fold my arms, staring down from the rooftop. The ruins of Wayne Tower are barely recognizable beneath the weight of debris. A monument to my father's legacy, now nothing but a pile of bricks, metal, and memories nobody's left to care about.

Tch. I should've stopped this. I should've seen it coming.

Should've... What a pathetic phrase. Hindsight, guilt—it's all for the weak, right? Mother drilled that into me. Grandfather drilled it into him. And yet, here I am, standing in the remnants of everything we swore to protect, choking on that same bitterness. I can feel it clawing its way up my throat. Gotham's death is my failure.

I'm the failure.

A loud crash echoes in the distance, rubble collapsing in on itself like this entire godforsaken city. It pulls me from the fog of my thoughts, but the haze doesn't lift. Not completely. I jump off the edge of the building, landing with a soft roll onto the street below. There's no point in staying up there. The view doesn't change.

I walk, boots crunching against what used to be sidewalks, now buried beneath a thick layer of grime and broken glass. My hands twitch by my sides, itching to hit something—anything—but there's nothing left to fight. Not after Darkseid. He tore through Gotham like it was paper. No warning, no mercy. Just destruction. Absolute. Complete.

Was it inevitable? Maybe. Maybe it was Gotham's fate to fall, just like my father's mission, just like every promise he made. This city, this cursed city—it's always been on the edge of collapse. I guess Darkseid just gave it the final push.

But I can't help but wonder. Could I have changed anything? If I'd been faster, smarter—if I hadn't been distracted by every ridiculous vendetta and detour. If I hadn't spent half my time proving myself, proving that I was more than just Batman's son. Would any of this be different?

The wind picks up again, swirling dust and ash into the air like the city itself is mocking me.

"This is what you are," it whispers. "Ruins. Destruction."

I stop, my fists clenching so tightly I can hear my knuckles crack. "Shut up," I mutter, but the voice is still there. It's always there, taunting me, reminding me that no matter how many enemies I take down, no matter how many battles I win—I'll never escape this.

Gotham's fall isn't just the city breaking. It's me. It's all of us.

I kick a piece of debris, sending it skittering across the ground, but the sound is drowned out by the groan of what's left of the skyscrapers creaking in the distance. They're ready to fall too. It's like everything here is just waiting to collapse. Like me.

I stop walking, the reality slamming into me all over again, like a punch to the gut that I wasn't prepared for. No, not wasn't prepared for—never prepared for. How could I ever be?

Grayson. Grayson is dead too.

He's not here. He hasn't been here for a long time. One of the first heroes to fall after Darkseid's attack. He died before I was ever able to call him brother.

No, that's wrong. Grayson died before I ever allowed myself to call him brother.

I rub my temples, the weight of my own mind pressing down. I can almost hear him, see him standing there next to me, arms crossed, giving me that look he always gave me—like he was trying to understand me, even when I didn't want to be understood.

But he's not here. It's just my brain, playing tricks on me again.

Because you can't let go, can you, Damian?

I grit my teeth, shaking my head to clear it, but it doesn't help. Nothing ever helps. Gotham's gone, and so are they. All of them. Grayson, Father, Alfred—everyone who mattered, everyone who had a damn place in my life.

They're gone, and I'm the one still standing.

The last Bat.

The idea of that used to fill me with pride. Back when I thought this legacy—this insane, cursed mission—was worth fighting for. When I believed I was worthy of it. But now? I stare at the wasteland Gotham's become, and all I feel is empty.

My family... all of them died believing in this. In me. They died thinking I could carry on what they started. What they fought for. And what the hell do I have to show for it? A city in ruins and a guilt that's carved into my soul so deep I don't think it'll ever heal.

I keep walking, slower this time, the weight of it all crushing me with each step. The streets are quiet now. Too quiet. No screams, no sirens, no thugs lurking in the shadows waiting for a fight. Nothing. Just the wind, whipping through the ruins, mocking me as it carries the ash of this dead city.

Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Father, standing tall, even in the face of the impossible, refusing to give in to the chaos, to the darkness. The last time we spoke, we fought, as usual. We always fought. I wanted to prove I was ready, that I didn't need him to keep looking over my shoulder. He wanted... what? To protect me? To shield me from something he knew I wasn't ready for?

Or maybe... maybe he was just trying to keep me from ending up like him.

Too late now.

And now look at you. The last one standing. Some great legacy.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest, and for a moment, I wonder if it's grief or anger or maybe both. Probably both. I can feel it festering inside me like poison. Alfred always told me that vengeance, anger—they'd eat me alive if I let them. That I had to be better than the legacy I was born into. Be more than just another weapon.

But now? Now all I have left is anger. And guilt.

I clench my fists, feeling my nails dig into my palms through my gloves, the pain grounding me. It's the only thing that feels real right now. The only thing that reminds me is that I'm still here, even if they aren't.

"Father..." I whisper into the wind, the word barely audible as it slips through my clenched teeth. Did he die thinking I was just another one of his failures? Did he regret making me his son, his partner, his heir?

I don't know. And that thought—that is what keeps me awake at night. That's what gnaws at me every time I close my eyes. The uncertainty. The not knowing. The idea that I'll never be able to fix it, never be able to prove that I wasn't just some child soldier trying to play a part in a war I never understood.

I think about Alfred. The calm in the storm. My moral compass, always pointing me back to the right path, even when I didn't want to hear it. He was the only one who saw me for who I really was—not just as Bruce Wayne's son, not just as a weapon trained to kill. He saw me. He knew how to reach me in a way no one else could.

And now he's gone too.

I don't even remember the last thing I said to him. I don't remember if it was something kind or if it was one of my usual sharp, cutting remarks. I just remember him telling me I'd grow into the man I was supposed to be, no matter how hard I fought it. That I'd find my way.

But Alfred was wrong. I didn't grow into that man. I'm just a kid pretending to be something I'm not. Pretending to be worthy of this legacy when all I feel is the crushing weight of its failure.

I stop walking again, staring at the ground, my fists trembling. Grayson's face flashes in my mind next, the brother I never fully let in. The brother who tried. He tried to be there for me, to teach me, to help me understand what it really meant to wear the mask. And I pushed him away. Every time.

And now, like all the others, he's gone. Another failure. Another person I couldn't save. Another brother I lost without ever telling him that, deep down, I did appreciate him. That I needed him, even if I never wanted to admit it. By the time I realized it, by the time I was ready to be the brother he deserved, it was too late. He was gone.

All of them are gone.

I'm alone. The last Bat standing in a city that isn't even worth saving anymore.

I crouched down, picking up a small, jagged piece of debris, turning it over in my hands. It's a broken fragment of what used to be a window, I think. Or maybe part of a building. It doesn't matter. It's useless now, just like everything else around me.

And yet, this is all that's left. Shattered pieces of a legacy that's crumbling faster than this city.

Gotham's broken. I'm broken.

I toss the shard of glass aside and stand up, letting out a long, slow breath. I don't know what's left for me here. I don't even know if I'm fighting for anything anymore.

All I know is that I'm the last one. The last piece of a legacy that maybe wasn't worth fighting for in the first place. And now?

Now, I have to live with it.

Alone.

My boots scrape against the rubble as I pass by what used to be the heart of Gotham—my Gotham. A twisted, decaying wasteland now, filled with ghosts that cling to every inch of my mind. I walk through it anyway, the familiar streets warped and unrecognizable, but the muscle memory still kicks in. The paths, the shortcuts, the spots I once used to get the drop on criminals—now all buried under mountains of debris and ash. It's funny. I trained myself to move through this city like a predator, like a shadow—but now it feels like I'm the one being haunted.

My shoulders sag, the usual sharp edge to my walk dulled by the weight pressing down on me. Everything feels heavier, slower. My cape drags against the ground, catching on broken glass and twisted metal, and for once, I don't care enough to rip it free. My hands shake, just a little, the tremors so small they'd go unnoticed by anyone else. But I notice. Of course, I notice.

I try to tighten my grip, force them to steady themselves, but the tension runs deeper than that. It's not just my hands. It's everywhere. My muscles are so knotted that every step feels like I'm wading through quicksand, and my brow's been furrowed so long it feels like my face might be stuck that way. I can't shake the feeling, this gnawing, simmering frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Anger, yeah, but more than that—something uglier. Something that's not as easy to control.

Failure. Guilt.

I walk past a collapsed building, barely glancing at the crumbled stone that used to be a corner store where I used to watch Father patrol from the shadows, memorizing every move, every calculated breath. I used to think I'd be better. Better than him. Faster. Stronger. Smarter. I was wrong.

Ahead, through the clouds of dust and swirling ash, Wayne Tower rises—or what's left of it. The tallest structure in Gotham, or it was. Now, it leans like some grotesque monument to everything destroyed. I stop, staring at the tower. Up close it looked even more horrifying. A jagged tear runs through the middle of it, as if the city itself tried to claw it in half. Half the top is gone, a hollow skeleton of steel beams reaching for a sky that doesn't care.

My breath hitches in my throat, sharp and bitter. I glance up at the crumbling Wayne Enterprises logo, barely hanging on by a few rusted bolts. The sight makes something twist deep inside me.

For a second, I think about just walking away. Letting it all burn.

What's the point of all this, anyway? Gotham's dead. Father's dead. Alfred's dead. Grayson's dead. The mission? That never ends, not really. But it sure as hell doesn't seem worth it anymore. I could just... leave. Disappear. Let Gotham fall into the abyss it's always been teetering on. What difference would it make now?

My fists clench, harder this time. The trembling in my hands gets worse. I feel the heat rising in me, but there's nowhere to direct it, nothing to punch, nothing to fight. Just the echoes of people long gone and buildings that can't be saved.

The tension in my muscles spikes, and I slam my fist into the nearest piece of rubble. It's stupid. Pointless. But I do it anyway. The sound of my knuckles hitting stone reverberates through the empty street, but it's not satisfying. Nothing is.

I feel the pain, sharp and immediate, but I welcome it. At least it's something real, something I can focus on. But it fades too quickly, leaving behind the same suffocating emptiness that's been dogging me since… well, since they all died.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. I've been trained to control my emotions. To keep them in check, to not let them dictate my actions. But right now? Right now, I can't even tell what's worse—the anger or the grief. Or maybe it's all just one big mess, tangled together so tightly that I can't see straight.

I stare up at Wayne Tower again, and this time, something breaks inside me. The sight of it—this last symbol of who we were—standing there like a rotting corpse, makes my skin crawl. It's like Gotham's mocking me, daring me to do something, to be something.

I hear a voice. Not out loud, but in my head, creeping up from some part of me I thought was dead too.

"Waynes don't quit, Master Damian. We may falter. We may fall. But we do not quit."

Alfred's voice. Calm, steady, like it always was. He said that to me once, after Father and I had one of our infamous blowouts. He found me in the training room, beating the hell out of a punching bag, my fists raw and bloody. He didn't lecture me, didn't try to fix it. Just stood there and reminded me that I wasn't allowed to quit.

It pissed me off at the time, of course. The whole thing. The legacy, the mission, the constant expectations. I push myself up again, forcing my legs to move, forcing my body to keep going. Every step feels like a challenge. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the image away. I don't need to see it. I don't need another reminder of how far I've fallen, how far we've fallen.

I shouldn't have come back here. That much is clear the second I set foot inside the Batcave.

It's silent—too silent, even for a place buried under layers of rock and steel. The hum of computers, the soft whirr of machines, the low chatter of Father strategizing with Alfred over the comms—it's all gone. The stillness hangs in the air like a thick fog, suffocating, heavy. The sound of my boots against the cave's floor echoes, bouncing off the walls like some kind of mockery, reminding me just how alone I am in this hollow grave.

This place used to feel like... I don't know, something. A purpose, a drive. Now it just feels like a tomb. I walk deeper into the cave, the familiar stalactites overhead casting shadows on the walls, but it doesn't feel like home. Not anymore.

I glance at the empty spots where vehicles used to be, the Batmobile long gone—probably buried under a mountain of rubble somewhere in the city. The computers are dark, their screens cracked and lifeless. The whole place feels dead.

Just like them.

I keep moving, my steps slow, deliberate, because if I stop for even a second, I'm not sure I'll be able to keep going. Every corner, every detail, every damn piece of this cave is haunted by their ghosts, and I feel it pressing down on me with every breath I take.

And then I see it.

The display case.

I stop dead in my tracks, my stomach twisting into a tight knot at the sight of it. The glass is shattered, shards scattered across the floor like jagged pieces of regret. Inside the case, the remains of my father's Batsuit hang limp and tattered, torn apart during the attack. It used to be pristine, a symbol of everything he stood for—strength, discipline, control. Now? It's a rag, barely held together by the same brittle threads I'm hanging on by.

I don't move for a long time. I just stand there, staring at it, letting the anger and sorrow build up inside me like a storm. My fists tighten at my sides, the tremble in my hands growing worse.

Father's gone. The man who trained me, who molded me into what I am, even if he never said the words I wanted to hear. The man who pushed me to be better, stronger, faster. And in the end, I wasn't enough. I let him down.

I wasn't enough to save you.

My eyes burn, and I blink quickly, forcing the feeling back down. I don't cry. Wayne men don't cry. Father didn't, and I sure as hell won't.

But the anger... that's harder to swallow. It bubbles up, hot and raw, and I feel it crackling just beneath my skin, making my muscles tighten, my chest heave.

I slam my fist into the side of the display case. The sound reverberates through the cave, sharp and loud, but it doesn't make me feel better. Not even close. The suit doesn't move, doesn't react, just hangs there, taunting me.

"Damn it..." I mutter, my voice harsh in the empty cave. My throat feels tight, and I don't know if it's from the anger or something else, something I can't name but don't want to deal with.

I should be wearing that suit. I should be picking up where Father left off, continuing the mission. But I can't. I'm not worthy of it. Not anymore. How could I be, after everything? After letting this city fall apart, after watching my family die one by one? After failing.

I step back, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and that's when I see it. The photo.

It's sitting on the workbench, covered in a thin layer of dust but untouched. Like it's waiting for me.

I take a step closer, my heart pounding in my chest as my eyes fall on the image. It's of us—Father, Grayson, Alfred, and a younger version of me. I remember when it was taken. We weren't exactly a "family," but in that moment, it almost felt like we were. Grayson was grinning like an idiot, Alfred's standing there with that damn patient smile on his face, and Father—he's got that small, barely-there smirk, the one he used to do when he thought no one was paying attention.

And me? I look... I don't know. Young. Smaller. Like I didn't have the weight of the world on my shoulders yet. Like I hadn't already started losing everything that mattered.

My hand hovers over the photo, but I stop short before touching it. It feels fragile, like if I press too hard, it'll shatter into a million pieces. Just like everything else has.

Just like my family did.

I pull my hand back, clenching it into a fist, trying to control the anger bubbling up again. I let out a low, bitter laugh, my eyes still locked on the photo. "What would you think of me now, Father?" I mutter, the words dripping with sarcasm, but underneath it, there's something raw, something I don't want to admit.

Would he be proud of me? Or would he look at the wreckage of this city, of our family, and see me for what I really am?

A failure.

I turn away from the photo, my cape whipping behind me as I stalk toward the center of the cave. My footsteps echo in the emptiness, and I can't shake the feeling that the walls are closing in, that the Batcave is shrinking around me. Like it's choking me.

I stop, staring up at the towering expanse of rock and steel, the cave that once felt like a fortress now just feels... hollow.

"What am I even doing here?" I mutter to myself, though the words bounce back at me from the cave's cold walls. "There's nothing left."

Nothing but memories.

And ghosts.

I can feel their eyes on me. Father's, Grayson's, Alfred's. Watching me, judging me. Expecting something from me that I can't deliver. I want to scream at them, tell them I'm not enough. That I never was.

My fists tremble again, but this time I don't try to stop it. I just let the anger, the grief, the everything wash over me. I don't know what else to do. There's no one left to fight, no mission left to fulfill. Just a broken city and a broken legacy. And me.

The last Bat standing in the ruins of a legacy that was never mine to begin with.

I look back at the shattered display case, at the remnants of my father's suit, and for a brief moment, I think about putting it on. About trying, one more time, to live up to the impossible standard Bruce Wayne set.

But the truth is, I'm not Batman.

And I never will be.

I turn away from the suit, from the photo, from the cave that feels more like a crypt than a sanctuary now. As I walk toward the exit, my hands clenched at my sides, I can feel the weight pressing down on me again. The weight of everything I've lost. The weight of everything I'll never be.

Climbing into the Batplane, I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I strap in. The cockpit is familiar yet foreign, a reminder of a life I've been running from. I run my fingers over the controls, feeling the cool metal beneath my fingertips as I prepare for takeoff. The hum of the engines thrums in my chest, a low growl that seems to resonate with my own turbulent thoughts. With a flick of a switch, the Batplane roars to life, and I'm propelled into the sky, leaving Gotham's shadows behind.

As the city shrinks beneath me, I can't help but feel a twinge of something—perhaps regret, perhaps relief. The skyline transforms into a patchwork of memories I'm trying to escape. I program the coordinates for the Himalayas, my destination lingering in the back of my mind like a stubborn itch.

The mountains stretch out before me like an endless challenge, jagged peaks cutting into a gray sky that promises nothing but more pain. My breath comes in short bursts as I force myself to keep moving, each step up this cursed path heavier than the last. Nanda Parbat. A place I swore I'd never return to, but here I am, trudging up its unforgiving terrain like it holds some answer, some... something that'll make all of this make sense.

The Batplane soars over the breathtaking yet daunting landscape, and for a brief moment, I feel the thrill of flight washing over me, almost masking the weight in my chest. But as the mountains come closer, that thrill dissipates, leaving only the cold reality of what lies ahead. I grip the controls tighter, the metal digging into my palms, as I descend toward Nanda Parbat.

The moment the plane lands, I can feel the chill seep into my bones. Stepping out, the biting wind greets me like an old enemy, but I push through it, determined. With each step toward the mountain's heart, I can almost hear the echoes of my past, taunting me, daring me to confront what I've tried to forget. The weight of my family's legacy bears down on me, a reminder of the path I've chosen and the sacrifices I've made. I'm not just a prince; I'm a legacy—a burden I can't seem to shake

My boots crunch against the loose rocks beneath me, the incline of the mountain getting steeper with every step. The wind is biting, sharp enough to cut through even my armor, and my cape whips around me, tugging at my shoulders like it's trying to pull me back. Maybe I should listen to it. Maybe this whole thing is a waste of time.

"Tch," I mutter, tightening my fists and pushing forward, gritting my teeth against the cold and the ache in my legs. This isn't the first time I've made this climb, but it's the first time it's felt like I'm dragging a mountain's worth of weight behind me. Physical exhaustion is one thing—I can handle that. But the emotional crap? That's harder. That's the real challenge.

My mind keeps drifting back to Gotham, to the rubble, the silence, the empty streets. To Father's face in that photo, to Grayson's laugh, to Alfred's steady presence. All of them gone. And what's left? Me. The last Wayne. The last Bat. But instead of rebuilding, I'm climbing a mountain halfway across the world, about to do the one thing no one in family would ever forgive me.

I stop for a moment, leaning against a jagged rock, my chest heaving as I catch my breath. The cold air burns my lungs, but I force myself to focus on the pain—it's a distraction from everything else.

I look up at the distance, barely visible through the swirling fog that clings to the mountainside. Nanda Parbat. The League of Assassins. The place where my mother trained me, shaped me into the weapon I became. The place where I learned to kill, where I learned that weakness was something to be purged, not coddled.

Weakness. Father always said that wasn't the point. That I wasn't supposed to be a weapon. That I was supposed to be more than that. But then again, he never really knew me, did he? Not fully. Not like she did.

I push off the rock and keep walking, trying to shake off the thoughts, but they cling to me like the cold. I can hear the echoes of Mother's voice in my head, that sharp, commanding tone that made me straighten up even when I didn't want to. She would've told me to keep moving, to stop questioning myself, to push past the doubt. But I'm not that person anymore.

I'm not the heir to the League. I'm not her weapon.

I'm not even sure I'm Batman's son anymore.

Another gust of wind hits me, and I narrow my eyes against it, my steps faltering as the path gets even steeper. My legs burn, muscles protesting with every movement, but I force myself to keep going. I've made this trek before. I survived the training. I can survive this.

But it doesn't feel the same. Not like it did when I was younger, when I was still trying to prove something. Back then, every step felt like a victory, a challenge I could conquer with sheer willpower. Now? Now it feels like I'm walking toward something I don't even believe in anymore.

My foot slips on a loose rock, and I stumble, catching myself just before I go down. I curse under my breath, frustration bubbling up inside me. Get a grip, Damian. You're not a child anymore. You don't get to lose control like this. You don't get to feel sorry for yourself.

But still, the doubt lingers. The guilt. The nagging question that I can't shake, no matter how hard I try: Why are you doing this?

I look up again, Nanda Parbat was closer now, but it feels like a million miles away. It's just another mountain. Just another challenge. Another place to confront my past.

As I finally reach the top of the path, the building looms before me, shrouded in mist and shadow. It looks just as imposing as I remember it, the ancient stone walls cold and unyielding, the steps leading up to the entrance covered in frost. I take a deep breath, my body screaming for rest, but I ignore it. I don't stop. I can't stop now.

I climb the steps, my footsteps echoing in the stillness, the only sound in the otherwise silent air. The closer I get to the entrance, the more the weight in my chest tightens, like something inside me is bracing for what's coming. I've been here before. I know what waits inside.

But this time, it feels different. Heavier. Like I'm not just confronting the League, or my mother, or the training that shaped me.

I'm confronting myself.

I reach the top of the steps and stop, staring at the massive doors in front of me. For a second, I hesitate. My hand hovers just above the worn wood, my fingers trembling, and I wonder if I should turn back. If I should leave this place behind, along with everything it represents.

But then I heard it again. That voice, quiet but insistent, in the back of my mind.

"Waynes don't quit."

I clench my jaw and push the doors open, the sound of ancient hinges creaking under the strain. The air inside is cold, colder than outside, and the dim light filters through the narrow windows, casting long shadows on the stone floor.

The wind slams into me again as I push open the massive doors of the temple, my hand gripping the cold, worn wood. The moment I step inside, the biting air gives way to a suffocating silence, thick with the weight of history. And death.

Nand Parbat is dimly lit, the few flickering torches casting long, ominous shadows along the walls. The scent of incense clings to the air, but beneath it, there's something sharper. Blood. The League's signature.

I keep my hand close to my blade as I walk deeper into the hall, the soft scuff of my boots on stone the only sound I make. I'm not alone. I can feel it. The League never leaves this place undefended. I'd be disappointed if they did.

Just as I expect, a figure steps out from the shadows ahead, blocking the path. Tall, masked, draped in the black and crimson of the League's assassins. His stance is rigid, precise, just like they're all trained to be.

"Damian al Ghul." The voice is cold, calculating, but not unfamiliar. "You've returned."

I don't answer right away, my eyes narrowing as I take in the assassin in front of me. He's older than me, probably by a decade, but it doesn't matter. Age doesn't make them better—it just makes them more predictable. I tilt my head slightly, watching for the slightest shift in his stance.

"I didn't come here for a reunion," I say, my voice low, matching his tone. My hand flexes near my blade. "Get out of my way."

"You've forsaken the League," the assassin replies, ignoring my command as if it was never spoken. His hand drifts toward his own weapon, a curved dagger glinting in the dim light. "The heir to the Demon no longer walks in the shadows."

"Tch." I let out a short, derisive laugh, the kind that makes his eyes narrow behind his mask. "I haven't 'walked in the shadows' since the day I realized I didn't need them."

He's fast, but I'm faster. His blade flashes toward me, aiming for my throat in one smooth motion, but I'm already a step ahead. I sidestep his attack, my footwork quick, fluid, and bring my own blade up in an arc, aiming for his side. He twists just in time, blocking my strike with a sharp clang of metal on metal.

We lock eyes for a split second, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. He's skilled, I'll give him that. But he's also underestimating me.

His mistake.

I drive forward, my blade blurs as I press the attack. He parries, once, twice, but I can see the small falter in his movement—the hesitation. I feint left, then slam the hilt of my sword into his ribs with enough force to knock the wind out of him. He stumbles back, and before he can recover, I sweep his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

I press the tip of my blade to his throat, my breathing steady despite the quick exchange. "I said," I growl, my voice low, "get out of my way."

For a second, neither of us moves. The assassin's chest heaves, his hand twitching near his fallen blade, but he doesn't make a move to grab it. He knows better.

"Damian al Ghul does not belong here," he hisses, his voice dripping with contempt. "You've turned your back on the League."

"I didn't turn my back," I say, leaning in slightly, my voice hard as steel. "I walked away."

I twist my wrist, and the blade digs in just enough to draw blood—a thin line of red that drips onto the cold stone floor. "Now, I'm not going to say it again. Move."

The assassin glares up at me, his jaw clenched, but after a tense moment, he nods once. Slowly, carefully, he moves his hands away from his weapon and pushes himself to his feet. He steps aside, blood still trickling down his neck, but he doesn't wipe it away.

"You'll find no answers here, heir of Wayne," he spits as I walk past him, his voice low and venomous. "Only the ghosts of what you've lost."

I ignore him, though his words hang in the air like poison. I didn't come here for a philosophical debate with an assassin who'll probably bleed out before the night's over. I came here to see if there's anything left in this place worth salvaging.

And maybe to break a few bones while I'm at it.

But the moment I step into the inner sanctum, I realize it's not going to be that easy.

More of them. At least four, maybe five, all wearing the same black and crimson, their masks gleaming in the dim light. They fan out in a semi-circle, blocking my path to the altar at the center of the room. I don't stop walking, but my hand tightens on my sword, my senses on high alert.

"Damian," one of them says, his voice smooth, almost... condescending. "You've come back to the League. Did you finally realize your place?"

I pause, my gaze sweeping over the group. "I'm not here for you," I say, keeping my voice casual, but the tension in my body is coiled tight, ready to strike. "So, unless you want to end up like your friend outside, I suggest you get the hell out of my way."

They exchange glances. No one moves.

Great.

"Still the arrogant little prince, I see," the lead assassin says, drawing his blade with a slow, deliberate motion. "You were always too soft to lead the League. Too much of your father in you."

The mention of my father hits like a punch to the gut, but I don't let it show. I can't. Not here. "Is that supposed to insult me?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because if I remember correctly, I wiped the floor with most of you before I ever met my father. So, let's skip the lecture, alright?"

One of them lunges at me, fast and silent, but I'm already moving. I duck under his strike, sweeping my leg out to catch his ankle, and slam my elbow into the back of his head as he hits the ground. Another assassin comes at me from the side, but I sidestep his attack and catch his wrist, twisting it until I hear the satisfying crack of bone.

They don't stop. Of course they don't.

Two more come at me from either side, their blades flashing in the torchlight. I parry one, deflecting his strike just enough to send him off balance, and then I twist around, kicking the other in the chest with enough force to send him stumbling back into the altar. He recovers quickly, though, and before I can follow up, he's back on his feet, his blade aimed at my throat.

I barely dodge in time, his blade slicing through the air just inches from my neck. I feel the cold metal graze my skin, but I push through, slamming my fist into his jaw and sending him sprawling. He hits the ground hard, his blade clattering to the floor, and this time, he doesn't get up.

I turn to face the last assassin, my breathing heavy but controlled. He's the leader—the one who started this mess. His eyes narrow behind his mask, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he grips his blade just a little tighter.

"Still think I'm too soft?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

The assassin hesitates for just a second. Then, with a snarl, he charges.

It's over in two moves. I block his strike, twist his arm, and slam him face-first into the stone floor. His blade skitters across the ground, and I kick it aside, pressing my boot against his back to keep him down.

"I didn't come here to fight you," I say, my voice cold and unyielding. "But if you think for one second, I'll hesitate to finish this, you're wrong."

He groans, trying to push himself up, but I press harder with my boot, keeping him pinned.

"You're the heir to nothing," he hisses through clenched teeth. "You'll always be caught between two worlds, Damian. You're too weak for the League. Too ruthless for your father's legacy."

I leaned down, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'm done listening to people like you tell me who I'm supposed to be."

I kick him aside, his body hitting the stone with a thud, and straighten up, my gaze sweeping over the carnage in the room.

No one moves.

I turned to stare at the Lazarus Pits. My fists unclench as I step forward, but my mind is still racing, the assassin's words echoing in my ears.

Caught between two worlds.

I take a deep breath, the weight of it all pressing down on me.

Maybe he's right. But right now? I don't care.

I'm not here to choose sides.

The room smells like blood and incense, a sickening combination that's all too familiar. The unconscious bodies of Ra's loyalists are being dragged out by the other assassins—Talia's assassins. They recognize me. They bow their heads slightly, but not out of respect. More like... acknowledgment. As if they've already decided who I am, what I'm supposed to be.

I hate it.

They clear the room, leaving me standing alone in front of the green glow of the Lazarus Pit pulsing in the air, like some sick heartbeat. It's a temptation I can feel in my bones, pulling at me. The power of the Pit, the promise of everything I've lost—just within reach.

"Master Damian," one of Talia's lieutenants says, stepping out from the shadows, his head dipped respectfully. He's old, older than my mother even, his eyes are cold, hardened by years of service to the League. He looks like he hasn't smiled since birth.

"The men are dealt with," he continues, his voice low, almost reverent. "We await your orders."

I turn to face him, keeping my expression cold. "Orders?" My voice is sharp, snarky, but there's an edge to it. "You think I'm here to play leader? To sit on some throne and bark orders like Ra's?"

The lieutenant, Omar I believe, doesn't flinch. "You are the last of the al Ghul line. The only heir. The League... is yours, if you want it."

If I want it.

My fist tightens at my side, my knuckles turning white under the leather of my glove. I can feel the tension in my muscles, the heat rising in my chest. The League has always been there, lurking in the background of my life, waiting for me to step up and take my place. But that's not why I'm here. Not now.

I take a step toward him, my gaze locking with his. "I didn't come here to lead your little death cult," I snap, my voice low and dangerous.

Omar hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly, but he doesn't push back. "What do you seek, Master Damian? Perhaps we can help you."

I almost laughed. Help me? That's a joke. The League of Assassins isn't about helping people—it's about control, domination, killing. That's all they know. But I don't need them. I know what I came here for. I don't need their permission. I don't need anyone's permission.

I turn away from the lieutenant, my eyes falling on the Lazarus Pit. It glows with that eerie green light, the air around it thick with the promise of what it can do. What it's done before.

It can bring them back. All of them. Father. Grayson. Alfred.

I walk toward the Pit, my steps slow, measured, but my heart is pounding in my chest. The green glow reflects in the water, casting long shadows on the stone walls, and I can feel it—the pull. The temptation. The power of the Lazarus Pit is real. I know that better than anyone.

I stop at the edge, the bubbling, glowing liquid just inches from my boots. The smell of it hits me—sulfur and something else, something metallic. The Pit doesn't just offer life. It demands something in return. It changes people. Brings them back twisted, different.

But what if it didn't? What if, this time, I could control it?

I can feel the weight of my family pressing down on me, like they're standing behind me, watching. Judging. My father, always reminding me to stay in control. Grayson, trying to reach me when I refused to let him in. Alfred, patient, understanding, never pushing, but always there.

They're gone. And I could bring them back.

I stare into the Pit, my mind racing. The assassin's words echo in my head. "You are the last of the al Ghul line." That's supposed to mean something, right? Ra's used this Pit to build his empire, to cheat death over and over again. And now it's mine.

But at what cost?

My reflection stares back at me in the glowing water—distorted, warped. It doesn't even look like me. It looks like someone who's lost everything. Someone who's desperate enough to use this power to bring back what he can't accept is gone.

My hand hovers over the surface of the water, just inches away. I can feel the energy radiating off of it, like static on my skin. One plunge, one step into the Pit, and everything could change. I could undo all of it. I could bring them back.

But at what cost?

I close my eyes, trying to shut it out, but the thoughts keep flooding in, relentless, brutal. I keep seeing Father's face, the way he looked at me—always so damn stoic, so impossible to read. Did he trust me? Did he believe in me? Or did he see me the way I see myself now? A kid playing at something bigger, something darker than I ever understood. A failure.

You're not a failure, I hear his voice, deep and measured, echoing in my mind like a ghost that refuses to let go. You never were.

But I shook my head, teeth gritted, trying to drown it out. "Yeah, right," I mutter to myself. "Tell that to the city you couldn't save."

I open my eyes and stare down at the Pit again, the swirling green light reflecting off my face. The power here is real. I've seen it. I know what it can do. The Lazarus Pit can fix everything. It's right there, waiting for me, waiting to erase the mistakes, the failures, the pain. Hell, I could rebuild Gotham the way it was meant to be. I could make it better.

Stronger.

But deep down, I know that's a lie. The Lazarus Pit doesn't heal. It corrupts. It warps. I saw what it did to Ra's. The more he used it, the less of himself there was. And when he came back... he wasn't him anymore. Not really.

And what if that's what would happen to them? What if I bring them back, but they aren't the same? What if they come back broken, twisted into something else, something worse? Could I even live with that? Could I live with the knowledge that I used the same poison that turned my grandfather into a monster?

I take a step closer to the edge, the heat from the Pit warming my skin, almost comforting. But what if they come back right? What if this time it's different? What if I could control it, shape it, make it work the way I need it to? I've always been better than Ra's. Stronger. More disciplined. What if I'm the one who can make the Lazarus Pit*obey?

The thought sends a chill through me, colder than the mountain air outside. It's everything Ra's ever wanted for me. It's everything he trained me to be—someone who could harness the power, bend it to his will. The perfect heir. And isn't that what I've always been fighting against?

Or maybe I'm tired of fighting.

I can feel the rage bubbling up inside me again, that familiar anger that's always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. It's always there, waiting for me to lose control, waiting for me to snap. The anger that comes with every failure, every mistake, every time I couldn't live up to what they needed me to be.

I could use it. I could harness it. The Pit would give me the power to fix everything. The power to finally be enough.

But at what cost?

The question echoes in my mind, over and over, louder and louder. I close my eyes again, and this time, it's Grayson's voice I hear. Calm. Steady. We're better than that, Damian. We're better than vengeance.

Vengeance. The word hits me like a punch to the gut. Is that what this is? Is that what I'm really after? Am I trying to bring them back because I can't live without them, or because I can't live with the fact that I couldn't save them in the first place?

I don't know anymore.

The light dances across my face, making everything around me feel surreal, like a dream. I stare into the swirling green liquid, and for a second, I can almost see them—Father, Grayson, Alfred—all of them standing there, waiting for me to bring them back.

But then the vision shifts, warps, and I see something else. Darker. Twisted. I see them coming back, but not as they were. They're wrong, twisted versions of themselves, cold and violent, not the people I loved. And I see me—standing there, watching, as everything falls apart again.

The Pit doesn't fix things. It just... prolongs the inevitable.

I can feel the tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. I won't let myself cry. Not here. Not now. I'm better than that. I'm stronger than that.

But are you?

The doubt creeps in again, and I feel myself wavering, caught between the promise of power and the fear of what it might cost me. What if I can't do this without them? What if I'm not enough?

Damian, you are enough.

Grayson's voice again. It's steady, like always. Not angry, not disappointed. Just... there. A reminder of what he stood for, what he wanted me to be. What I still could be, if I don't lose myself here, in this moment.

I take a deep breath, my eyes still locked on the Lazarus Pit, and slowly... I step back.

My heart pounds in my chest, my hands shaking at my sides, but I force myself to turn away. I won't do it. I can't do it. This isn't the way.

Father would never forgive me.

Alfred would never forgive me.

Grayson would never forgive me.

And I don't think I'd ever forgive myself.