I stand on the balcony of my villa in Infinity Islands, the wind biting at my face as I stare out. Below, I can hear the sounds of training—the clash of steel, the shouts of orders, the rhythmic pounding of footsteps as the latest group of refugees is put through their paces. It's strange. The League of Assassins was never built for this. We were meant to be shadows, killers, slipping through the cracks of history to shape it through fear. But that world is gone. And so, we've become something else.

My world, my family, has been ripped apart. Father. Talia. Even Ra's, as twisted as he was. Gone. And that should've been the end of it, shouldn't it? The end of me. But no. I'm still here, standing on the ashes of what was, building something new. Whether it's the right choice? That's a question for another day. For now, it's survival.

I turn my back on the view, heading inside where the air is heavy with incense and whispers. The halls of my new villa are busier than they've ever been, filled with faces that don't belong here—civilians, families, kids. People who've lost everything. And the League? My League now? They're not the same either. Some of them, the old guard, look at me like I've betrayed everything we were supposed to stand for.

Not that I care. I've spent my whole life standing in the shadows of expectations—Ra's, Talia, Father. They all wanted me to be something I'm not. I was never going to fit into the box they tried to shove me into. But now? Now I don't have to. This is my world, and I'm shaping it the way I see fit. The League will follow me, whether they like it or not.

As I walk through the halls, I catch sight of a group of assassins training a handful of refugees in combat. It's surreal. Watching assassins who used to be experts at slipping a blade between someone's ribs now teaching civilians how to defend themselves against parademons—it's not what the League was built for. But these are the cards we've been dealt.

"Keep your stance wider," I say, pausing behind one of the trainees, a scrawny kid who looks like he couldn't lift a blade, let alone hold it steady. His grip is wrong, too tight, like he's terrified he's going to drop the sword at any moment.

The kid flinches when he hears my voice, his shoulders stiffening. "Wider stance," he mutters, adjusting his feet.

I roll my eyes. "If you hold the sword like that, you might as well be handing it to the enemy and asking them to kill you with it."

He stares at me, wide-eyed, and I can see the fear in his face. Not fear of me, though—fear of what's out there. What's coming. It's the same fear everyone has, even if they don't want to admit it.

"Relax your grip," I add, stepping closer. "You're not strangling it. You're controlling it. There's a difference."

He nods quickly, loosening his grip, his movements shaky but determined. I watch him for a moment longer, making sure he's not about to slice his own leg off, and then turn my attention to the assassin leading the training. His name's Malik. He's one of the older ones, a veteran who followed Ra's for decades. He catches my eye, and there's a flicker of something there—respect, maybe. But it's tinged with the same skepticism I've seen from all the old guard.

"This isn't what you signed up for, is it?" I ask, crossing my arms as I stop in front of him.

Malik shrugs, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Wasn't exactly expecting to turn assassins into babysitters."

There it is. The snark. I've heard it before. From half the League, actually. But it doesn't faze me.

"We're not babysitters," I say, my tone cool, though there's an edge to it. "We're preparing them to survive. The parademons aren't going to wait for us to be ready."

He smirks, shaking his head slightly. "And here I thought the League was supposed to be about eliminating threats before they happen."

I step closer, lowering my voice. "It still is. The difference is, we're not just protecting ourselves anymore. We're the last line of defense. We don't get the luxury of operating from the shadows now. We're in the light."

Malik's smirk fades, his eyes narrowing. He's an assassin, through and through. He doesn't like this new direction. I can see it. But he's smart enough to know that resisting won't get him anywhere. And, deep down, I think even he knows that what we're doing now—this pivot—is necessary.

I glance at the group of trainees, their faces etched with exhaustion but determination. They've been through hell, and they're still standing. That counts for something.

"This isn't about Ra's legacy," I say, my voice dropping even lower, so only Malik can hear. "This is about survival. You can either get on board, or you can walk away. But if you stay, you follow my lead. Understood?"

Malik holds my gaze for a long moment, and I can feel the tension between us, like the air's too thick. But finally, he nods, his expression hard but accepting. "Understood, Demon Head."

I snort at the title. It still feels strange to hear it, but I don't correct him. It's who I am now. Whether I like it or not.

As I turn to leave, Malik calls after me. "You really think this is going to work, my Prince? Changing the League? Protecting civilians?"

I pause at the door, not bothering to turn around. "I don't think. I know."

And I do. Because this isn't about what Ra's wanted. It's not about what Father would've done. It's about what I have to do. And if that means reshaping the League from a group of assassins into something else—something that can survive in this apocalyptic wasteland—then that's exactly what I'll do.

I make my way down the hall toward the beach. There's a last-minute lesson, preparing the newest recruits for the next wave of attacks. Darkseid may be gone, but his parademons are relentless. Every day, they swarm the edges of our sanctuaries, trying to break through. And every day, we push them back. But it's only a matter of time before the next major assault comes.

I pass by a few more groups of assassins, all of them busy training the survivors, reinforcing defenses, and preparing for whatever comes next. It's strange to see Infinity Island so... alive. But it's also necessary. This is what we've become.

The League is no longer just a shadow in the night. We're a force in the light. We're building something out of the ashes.

And I'll be damned if I let anyone—parademons or otherwise—tear it down.

This is my world now. And I'm not done shaping it.

I come to a stop on the cliff's edge overlooking the beach, the salty breeze whipping through the air, carrying with it the faint echoes of steel clashing and barked commands. Below me, the sprawling shores of Infinity Island stretch out, where Suri—one of my most trusted lieutenants—leads a group of refugees through another round of combat exercises. The rhythmic sounds of their training fill the air, almost meditative, though there's nothing peaceful about what they're preparing for.

It's a surreal sight, honestly. We've become teachers, protectors. Training civilians in combat, survival, defense. I can still see the hesitation in some of their movements, the uncertainty in their eyes. They're not killers; they're farmers, mechanics, parents—people who never should've had to hold a blade. But the world we knew is gone. And now, if they want to live, they have to learn to fight like the deadliest assassins in the world. And I'm the one making that happen.

Part of me, the part that grew up in Gotham, the part that learned under Father's shadow, wonders if Father would be proud of this. Of me. A part of me, though... knows it doesn't matter. He's gone. I've made my choice, and I'm not looking for his approval anymore. What matters is that we're still standing. That people are still alive. The League, Nanda Parbat, Infinity Island—it's working. Somehow, in the middle of this apocalypse, we've built something that thrives.

I shifted my gaze back down to the beach. Suri barks an order, and the group moves in unison, weapons raised. She's got them running drills, basic League techniques—stances, strikes, footwork. It's not graceful, not yet. But they're learning. And more importantly, they're surviving.

There's a strange sort of pride in that. Watching this chaos, knowing that it's not just about killing anymore. It's about life. About keeping these people alive in a world that's determined to see them dead.

I cross my arms, leaning against the jagged stone of the cliff, my thoughts drifting as I take in the sight of my people—my League—transforming into something new. Suri catches my eye from below, and there's a brief nod of acknowledgment between us. She's adjusted better than most. It's taken time, of course. Suri was like the others—skeptical, resistant. But she's smart. She saw what I saw: that the old ways don't work anymore. Not in this world. She's not exactly sentimental, but I think even she understands that this isn't just about survival—it's about rebuilding.

A sharp clang echoes from the beach, breaking my thoughts. One of the trainees, a lanky boy with too much fear and not enough muscle, loses his grip on the blade and stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Suri stalks over to him, her posture like a coiled spring, ready to snap. She doesn't shout—Suri never shouts—but her words cut sharp and precise.

"Your enemy won't give you a second chance. Get up," she says, her voice as cold as the sea breeze.

The boy scrambles to his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment. I can't tell if it's the fear of Suri or the fear of what's out there that gets him moving again, but either way, he picks up the sword and tries again, his movements shaky but determined.

"Better," Suri mutters, but there's no warmth in her praise. Just expectation. She knows what's at stake, and she's not about to let them forget it.

I watch the scene unfold, my mind wandering back to the endless reports, the strategies, the plans we've had to put in place to keep these sanctuaries running. Infinity Island and Nanda Parbat—two places now linked by necessity. Both are thriving, more than I expected, really. Between the natural resources here and the magical defenses that guard us, we've managed to hold out. We've turned these places into sanctuaries for anyone who can make it to our shores. People come to us with nothing but the clothes on their backs and fear in their eyes, and we give them something no one else can: safety.

And purpose.

But I'm not naive. I know that this fragile peace, this sense of rebuilding, won't last. Darkseid's forces are still out there. His parademons attack relentlessly, picking away at the edges of our defenses, looking for weaknesses. It's only a matter of time before we're hit with something bigger. Something we might not be ready for. That's why this training is so important. That's why I need these people to become more than they ever thought they could be.

My father used to say there was no such thing as a "no-win" scenario. That you find a way, no matter what. But then, even he wasn't ready for what happened to Gotham. For what happened to us. I exhale slowly, shoving the thought aside. I don't have time to dwell on the past. Gotham's gone. Father is gone. Grayson, Alfred... everyone. And I'm still here.

"You're scowling again," Suri's voice interrupts, pulling me from my thoughts. I hadn't even noticed her approaching. She's standing next to me now, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "You look like you're about to jump off this cliff."

I snort, glancing at her. "What's it to you?"

She shrugs, a slight smirk playing on her lips. "If you throw yourself off a cliff, I'm the one who's going to have to explain it to the others. Too much paperwork."

"Thanks for the concern," I reply dryly, turning my gaze back to the beach.

"Just looking out for my boss," she says, but there's something in her tone that tells me she's only half-joking.

Suri and I have never been the type to exchange pleasantries. She's loyal, but not in the blind, unthinking way some of the older assassins were with Ra's. Even for all her loyalty to Talia's way, it was mostly because she agreed with them. Suri questions things. Pushes. And I respect that. She's one of the few people I trust implicitly, but I'd never admit that out loud.

She follows my gaze down to the trainees, her eyes narrowing slightly. "They're getting better," she says after a moment, though her voice still has that skeptical edge.

"They have to," I reply. "If they don't, they're dead."

Suri's silent for a moment, watching the group as they work through their drills, some better than others. "You think we can really do it?" she asks, her voice quieter now. "Rebuild? Change the League like this?"

It's a question I've asked myself more times than I care to admit. I don't answer right away, letting the sounds of training and the crashing of waves fill the silence between us.

"It's already happening," I say finally. "We're not the League we were, Suri. And we're not going back. This is the only way forward."

She nods slowly, her eyes focused on the trainees but her thoughts clearly elsewhere. "You know some of the others still aren't convinced."

"I'm aware," I say, my tone flat. I've felt the eyes on me, heard the murmurs behind my back. There are still those in the League who think I'm dragging us in the wrong direction. They miss the old days—the clean lines between enemies and allies, the simplicity of the kill. But I've made it clear: those days are over. The League doesn't get to be the same mindless tool of destruction anymore. We're something else now. Whether they like it or not.

"And what are you going to do about that?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

I meet her gaze, my expression hardening. "Whatever I have to."

There's a beat of silence, and then Suri lets out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "You really are Ra's grandson."

"Don't remind me," I rolled my eyes, turning away from her. Those words no longer hurt me like they used to. "I better get going, I am tasked to patrol the forest with Omar."

"Demon's Head," Suri bowed as I walked away, joining my other trusted lieutenant by the forest's boundaries.

The forest in Infinity Island isn't like anything you'd find in the outside world. It's alive, in ways I'm not sure I fully understand yet. Magic clings to the air like humidity, thick and suffocating, warping the natural order of things. You can feel it crawling over your skin, watching you, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike. And I'm not an idiot—weakness gets you killed. Especially here.

Omar walks beside me, quiet but alert. He's always been that way. I don't have to explain things to him. He knows why we're out here, even if I haven't said it out loud. This island may be our sanctuary for now, but there's a lot we don't know about it. I don't trust places like this. Magic never comes without a cost, and whatever's hiding out in this forest? We need to find it before it finds us. Before it finds our people.

The trees grow denser the farther we go, their twisted roots rising up from the ground like veins through broken skin. The light filtering through the thick canopy overhead casts everything in this sickly green hue, the kind of color that makes you feel like something's rotting, even when it isn't.

"Something wrong Master Damian? You've been glaring at these trees like they personally offended you." Omar says, breaking the silence with that dry tone he always uses when things are tense. It's like his default setting.

"Maybe they have," I mutter, scanning the area ahead of us, looking for any sign of movement. The forest is too quiet. I've trained my whole life to be suspicious of silence—it's usually a warning. "This place doesn't feel right."

Omar chuckles, but it's humorless, just a breath of sound that feels like it's there to cut the tension more than anything else. "Yeah, no kidding. The trees are practically breathing."

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He's tense too, though he's trying to play it off like he isn't. His hand hovers near the hilt of his blade, fingers twitching slightly as we push deeper into the forest. Even Omar, who's seen more than his fair share of nightmares in his time, is unnerved. That's... not exactly comforting.

"Stay sharp," I say, low but firm. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet."

"I've been sharp since we left the cliffs," Omar replies, his gaze flicking toward the shadows that stretch between the trees. "But something about this place... it's like it's watching us."

"It is," I say, not bothering to sugarcoat it. "The island's magic. It's everywhere. This isn't some normal forest."

"Yeah, no kidding," he mutters, his hand finally gripping the hilt of his sword. "What exactly are we expecting to find out here? More parademons? Something worse?"

I don't answer immediately, stepping over a gnarled root that looks like it's clawing its way out of the earth. "If I knew, we wouldn't be walking blind into the middle of it, would we?"

Omar snorts. "Comforting."

But he doesn't press further. He knows this is what we have to do. We can't afford to be complacent. Not here. Not anywhere. The League might've been built for a different purpose, but we've adapted. We've turned this island into a sanctuary, but that only works if we stay ahead of the threats. And right now, there's something in these woods that feels wrong.

The deeper we go, the more the air shifts. It's subtle at first, like a low hum you can almost ignore. But after a while, it presses down on you, making it hard to breathe. The shadows grow longer, and the trees, twisted and warped, seem to lean closer, like they're trying to listen in on our conversation. My senses are screaming at me that we're getting closer to something. Something bad.

"You feel that?" I ask, my voice low, almost a growl. I don't like admitting the magic is affecting me, but there's no point in pretending it isn't.

Omar's eyes narrow as he scans the forest. "Yeah," he says, his voice tight now. "Feels like... pressure. Like something's about to happen."

"Stay ready," I tell him, already shifting my stance, every muscle coiled. The League didn't train us to deal with magical bullshit, but we've been trained to handle the unknown, and this? This definitely qualifies.

We continue forward, the path narrowing, and the air... it buzzes now, thick with tension. Every step feels like it's drawing us closer to something waiting just beyond our sight, something that's been lurking in the heart of the island, undisturbed—until now.

And then, out of nowhere, there's a sound. It's faint, but sharp—like a whisper that cuts through the oppressive silence. I freeze, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my blade. Omar stops too, his body tense, ready.

"What was that?" he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Something that doesn't belong," I say, my eyes scanning the shadows. "Stay close."

The ground beneath us shifts slightly, and I hear the faintest creak, like wood bending under pressure. I glance down and realize we've stepped into an area where the forest floor is littered with strange, vine-like roots—more pronounced than before. There's something wrong here. The magic isn't just thick—it's concentrated.

"Careful," I warn, my voice low. "These vines..."

Before I can finish, one of the roots shifts—moves—like a living thing. It slithers along the ground toward Omar, quick as a snake. He reacts instantly, slashing at it with his blade, but the root pulls back, coiling like it's preparing to strike again.

"Great. Killer plants," Omar mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he takes a step back, his blade raised.

"We've seen worse," I snap, already moving into a defensive stance. "Focus."

The forest around us seems to come alive, the roots and vines shifting, moving in eerie, unnatural ways. The ground beneath us feels unstable, like the island itself is reacting to our presence, trying to push us back—or worse, swallow us whole.

I draw my blade, the sound of steel slicing through the air loud against the unnatural silence. "This is why we don't trust magic," I mutter under my breath, eyeing the shifting vines. They're not fast, but they're persistent, like they're testing us, seeing how we react. "I'm starting to miss Gotham."

Omar smirked, despite the tension in the air. "You're just saying that because Gotham doesn't have enchanted forests trying to eat you."

"Yeah, I'll take criminals and corrupt politicians over this any day." I say, stepping forward, slashing through a particularly thick vine that inches toward me. "Let's clear a path, it's not like we can do much about it. The main Lazarus Pit resides in this island and its effects can be felt even in the depths of this forest."

"Then we should get rid of these vines before any civilian stumbles over them," Omar nods, his blade already moving in swift, controlled motions as he hacks away at the vines. We push forward, the air growing heavier with each step. Whatever's waiting for us at the heart of this forest, it's not going to make things easy. But then again, nothing ever does.

We've fought gods, parademons, and everything in between. This is just another test. Another challenge.

And like always, I'll face it head-on.

The forest opens up unexpectedly, like a bad punchline, and suddenly, there it is—an old, decaying lab, half-hidden beneath the grip of thick vines and moss. The structure's bones still stand, though barely. Metal beams are twisted, half-collapsed in on themselves, while what used to be a roof sags dangerously, threatening to give up on the whole idea of keeping things above ground any second now. It's been here for years, untouched. The air around it feels wrong, like something that doesn't belong in this century, or maybe in any century.

"Great," I mutter, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Because nothing says, 'friendly welcome' like an abandoned evil lab in the middle of a cursed forest."

Omar snorts beside me, glancing up at the rusted sign that hangs crooked above what used to be the entrance. The letters are half-gone, faded. Of course. This place practically screams 'classified nightmare.'

"Bet this was cozy in its heyday," Omar says dryly, his hand already on the hilt of his blade. He's trying to play it cool, but I can tell the magic in the air is getting to him. It's got a weight to it—an oppressive, buzzing sensation like a swarm of insects just out of reach. Whatever went on in this place, it didn't stay buried. You can feel it.

I step closer to the building, my eyes narrowing as I examine the cracks in the walls, the strange patterns in the way the vines cling to the steel. They're not just growing over the structure, they're woven into it, like the buildings being held up by the damn plants. Something isn't right here. And I'm not a fan of surprises.

"Think anyone's home?" Omar asks, glancing sideways at me.

"Not anyone we want to meet," I reply, my voice low. "But we're not leaving until we find out what this place was."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. Good. I'm not in the mood for debate. Not that Omar ever debated with me, that is more Suri's style.

The entrance is half-collapsed, but we manage to squeeze through a gap in the broken steel door. Inside, the air smells stale, like the place has been sealed off for decades. It's colder too, unnaturally so, and that buzzing sensation grows more pronounced as we step deeper into the ruins. The floor is littered with debris—cracked computer screens, overturned desks, and shards of broken glass that crunch under our boots.

"Very inviting," Omar murmurs, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.

I glance at him. "You get to be sarcastic when you're the one leading. Until then, shut up and watch my back."

"Yes, Master Damian," he mutters, though he keeps his voice low and his senses sharp.

The hallway we're in is narrow, the ceiling above us sagging dangerously. The only light comes from the faint green glow seeping in through the cracks in the walls, casting everything in an eerie, unnatural tint. We pass a few broken-down doorways, each room behind them filled with remnants of a forgotten past—smashed lab equipment, faded papers scattered across the floor, and more of those damn vines crawling up the walls.

But it's the silence that's unnerving. The whole place feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something. And I'm not a fan of waiting.

"Why does it always have to be labs?" I mutter under my breath. "Always some forgotten nightmare hiding in a lab. Never something normal, like... I don't know, a bakery."

"Sure," Omar whispers behind me, his footsteps quiet but precise. "Because killer croissants are what this world's been missing."

I stop abruptly, holding up a hand. There's a door at the end of the hallway, slightly ajar, the faintest sliver of light spilling out from inside. It's not the kind of warm, welcoming light you'd want to see. No, this is different—cold, unnatural. And I don't need to be a detective to figure out that whatever's behind that door, it's not going to be a friendly face with cookies and milk.

The door is barely hanging on, its rusted hinges creaking under the slightest pressure as I push it open. The air inside hits me like a punch—stale, sour, and heavy with the kind of silence that only exists where something terrible has happened. I freeze in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat before I even process why.

There, crumpled in the corner, is a body. Or what's left of it.

The skeleton is small—too small. Around my age, maybe younger. The bones are fragile, curled in on themselves, as if the boy had died trying to make himself smaller, trying to hide from the inevitable. His face—or what used to be his face—is half-buried in the corner, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, like he'd been trying to hold himself together in the end.

I don't move. For a second, I'm not even sure I'm breathing. The sight is like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of me. My chest tightens as my eyes trace over the skeletal remains, the way the boy's body seems to twist inward, as if his last moments were spent in agony, suffering, locked in this tiny, forgotten room with no hope of escape.

I can't look away. And I don't understand why.

Omar steps up behind me, and his usual sarcastic demeanor vanishes the second he sees what I'm staring at. "...Shit," he mutters, his voice low, like speaking any louder would make the scene worse. "That's... Allah, Master Damian."

I don't respond. Can't. There's something gnawing at the back of my mind, something that won't go away. This... this isn't just some random kid. No one just ends up in a place like this, forgotten, abandoned. There's a reason. And the question burning in my head, pounding with every beat of my heart, is why?

I take a step forward, into the room, the walls feeling too close, the air too thick. The floor beneath me creaks, but I barely hear it. My attention is locked on the boy, on the way his bones are arranged, on the faded scraps of clothing still clinging to his frame. Starvation. He'd been left here to die, slowly, painfully. There's no doubt about it.

My hand tightens around the hilt of my blade, my knuckles turning white. Anger, hot and immediate, burns in my chest, but it's tangled with something else—something darker. Guilt? No. Confusion. Horror. Because deep down, I can't shake the feeling that this is tied to me, to my family's darkness.

"Who the hell would leave a kid like this?" Omar asks, his voice strained, but I don't answer. He's thinking out loud, but I can barely hear him. My mind's racing, putting pieces together that I don't even want to acknowledge.

Because this isn't some accident. This is an unfinished story. And I'm standing in the middle of it.

I step closer to the remains, my heart pounding harder now, my pulse a steady drum in my ears. I can't stop staring at the boy, at the way he's twisted up in that corner, like his last moments were spent in pure, silent agony. Alone. Forgotten.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something twist deep in my chest—something cold. Fear.

Because whoever did this... whatever happened here... it's connected to me.

And I don't know why.

It was then that I realized that Omar had stopped cursing and gone quiet. I still have not turned around. Because if I do turn around, I know I will learn what happened here… and part of me wishes to remain oblivious.

At the end, my lieutenant makes the decision for me.

Omar steps up beside me, his face grim, the usual sarcasm wiped clean from his expression. That alone tells me this is bad—worse than I thought. His hand reaches out, holding a bundle of old papers, yellowed with age and crinkled from the humidity that clings to everything in this place. He doesn't say anything, just pushes them toward me, like he already knows what I'm about to find.

I take them without a word. My hands—my hands are steady, but as I start flipping through the pages, something happens. A tremor, almost too small to notice at first, starts in my fingers. By the time I hit the second page, it was not small anymore.

The first thing I see is the experimentation number. A string of cold, clinical numbers and letters that might as well be a death sentence, stamped at the top of every page. There's no name. No identification. Just a subject number. That's all this boy was to them.

My heart pounds in my chest, hard enough that I feel it in my throat, tightening like a noose.

I keep reading. The words blur together—medical jargon, genetic profiles, and references to 'EXP-1998-071'—but a name jumps out at me, like a punch straight to the gut: Slade Wilson.

My stomach twists, and suddenly, I'm not standing in this abandoned lab anymore. I'm back in the League, back in that nightmare world of Ra's al Ghul's twisted games and my mother's cold, calculated ambition. I know what this is. I know where this leads.

A clone.

Not just any clone. A clone of my mother and Slade Wilson.

I should've seen this coming. Should've known that Ra's would pull something like this. But even now, as I stand here reading the words in front of me, my mind can't fully grasp the horror of it. This boy—this clone—was engineered. Built from the DNA of Talia and Slade, two of the most dangerous people on the planet. He was supposed to inherit Slade's enhanced abilities, his strength, his reflexes. He was supposed to be perfect. Another weapon. Another pawn in Ra's endless game.

But the enhancements weren't enough, were they? Not when you leave someone to rot in a room no bigger than a coffin. All that power, all that potential, and it couldn't save him from this—a slow, agonizing death in the dark.

No one even gave him a name. Just a number.

I drop the papers, and they scatter across the floor, landing near the boy's skeletal remains. My chest feels tight, like there's a weight pressing down on it, making it hard to breathe. For a moment, I can't move. Can't think. It's all too much—too much to process, too much to feel.

Omar, standing next to me, finally breaks the silence. "Master Damian," he says softly, his voice strained, like he doesn't know what to say but feels like he has to say something. "He was... he was one of you."

One of me.

My jaw clenches, a surge of anger flaring up through the pit of my stomach. Anger at Ra's, at Talia, at Slade. At myself. Ra's abandoned him. Left him here to die. Starving, alone, forgotten. The same way he abandoned everyone who wasn't useful anymore.

"That bastard," I mutter, my voice low, shaking with barely contained rage.

Omar doesn't argue. He doesn't have to. We both know Ra's al Ghul never had any use for failures, and this boy—this clone—was just another casualty in his endless quest for perfection.

I kneel beside the remains, my breath coming shallow. The bones are fragile, twisted into themselves, like the boy had tried to make himself disappear before the end. He probably thought someone would come for him. That someone would save him. But no one did. No one even cared enough to remember he was here.

And now, I'm staring at what's left of him. A boy who didn't even have a name. Just a number. Just another one of Ra's experiments gone wrong.

I grit my teeth, the anger inside me bubbling over into something sharper. This... this is what my legacy is tied to. This is the kind of horror my family leaves behind. Clones. Experiments. Lives destroyed, all in the name of some twisted idea of power.

I picked up one of the scattered papers, the yellowed corner crinkling under my fingers as I scan the report. It's written in clinical, detached language, the kind of sterile phrasing used to hide the ugliness underneath. But the ugliness is there, and the more I read, the deeper it cuts.

Date: 04/15/20XX

Subject: EXP-1998-071

Lead Researcher: Dr. Gideon Markov

Objective: Clone created from the genetic material of Subject T. al Ghul and Subject S. Wilson (AKA Slade Wilson). Genetic splicing is designed to enhance physical abilities, including accelerated healing and enhanced reflexes akin to Wilson's known metahuman capabilities. Subject to undergo training in lethal combat techniques once maturation is reached.

Observations: EXP-1998-071 exhibits accelerated physical development. Growth projections are on target. Mental development remains under observation—signs of potential cognitive dissonance, emotional instability detected. Recommend further monitoring. Subject is responding well to physical conditioning protocols.

Note: No designation of identity assigned beyond experiment number. Subject is not to be considered autonomous or independent. Identity as a separate individual not necessary for further experimentation.

I swallow hard, flipping to the next page, the cold, calculated detachment of the writing sending an icy shiver down my spine.

Date: 06/03/20XX

Subject: EXP-1998-071

Lead Researcher: Dr. Gideon Markov

Progress: Subject's physical growth continues to surpass expectations. Healing factor confirmed at 85% of projected targets. However, cognitive development is failing to stabilize. Subject demonstrates anxiety and confusion during isolation phases. Emotional conditioning required to minimize attachment issues. Recommend immediate psychological intervention to suppress any tendencies toward rebellion.

Observation: Despite biological enhancements, subject shows signs of distress in prolonged isolation. Standard protocols remain in effect. Subject must not be allowed contact with any non-experimental personnel.

Note: Continued refusal to assign identity. No psychological profiling beyond standard emotional suppression protocols. Subject's personal agency deemed unnecessary to program goals.

I feel the bile rising in my throat as I shuffle through the pages faster, each one revealing more of the cruelty, the inhumanity of what they did to him. What they built him for.

Date: 08/11/20XX*

Subject: EXP-1998-071

Lead Researcher: Dr. Gideon Markov

Progress: Subject's enhanced physical attributes are plateauing. Reflexes at 98% of predicted outcomes, healing factor stable. However, cognitive degradation continues. Subject has developed verbal tics and irrational behavior during isolation.

Recommendation: Termination of EXP-1998-071 due to psychological instability. Subject's physical capabilities remain useful; recommend DNA material be harvested for future iterations of the Lazarus program. Subject to be decommissioned within the week.

Note: No personal identification required for disposal. Subject exhibits no value beyond physical utility.

I can't read anymore.

I drop the papers, letting them fall to the ground like the meaningless trash they are. My hands are shaking now, harder than before. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I can feel the anger bubbling up beneath my skin, a white-hot rage that threatens to boil over.

They didn't even see him as a person. He was just... material. An experiment. Something to be disposed of when it didn't turn out the way they wanted.

Omar crouches down beside me, picking up one of the reports, scanning it quickly. His face tightens, his jaw clenched so hard I think his teeth might shatter. "They didn't even give him a chance," he mutters, his voice low, angry. "This... this is disgusting."

"No." My voice comes out like a growl, low and full of venom. "This is Ra's."

I force myself to look back at the skeletal remains. At the boy who never had a name. The boy who was designed in a lab, shaped to be a weapon, and then thrown away when he didn't meet their expectations. Left to die in the dark, alone.

My fists clench at my sides, and the sharp pain of my nails digging into my palms barely registers.

This wasn't an accident. This wasn't some experiment that had gone wrong. Ra's—my *grandfather*—built this nightmare. And when it didn't fit into his perfect little plan, he abandoned it. Just like he abandoned everyone who didn't live up to his impossible standards.

The moment hits me harder than any punch I've ever taken.

Kneeling there, beside the twisted remains of the boy who was supposed to be my brother—another brother I never knew existed—the weight of it crashes down on me like a tidal wave. This is what my family does. This is what the al Ghul legacy leaves behind. Broken bodies. Forgotten lives. Experiments that were never meant to survive, just discarded when they didn't fit Ra's sick, twisted idea of perfection.

And it's all too much.

I try to breathe, but my chest feels like it's caving in. The air in this place is thick, heavy with the rot of old cruelty, of death. My vision blurs, and I realize—too late—that I'm crying. Actual tears, hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks before I even register what's happening.

I haven't cried since... since...

I can't remember.

I look down at the boy's remains, my eyes stinging with grief, and I feel something break inside me. This wasn't just an experiment. He wasn't just a clone. He was my brother. Another part of me, another life tied to the endless cycle of blood and pain that's followed me my entire existence. And he died here, alone, without even the dignity of a name. No one mourned him. No one even remembered him. He was just another casualty in Ra's endless war for control, another discarded weapon that didn't meet expectations.

I feel sick. My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat, but I force it down. I don't deserve to feel sick. I don't deserve to feel anything compared to what this boy went through. Starved. Alone. Forgotten.

"Master Damian...?" Omar's voice is cautious, uncertain. He's standing behind me, close enough to help, but far enough to give me space. He's never seen me like this. Hell, I've never seen me like this.

"Get out," I manage, my voice cracking. It's barely a command, more like a whisper. "Leave."

Omar doesn't argue. He's smart enough to know when not to push, when to just... leave me alone. I hear the soft scuff of his boots as he turns, moving silently out of the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving me in the suffocating silence of the lab, alone with the boy who never got to live.

I collapsed. My body gives out, and I crumple onto the cold, dirty floor, my hands clenching into fists, fingers digging into the dust and grime. The sobs wrack through me, hard and sharp, like they've been building up for years, and now that they're finally breaking free, I can't stop them. I can't stop.

I've lost so many people. Father. Grayson. Alfred. And now, this. Another brother I never knew. Another life claimed by the legacy of Ra's al Ghul's obsession with power and control. How many more? How many more lives will this family destroy? How many more times do I have to look at death in the face and wonder if it was my fault? If I could've done something—anything—to stop it?

I press my forehead to the floor, trying to get control of myself, but the grief is overwhelming. It feels like my chest is being ripped open, like I'm bleeding from the inside. For all the strength, for all the training, for all the power I've ever had, I'm still just... a kid. A teenager that can barely be considered a young man. A kid who's lost everything, everyone. And no matter how many people I save, how many battles I win, I can't bring them back. I can't undo the damage my family's done.

The sobs keep coming, and I don't try to stop them anymore. There's no point. There's no one here to see. Just me. Just the boy who was left to die, like I almost was, so many times. But I had Father. I had... people. I wasn't left in a room like this to rot.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice raw and broken. I don't know who I'm saying it to. To him? To myself? To every life lost because of the legacy of the al Ghuls?

I don't know.

But I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

I curled into myself, my arms wrapped around my knees, the way the boy's body had curled up in the corner. It feels like... it feels like we're the same, in some awful, twisted way. Both of us were trapped in a legacy we didn't ask for. Both of us were born into something that turned us into weapons instead of people. But he didn't get the chance to fight back. He didn't get the chance to survive. And I... I did.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the tears away, but they just keep coming. And I let them. Because maybe, just maybe, I deserve this. Maybe I deserve to feel this pain, this grief, this guilt. For him. For all of them.

And for the first time in a long, long time... I don't know if I can fix it. I don't know if I can make things right.

I don't know if I can stop this legacy from destroying me too.

I stay there, on the cold, filthy floor of the lab, my body shaking with grief, my hands gripping the dirt like it's the only thing keeping me anchored to this moment. My breaths come in short, sharp bursts, and my chest feels tight—too tight, like the weight of everything is finally crushing me. My brother's bones lie a few feet away, a stark reminder of the cruelty my family's legacy has left in its wake.

And then, without warning, there's a spark.

At first, it's nothing. A flicker. A small, sudden heat in my chest, barely noticeable through the overwhelming mess of emotions surging through me. But then it grows—fast.

It's like someone lit a match inside me. The heat flares up, spreading from my chest to my arms, my legs, every inch of my body, until it feels like I'm burning from the inside out. I gasp, my hand flying to my chest as the sensation intensifies, as if something is clawing its way out of me.

And then it erupts.

Flames—blue and green—explode around me, bursting from my skin in a wild, uncontrolled surge. They spiral out, licking up the walls, consuming everything in their path. The flames are alive, twisting and writhing like something born from my very soul. They glow unnaturally, casting the room in an otherworldly light, their hues pulsing with a strange, dangerous energy.

"What the hell—?" I choke out, my voice barely audible over the crackling inferno.

I stagger to my feet, my legs shaky, but it doesn't matter. The flames are everywhere, climbing up the walls, devouring the debris, the remains, the papers—all of it. Everything the lab once was, everything it represented, is being consumed in a blaze that feels alive, that seems to be responding to the storm raging inside me.

I stumble backward, nearly tripping over a fallen beam, and I realize—this isn't just fire. This is something else. Something... magical. The flames flicker, twisting in strange, serpentine patterns as they rise higher and higher, as if they're being fueled by my emotions. My sorrow. My anger. My guilt.

My hand flies to my chest again, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt as the burning inside me intensifies. It feels like my heart is on fire, like everything I've been holding back—every ounce of grief, every scrap of rage—is fueling the flames. They roar louder, feeding off the chaos inside me, growing stronger, fiercer.

For a second, I think the whole building is going to come down. The walls groan, the steel beams twisting under the heat. The air is thick with smoke, but the flames don't touch me. They swirl around me, hot and fierce, but they don't burn me. Instead, they seem to pulse with my heartbeat, like they're part of me. Or maybe I'm part of them.

The fire rises higher, spreading faster, consuming the lab, the ceiling. It's wild. It's out of control. And it's coming from me.

I should be scared. I should be trying to stop it, to figure out what the hell is going on, but I can't. I can't think. I can't even breathe. The only thing I can do is watch as everything I've built, everything I've fought for, goes up in flames.

The room is a blur of blue and green, the fire reflecting the turmoil inside me. Every flicker, every crackle, is a reminder of the destruction my family has wrought, of the endless cycle of cruelty and death. The flames seem to know that. They feed on it, grow stronger with every beat of my heart, with every sob I'm too broken to choke back.

I press my hands to my temples, trying to think, trying to focus, but it's useless. The fire's in control now, not me. And the more I try to fight it, the more it swells, as if the very act of resisting only makes it stronger.

"Come on Damian, snap out of it!" I whisper to myself, a desperate attempt to ground myself, to pull myself back from the edge. But the fire keeps rising, roaring in my ears, filling the space around me with heat and light and fury.

The lab—what's left of it—cracks and groans, the ceiling sagging as the flames devour everything in their path. It's all burning. The papers, the twisted remains of the clone, the broken shards of glass—it's all turning to ash. Everything that tied me to this place, everything that represented the sins of my past... gone.

The fire reflects everything I've been running from. The death. The loss. The pain. It's all here, swirling around me, and for the first time, I don't have the strength to push it back.

I feel the tears streaming down my face again, hot and fast, but they disappear into the flames before they even hit the ground. And the fire—my fire—just keeps burning.

Higher.

Hotter.

I'm standing in the middle of an inferno that's as much a part of me as the blood in my veins, and I don't know what will happen next. I don't know what this fire is, where it came from, or what it's doing to me. But I know one thing: it's burning away the remnants of the past. Of Ra's. Of everything he stood for.

I glance down at my hands, watching as the blue and green flames coil around my fingers, flickering like they're alive, like they're waiting for something. Waiting for me to make a decision.

I could let it all burn. I could walk away, let the fire devour this place, let it erase the last traces of my family's twisted legacy. I could stand here and let the flames take everything.

But something holds me back.

The fire roars louder, surrounding me, consuming the lab. The air crackles with magic, with power, with something otherworldly that I don't fully understand. I don't know if I'm controlling it, or if it's controlling me.

But one thing's clear:

This is my fire.

And it's not going to stop until I decide what comes next.

The flames rise higher, swirling around me in a storm of blue and green, as the lab falls apart around me. Everything I've ever known, everything I've ever fought against, is burning. And all I can do is stand in the center of it all, feeling the weight of my past crashing down around me.

The fire is mine now. And I have to decide what to do with it.

I take one last look at the burning remains of the lab, the heat of the flames reflecting the chaos in my heart, and then...

Darkness.