Waking up in my eight-year-old body is... bizarre. To say the least.

I lie there for a second, my heart hammering in my chest, feeling like I've been crammed into a too-small suit. It's not just the size of the bed, though that's throwing me off too. The sheets feel too big, the pillows too high. It's me. I'm smaller. Weaker. And—ugh—there's that nagging sensation of being powerless that comes with it. The urge to flip out is immediate, but I force myself to stay calm. Breathe. I've been through worse.

It takes a moment, but the memories come flooding back. The ritual. Raven, Constantine, the plan—trapping our consciousness into our younger selves, sending us hurtling back through time to fix everything we screwed up.

Guess it worked.

I roll out of bed, my feet barely making a sound as they hit the floor, and I stand there for a second, letting it all sink in. The room is familiar. Too familiar. It's the League's hideout, one of my old training facilities. I recognize the layout, the cold stone walls, the smell of incense and... blood?

Figures. It's the League of Assassins. Blood comes with the decor.

I glance around, running my hands over the small desk in the corner, the old weapons laid out in perfect order. Everything is just as I remember it. It's like stepping into a ghost of my past—a past that's now my present.

Lucky me.

Feels appropriate, considering the emotional rollercoaster I'm about to get on.

Alright. Time to focus.

I take a deep breath and shake off the weirdness. I've done a lot of strange things in my life—this time-travel thing? Just another Tuesday.

I'm in the past, sure, but everything still feels... raw. Darkseid's invasion is still a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Gotham's still a cesspool of violence. My family is still... broken. Not yet dead, at least. There's a brief moment where it hits me like a punch in the gut. They're all still alive. Father. Grayson. Even Alfred.

Alfred.

I grit my teeth and keep moving, shoving down the emotions threatening to bubble up. There's no time for that. I'm not here to cry over the past—or the future. I'm here to fix things. To make sure they don't end up the way they did before. I can't afford to screw this up.

The weight of it sinks in for a second, and I have to remind myself: they don't know me. Not yet. To them, I'm just a kid. A future heir to the League. A child prodigy of death.

God, I was insufferable.

Scrambling out of bed, I nearly tripped over my own feet. Of course. Everything's smaller—I'm smaller. There's a weird, uncomfortable sense of déjà vu as I make my way over to the mirror, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. That's another thing I forgot—how absolutely freezing it was in this place. What, no heating in a multi-million dollar assassin fortress? Typical.

I stop dead in front of the mirror and blink at my reflection.

Well, this is just... fantastic.

I'm tiny. Like, ridiculously tiny. Eight-year-old me was a shrimp. My face is rounder, softer, the sharp angles of adulthood still far off. I look like I'm auditioning for the part of "Angry Child #3" in some B-grade action movie. I run a hand through my hair, which falls into my eyes in a way that feels... wrong. I'd gotten used to the older, more put-together version of me. The warrior. The one who could take on Darkseid and almost win. This? This was the me that still had to be reminded to clean under his fingernails after a fight.

But the real kicker? My eyes.

One green. One blue. Both glowing. Flickering with this supernatural light that's all too familiar.

"Great," I mutter, leaning closer to inspect them. Constantine had been right—again. The magic, the chaotic forces swirling inside me, had time-traveled with my consciousness. Hell Fire, Holy Fire, all that lovely internal inferno—wrapped up in an eight-year-old package. Because nothing says "child prodigy" like walking around with literal fire in your eyes.

I sigh and rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. What now? I had expected the whole "go back in time, fix the future" thing to come with some weird side effects, but this? The last thing I need is my powers manifesting now.

"Nothing ever goes according to plan," I grumble, squinting at my reflection. I'm trying to remember if this happened the first time around.

I feel a pang of guilt thinking about Constantine and Raven—wondering where they landed. I don't exactly have time to take a trip down memory lane, but it's hard not to feel that knot of concern twisting in my gut. They're out there somewhere, and God only knows what they're dealing with. Knowing Constantine, he's probably cursing up a storm, already regretting his life choices for the hundredth time.

I step away from the mirror, flexing my hands. They feel so... small. Weak. Like I could break them just by clenching too hard. Yet inside, I can feel the fire. It's there, simmering, restless. This body isn't used to it—hell, I'm not used to it. Not like this. I'm a kid again, and I have to act like it. I've got to play the part. Keep my head down, be the eight-year-old Damian Wayne my mother expects.

A knock on the door jerks me out of my thoughts. I freeze, heart hammering. Who the hell is knocking at this hour? I scan the room, grabbing the tiny sword off the wall and slipping it behind my back. Old habits die hard, even if I'm smaller.

"Master Damian, it's time for training."

Of course. One of the guards, probably tasked with dragging me out of bed for my daily session of learning how to kill people more efficiently. I had forgotten just how rigid the schedule had been at this age. I briefly consider telling him to take a hike, but that'd raise too many questions.

"Coming," I say, voice sharper than I intended.

I take a second to collect myself. Calm. Focused. I'm Damian Wayne. I can do this. No big deal. Just act like you're a normal eight-year-old assassin-in-training with flaming eyeballs. Totally fine.

I open the door, whispering a glamour spell under my breath, and the guard is there, all stoic and serious. He doesn't seem to notice the glowing eyes—which, honestly, thank God—but he does give me a weird look. Probably because I'm not jumping out of bed with the same enthusiasm I used to. Fine. Whatever.

Let's hope Constantine's glamour spell holds on, I thought as I follow him down the stone hallway. Wouldn't want Mother or the League to get curious about why their heir looks like a walking magical anomaly.

I'm not gonna lie—slipping back into my role as the bratty heir of the Al Ghul lineage felt like squeezing into an old, too-tight costume. The kind you've outgrown but still have to wear because everyone expects you to. It's not that I can't pull it off—being a spoiled jerk is practically second nature, and I've had years of practice. Hell, I spent half my childhood perfecting the art of looking down on people like they were unworthy to breathe my air.

But acting like that again? After everything I've seen, everything I've lost? It feels... wrong.

I tug at the collar of my training robes, feeling the rough fabric scratch against my skin. Ra's had always insisted on tradition—heavy, constrictive outfits that were meant to remind us of our legacy. To make sure we carried the weight of the League's history on our shoulders. "A constant reminder of your duty, my grandson," he'd say.

Duty. Right.

Walking through the halls of Nanda Parbat, it's like stepping into a time capsule. Everything's the same—the cold stone walls, the faint scent of incense burning somewhere in the distance, the low murmurs of assassins training in the courtyard. It's all familiar. Too familiar. The past is everywhere here, crawling up the walls, lurking in the shadows. And I'm supposed to just… act like I belong in it. Like I'm not carrying the memories of another life in my head.

But there's no room for sentimentality. Not now. I have to blend in. I have to play the part. Even if it means biting my tongue when the younger Shadows—kids barely older than me, at least physically—talk to me with forced respect, barely disguising their jealousy. I could easily put them in their place, show them just how much they don't know. But that would only raise more questions. It's better to keep my head down, act like the Damian they remember—the arrogant prince.

But this time, I'm in control. I get to rewrite this story.

I enter the training grounds, my eyes scanning the familiar space. The sight of the younger recruits sparring sends a pang of nostalgia through me, but it's quickly drowned out by the flood of memories—battles fought, assassins who died following my orders, futures that had been written in blood and pain. I force it all down, focusing on the present.

There's a familiar itch in my muscles, a restless energy that makes me want to move. To fight. To prove that I haven't lost my edge, even in this smaller, younger body.

The training yard is just as chaotic as I remember. Shadows moving in perfect unison, their swords and staffs flashing in the low light. The instructors are barking commands, and the air smells like sweat and steel. I take a deep breath and glance around. No sign of Mother yet. Good. I don't think I'm ready to face her just yet.

I catch a glimpse of some familiar faces—other trainees I used to spar with. They're older than me now, but I know that'll change soon enough. It's weird seeing them so young again, so... naive. They don't know what's coming. They don't know the hell we're about to live through.

"Master Damian." One of the instructors snaps me out of my thoughts. "You're late."

I bite back a smart remark. Right now, it's all about playing the role. I nod, stepping into the circle, feeling the eyes of the other trainees on me. My reputation as Ra's al Ghul's grandson—Talia's heir—precedes me, even now. They're expecting me to be perfect.

Little do they know I'm trying not to blast fire out of my eyeballs.

The instructor tosses me a wooden training sword, and I catch it without breaking stride. The weight feels wrong in my hand—lighter than I remember. Back when I was sixteen, it took everything I had to be as fast, as precise as I needed to be. Now, with the skills of someone who's lived two lives, it feels like child's play. Which, I guess, is fitting. I give the sword a quick spin in my hand, smirking as I step onto the mat.

I take a deep breath, sliding into a fighting stance. The sword feels strange in my hands, too light, too awkward. I've spent years perfecting my form with a much bigger, much deadlier weapon. But this? This feels like playing with toys.

The instructor raises his sword, and I nod once.

Alright. Time to play the part.

The swordplay begins, and the familiarity of it all rushes back. It's muscle memory, even in this smaller, weaker body. My movements are swift, calculated, precise. But the power isn't there. Not like it used to be. I parry a strike, counter with a move that would have knocked the sword out of his hand if I had my old strength. Instead, he blocks easily, and I feel a flicker of frustration.

But I can't lose control. Not here.

Focus, Damian.

I take a deep breath, focusing on what Raven taught me—the little trick to mask my emotions when things got... weird. It calms me, just a little. At least I can hide the most glaring evidence of my time-traveling.

As I stand there, trying to adjust to this tiny body, my mind drifts. I can't help but wonder if Constantine and Raven made it back safely, too. The thought gnaws at me. We're scattered across time like pieces of a broken puzzle, and who knows where they've landed? And then there's the realization that hits me like a punch to the gut—I won't see them again for years. Maybe even decades. The weight of it sinks in, heavier than the sword in my hand. I'm alone. Again.

I take a second to let that settle. To mourn it.

And then I shake it off. I don't have time to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I've got work to do. I've got a mission.

The instructor's eyes narrow, clearly annoyed that I'm not paying full attention. He swings his sword in a sharp arc, and I sidestep, more out of reflex than focus. I need to play my part—be the Damian they expect. But my mind's already on the bigger picture. I can't just follow the motions. There's too much at stake. I need to stay one step ahead.

But even as I block his next strike, a sharp clang of metal ringing through the training yard, I feel the fire flicker inside me. Hell Fire. Holy Fire. Both swirling together, like oil and water, threatening to bubble up. I grit my teeth and shove it down, hard. Not now.

But as I move through the motions, blocking, parrying, striking, it hits me—this isn't the same. The memories make it all feel... slower. My body moves like it knows what's coming, but my mind's already ten steps ahead. Every attack the instructor throws at me is one I've seen a thousand times before. There's no challenge, no risk. Just routine.

And I hate it.

Another swipe, and I parry, twisting the blade in his grip. It's almost too easy. I'd forgotten how predictable these sparring sessions were at this age. Back then, I thought they were life or death. Now? They feel like a game. A deadly game, sure, but still... just a game.

The instructor tries a more complex combo—two strikes, followed by a low sweep. I leap over the leg sweep with ease, bringing my sword down on his exposed side. He grunts, probably more surprised than hurt, and steps back, glaring at me like I've done something wrong.

I guess I have. I'm not supposed to be this good yet. Not at eight.

"Good, but you're being too flashy, Master Damian," the instructor says, clearly irritated. "Your movements should be efficient, not showy."

I smirk, wiping the sweat off my brow. "If you're not going to win in style, why bother?" I can't help the snark—it slips out on autopilot. Old habits, right?

The instructor gives me a hard stare, and for a second, I think he's going to lecture me. But he doesn't. Instead, he nods, albeit grudgingly. "Focus. Efficiency will save your life, not flair."

I shrug, adjusting my stance again. Efficiency. That's what the League drilled into me from day one. Cold, calculated movements. But I'm Damian Wayne now—more than just the Al Ghul heir. And Batman's way was different, wasn't it? Efficiency, yes, but with purpose. With control. And the right amount of drama.

After all, all of Father's children's are drama club kids.

As we spar, I start thinking about what comes next. I need to make sure the League stays on its path, but not in the way Ra's envisioned. I've seen the future, and there's no way I'm letting it happen the same way again. There's no time for second chances this time around. This is it.

The fire flares up again—hot, bright, and dangerous—but I keep it under control. Barely. I need to learn how to wield it, really wield it, without letting it consume me. Now that I am in the past I will be able to find the shard of chaos, let's hope that we were right and it is what I need to save myself.

The instructor steps back, lowering his sword, signaling the end of the session. He looks at me with something resembling approval, though there's still a hint of suspicion in his eyes. I guess I'm not being as subtle as I thought.

"You're improving," he says gruffly, handing me a cloth to wipe down my blade. "But don't get cocky."

I take the cloth, biting back another snarky comment. Instead, I give him a small nod, keeping my face neutral. "I'll keep that in mind."

As he turns to leave, I stand there for a moment, my mind racing. I've got time—years—but I also don't. I've got to lay the groundwork now, set things in motion. First things first, though: I need to get a handle on this fire before it blows up in my face.

I wipe the sword clean, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me. But it's not just the mission or the fire. It's the responsibility of knowing what comes next. Of being the only one who remembers the end of the world while standing in a timeline where it hasn't happened yet.

I glance up at the sky. The day's barely started, and already it feels like I've lived a lifetime. I wonder where Constantine and Raven are. They're probably fighting their own battles, just like me. We're all playing our parts in this insane, time-bending game.

I smirk to myself, twirling the sword in my hand before sheathing it.

"Let the games begin."

As much as I tell myself this mission is going to be my last, it's not like the weight of leading the League of Assassins just magically disappears. It doesn't vanish the second I sheath my sword. Instead, it digs in, gnaws at me from the inside. Every step I take through these halls, every time my boots hit the cold stone of Nanda Parbat, it's like I can feel the pressure of it all—like the walls are watching me, waiting to see if I slip. And I can't. Not now. Not when I've spent so long convincing them, convincing myself, that I'm still the heir. That I'm *their* heir, not some boy who ran off and came back broken.

But it's hard. So damn hard. Because deep down, I know how much things have changed, how much I've changed, and the world's bent and twisted in ways they can't even begin to understand. And I'm standing in it, trying to play the part. Trying to be the perfect son, the perfect leader. But I'm not sure if I believe the mask anymore.

I walk the corridors, the air thick with memories of every mistake, every choice I've ever made. The old stone walls feel like they're closing in on me, like they remember everything. Every step, every whisper of my past, every shadow I've ever cast in this place. It's all so familiar. Yet all wrong. I'm back where I started, but it doesn't feel like it.

Back in the role I was born for, the one I was groomed for. Not the boy who escaped Gotham to find himself in the shadows, but the heir again. The heir they still expect me to be. For now, I can play it. I can keep up the damn charade and lead this League, guide them through the hell that's coming. I can show them the way without them ever realizing that I already know how this story ends.

But it doesn't feel real. It feels empty. Like I'm living inside someone else's dream, trying to hold onto something that's already slipping through my fingers. What does it even matter that I'm the one calling the shots right now? When everything we've built will come crashing down again, like it always does. When the world fractures and we're left picking up the pieces, just like before.

One week. Just one week I'd been here before *that* call came. One perfect week where I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could hold it all together. The League was mine, I was in control, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I thought maybe—just maybe—I could play the part without the constant weight of *everything* bearing down on me. I could pretend that this time, everything might actually fall into place. But pretending's a hell of a thing. And it doesn't last.

So, it was not a surprise at all that Mother would call me the moment I'd settled back into this absurd performance.

I follow her through the winding halls of Nanda Parbat, my small feet making barely a sound as we walk side by side. There's an odd sense of nostalgia threading through the air, but it's a double-edged sword. This place, these people—they're all familiar, yes. But there's also a shadow hanging over every interaction, a reminder that the past isn't just a memory. I'm reliving it, reshaping it.

Talia strides ahead of me, her movements graceful and effortless, like a panther on the hunt. She's always been like that—intimidating, poised, and utterly focused on her mission. And me? Well, I'm supposed to be the doting son, the heir she's molded from birth. Only now, I have the knowledge of everything she'll do to me in the future.

It's funny, really. How much she thought she was in control.

"Damian," she says, her voice smooth, with just the faintest hint of command. "I've been watching you."

Shocking, I thought sarcastically, but instead I give her a polite nod. "Of course, Mother. Have I displeased you?"

She doesn't answer immediately. We've reached the meditation room, its entrance flanked by tall, ornate doors that seem far too grand for a space that's meant to be about discipline and restraint. We step inside, and the heavy door slides shut behind us with a dull thud, locking us into a room that always felt far more suffocating than freeing.

Talia moves to the center, her back straight, hands clasped behind her. I stand at the edge, watching her with the detached curiosity of someone who has seen this scene play out a thousand times, only now I know the ending.

She turns to me, her sharp eyes raking over my smaller frame. There's something different about her gaze today, but I can't place it.

"You're improving," she says finally, though there's a coldness in her words, as if admitting this is more of a formality than praise. "But you're holding back."

I blink, momentarily taken aback. Clever, I'll give her that. Talia Al Ghul never missed much. I could tell she wasn't just referring to the swordplay.

"I'm not holding back," I reply evenly, keeping my tone steady, unaffected. "I'm simply learning."

She steps closer, studying me like a specimen under a microscope. "No, Damian. You are different." Her voice softens, just a fraction, enough to make it sound almost like concern. "There is something you're not telling me."

Ah, there it is. That little seed of suspicion she's always carried, the paranoia that runs through every Al Ghul's blood. I can feel her eyes boring into me, searching for cracks, for anything that might explain what she's sensing. If I was still a child, I might have crumbled under that pressure. But now?

I smile at her—just a little, just enough to seem like the overconfident boy she expects. "You trained me too well, Mother."

That earns me a raised eyebrow, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing her features. She circles me slowly, and I feel like a wolf cub being appraised by the alpha.

"You have… improved," she admits again, though there's a hint of suspicion still clinging to the edge of her voice. "But remember, Damian—improvement must never lead to arrogance. Arrogance will get you killed."

I bite back a snarky retort about how many times I've already died. Instead, I give her a nod, my face a mask of obedience. "I understand."

She studies me for another beat before turning away, walking toward one of the training mats laid out in the center of the room. "Come," she says, her voice returning to that cold, distant command. "Meditate with me."

Meditation. Right.

I move to sit across from her, folding my legs into the same practiced lotus position she's drilled into me for years. The silence between us stretches, thick and heavy, as we close our eyes. Normally, meditation would bring me calm, focus. But today? My mind is a whirl of memories—past, future, and everything in between.

I can feel her presence, sharp and imposing, sitting just across from me. She's trying to figure me out, and that's dangerous. The thing with Talia is, she can never know what I know. Not about Ra's, not about Gotham, and especially not about the version of me that outgrew her control.

Breathe, Damian. Focus.

As I force myself to sink into the meditation, my mind drifts to Omar and Suri. Seeing them earlier had been harder than I thought. Omar, with his watchful eyes and steady hands, always ready to offer advice in the years to come. And Suri, with her fierce loyalty. They had become my trusted lieutenants, comrades in the apocalyptic world we fought to save. But here, in this timeline, they were nothing more than shadows, unaware of the roles they would play in my future.

It's unsettling. Being around people who don't know the weight of what's coming. The devastation, the war. How many of them will fall? How many lives will be torn apart before they even realize what's happening?

I push those thoughts down, deep into the pit of my stomach. Focus, I remind myself. There's no room for doubt, no room for sentimentality. Not now.

But just as I begin to regain control, Talia's voice cuts through the silence. "Damian." Her tone is softer now, but there's an edge to it that puts me on alert. "Do you ever wonder what the future holds?"

I open my eyes, staring straight ahead. She's not looking at me, but I can feel the weight of her question hanging between us. There's a trap in there somewhere, I know it. But the trick is not to show that you're looking for it.

"Of course," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "But the future is something we must shape with our own hands, isn't it?"

She hums, her eyes still closed, as if contemplating my words. "Yes," she agrees, though I can sense the layers beneath her response. "But sometimes, no matter how much control we think we have… fate has its own plans."

I hold back a laugh. Fate, huh? If only she knew.

"Perhaps," I reply, my lips twitching into a small smile. "But we Al Ghul aren't exactly known for bowing to fate, are we?"

Talia's eyes flicker open, and for a brief moment, there's something almost like pride in her gaze. It's fleeting, though, quickly replaced by that familiar calculating look. "No," she says, her voice low. "We're not."

I force myself to maintain my calm, the act slipping effortlessly into place. But inside? Inside, I can't stop thinking about how right she is.

Fate may have plans, but I'm going to burn them all down.

Talia's gaze sharpens as if she's weighing something carefully. She tilts her head slightly, a knowing look passing through her eyes, and then, almost as an afterthought, she speaks again.

"You know, Damian," she begins, her voice smooth and deliberate, "today is a special day."

I furrow my brow, confusion briefly flashing across my face. She doesn't have to remind me—of all people, she knows better than anyone. The weight of the day is heavy in its own way, but I'm not about to show it. Not to her.

"Is it?" I ask, my voice flat. "I hadn't noticed."

Her lips curl into a faint smile, and she leans back, eyes never leaving mine. "Of course, you haven't. You never do. But the calendar doesn't lie. It's your birthday, Damian."

A pause. The words hang there, and for a moment, it feels as if the world slows down, the pulse of time itself stuttering in that brief moment of revelation.

"I'm aware," I say evenly, forcing a nonchalant air into my voice. "I've just never been one to make a fuss about it."

My birthday? I'd completely lost track of time. Of course, I'd forgotten. Being flung back into an eight-year-old's body tends to do that to you. The last time I was this young… well, let's just say that birthdays weren't exactly high on my list of concerns. Talia stood there, waiting, her expression as unreadable as ever. But underneath that cool exterior, I could see the gears turning. A test, I was sure of it. Everything with her was a test.

She watches me for a long time, as if seeing me for the first time, but I don't let the vulnerability seep through. Talia knows me better than anyone—knows what drives me, what I fear. Still, there's no room for sentimentality here. Not for me. Not for her.

"Perhaps," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly, "but even you cannot avoid the fact that today is a day that marks... something. A turning point, maybe. A reminder of what has come before and what is yet to come."

The weight of her words sinks in, deeper than I want to admit. A turning point. That's what she's implying. But I'm not the boy who waits for fate to decide what happens next.

"Time is a tool," I reply, my voice steady despite the thoughts swirling beneath the surface. "It is what we make of it. And I intend to make this year mine."

Talia doesn't answer right away. Instead, she tilts her head, her eyes lingering on me, measuring, calculating. There's something almost wistful in the way she regards me now, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that steely resolve.

"I have a gift for you," she finally said, her tone light—almost affectionate, which immediately set off warning bells. My mother doesn't do 'affectionate.' "Today, you may choose to learn any skill, outside of the usual curriculum. The decision is yours."

Ah, so that's the angle. A strategic birthday present, cloaked in the guise of generosity.

For a moment, I almost laughed. Eight years old. In my head, I was still the person I had grown into, the boy who had died and clawed his way back. The boy who had fought beside legends and watched as Gotham burned around him. But to her, I was still just a kid. Just her son, ripe for molding into whatever weapon she needed me to be.

I opened my mouth to respond, my brain going back to what my eight-year-old self had said last time: Art. I'd asked to study art. I could practically hear the echo of Talia's disappointed sigh, the way Ra's had been unable to even mask his irritation. Back then, I had wanted something human, something that felt like mine, separate from the League's relentless training. I had wanted a reprieve.

But that was before. Before I knew what was coming. Before I understood that art would never save me from the darkness that was closing in.

This time, I wouldn't waste the opportunity. This time, I had a plan.

"Poisons," I said, my voice steady, locking eyes with her.

Her brows lifted just a fraction—she was good at keeping her reactions subtle—but I could see the approval flash behind her eyes. "Poisons?"

"Yes," I continued, my mind already racing. "I want to learn how to craft them, how to detect them. Every aspect of them."

She studied me for a moment, and I could feel her sizing me up, trying to figure out if there was more to my request. There was, of course, but I wasn't about to lay all my cards on the table just yet.

"An excellent choice," she said finally, giving a slow, deliberate nod. "We'll begin tomorrow. I'll make sure our finest expert is prepared."

Talia's smile—the kind that once would have lit a fire in my chest, making me crave her approval—now felt like a hollow echo of the past. I could feel the shift inside me as I stood there, watching her pride bloom in response to my new direction. It was a strange, bitter sensation. Love, I knew, was a weapon in her hands. Her love was a double-edged blade, sharpened to keep me in line, to remind me of the legacy she expected me to uphold.

But I had already carved my own path, one she didn't even know existed yet.

"Cheshire will train you," Talia said, her tone carrying the weight of someone handing down a royal decree. "She's one of the deadliest poison masters in the world."

Cheshire. Of course. The infamous assassin who made even the League's best look like amateurs. In the past timeline, I'd crossed paths with her more than once—each encounter a game of survival. The Cheshire I remembered was ruthless, cunning, and incredibly lethal. There was a time when the prospect of training with her would've set my heart racing with excitement. But now? Now, it felt like another test. Another twisted challenge on a path I no longer cared to tread.

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, the obedient son playing his part to perfection. "I'll be ready."

Talia's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, as if she were studying me, trying to uncover any hidden defiance. I kept my thoughts locked away, far beneath the surface, where even her keen eyes couldn't reach. After what felt like an eternity, she finally gave me one last nod and turned to leave.

As the door closed behind her, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My mind raced. Infinity Island. It wasn't just a training ground for poisons—it was a hub for the League's most dangerous operatives. It would be crawling with people who, in the future, would either become my allies or my enemies. And the tricky part was… I didn't know who would fall on which side just yet.

Cheshire, though… she was dangerous. I knew that much. But dangerous was just the kind of teacher I needed right now. I could use this time to learn from her—really learn. Not just poisons, but her methods, her mindset. The way she read people like a venomous snake sizing up its prey.

The thought brought a smirk to my lips as I began to pack for the trip. There was something almost poetic about learning the art of poisons while keeping my own secrets as deadly as any venom. The irony wasn't lost on me.

I packed light—just the essentials. As I did, my mind kept drifting back to the timeline, the weight of my mission settling on my shoulders once again. I had to be careful. Every interaction here was a ripple in the timeline, and ripples could turn into waves if I wasn't careful. The thought was enough to make my head spin, but I shoved it aside. I was trained for this. Adapt. Adjust. Survive. I'd been doing it for years.

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. Omar stood in the doorway, his usual stoic expression in place. "The transport for Infinity Island leaves at dawn," he said.

I gave him a curt nod. "Understood."

Omar lingered, just for a second, his dark eyes flickering with something like curiosity. I knew he was still trying to figure me out, to understand the changes he'd noticed in me lately. But he wouldn't ask—not yet, anyway. I gave him nothing, just a simple nod before he disappeared into the hallway.

Once he was gone, I looked at myself in the small mirror by the window. My face was younger, smaller, but the eyes staring back at me were the same—sharp, calculating, always one step ahead. The glamour Raven had taught me flickered briefly, returning my eyes to the unnatural green-and-blue glow beneath, a reminder of the magic that had traveled back with me.

I smiled to myself, quickly glamouring them back to their usual green. There was no room for slip-ups here. This was my second chance to rewrite my own history, to fix the mistakes that had led to Gotham's ruin, to stop Darkseid before he brought the world to its knees. But there were many steps before that final battle, and this—this trip to Infinity Island—was just one of them.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The weight of everything pressed down on me, but I was used to that now. I had been carrying the world on my shoulders for longer than most would believe. And if my mother wanted to send me into the lion's den to learn from a master assassin, so be it. I could play that game too.

After all, I had time on my side now.

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I shut my eyes, forcing myself to rest before the journey. Cheshire wouldn't know what hit her. I wasn't the wide-eyed heir she'd be expecting. No, I was something far more dangerous.

And the best part? She wouldn't even see me coming.