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The night was supposed to be simple.
Damian Wayne hated galas — hated the idle chatter, the meaningless toasts, the stench of too-sweet perfume layered over cheap greed. He hated the way every billionaire in the room measured him like they were calculating his worth in investments and the way they looked at his wife as if she were another acquisition to be stolen, auctioned, or owned.
But for Marinette’s sake, he endured.
She had insisted on attending, her argument punctuated with the arch of a brow and the faintest twitch of a smirk — her version of a full-blown battle plan. He’d learned long ago that when Marinette set her mind to something, resistance was both futile and ill-advised. And tonight, she was breathtaking.
Deep scarlet silk clung to her like molten fire, catching the chandelier light in a way that made her seem more ethereal than human. Her hair was pinned in an elegant twist that revealed the graceful curve of her neck, but Damian knew better than anyone how many pins in that arrangement were tipped with poisoned steel. Every step she took was a study in control — calculated yet effortless — and he watched with quiet satisfaction as socialites melted beneath her smile.
She didn’t just command a room. She owned it.
Which was why he noticed it immediately — the shadow that moved where it shouldn’t have.
They were just outside, the cool bite of Gotham’s night air brushing against the lingering warmth of the ballroom. The city’s usual chorus — the distant wail of sirens, the hum of engines, the occasional shout — felt muted here in the quiet courtyard. The rhythmic click of Marinette’s heels on stone was steady, almost hypnotic, until the wind shifted.
The scent hit him first — the faint tang of oil and steel beneath the perfume of freshly polished marble.
Then they moved.
Three figures emerged from the darkness in perfect silence, their steps in sync, the glint of metal catching under the sickly yellow streetlamp. There was no warning. No words. Only the cold inevitability of violence.
Damian’s body moved before his mind could catch up, but Marinette was already in motion. Her clutch hit the ground with a sharp crack, her silk skirt splitting cleanly at the seam to free her legs. She pivoted on her heel, driving a precise kick into the chest of the first attacker hard enough to send him stumbling back. The second swung a blade toward her, but she twisted just outside its arc, the fabric of her gown whispering against steel.
“Damian!” she called, her voice cutting through the tension like a command.
Something flashed silver in the air — his sword. It should have been locked in the car’s trunk, far out of reach, but she’d already secured it for him. Typical Marinette. She didn’t plan for danger — she anticipated it.
He caught the hilt without breaking stride, his arm snapping up to catch the downward strike of an assassin aiming for her back. Steel rang against steel, the vibration singing through his bones. He shoved forward, forcing the man off balance before sweeping his blade in a tight arc, opening space for Marinette to maneuver.
But for every body that hit the ground, two more stepped from the shadows. They weren’t rushing, weren’t clumsy — they moved with the precision of soldiers who had trained together since childhood. This wasn’t a robbery. This was an execution.
And then their leader arrived.
He stepped into the light with deliberate weight, each movement steeped in arrogance. His long black coat was heavy with stitched patterns, the sigil on the breast catching Damian’s eye immediately — the curling serpent and twin blades of the Tzav family.
It was a name he hadn’t heard in years.
The Tzavs had served the League of Assassins for centuries, their bloodline drenched in oaths sworn to the Demon’s Head. They were ghosts of a dead era, relics Damian had thought long buried beneath League politics and betrayal.
“You’ve gone soft, Wayne,” the man said, his accent rolling like broken glass. His dark eyes burned with something between contempt and disappointment. “The grandson of Ra’s al Ghul… chained to a wife.” His gaze slid to Marinette with a slow, deliberate cruelty. “My family bled for the League, and you disgrace it for—” he let his lip curl “—her?”
The insult was cold, but it was the pause before it that made Damian’s grip tighten on his sword.
He took a single step forward, voice low and lethal. “Say her name.”
The man smiled. “I don’t need to. She won’t have one where I’m sending her.”
The smoke bomb hit before Damian could reply.
The world erupted into chaos. Acrid smoke swallowed the courtyard in a choking cloud, stinging his eyes, clawing at his lungs. Shapes flickered in the haze — blades catching light, feet shifting over stone.
“Marinette!” he barked, his voice raw. He lunged toward where she had been, cutting down a figure that materialized in his path. Somewhere ahead, he heard her — the sharp crack of her palm striking an opponent, the short hiss of her breath between movements.
Then — a sound that made his blood run cold — the dull, wet thud of steel striking bone.
Her cry cut through the smoke… and then nothing.
He fought harder, slicing through the veil of fog, but the courtyard was collapsing into silence.
And when the smoke cleared, Marinette was gone.
Damian’s heart was a war drum pounding fiercely in his chest, each beat a thunderous summons to violence. Fury simmered just beneath his skin, a white-hot blaze threatening to scorch every thought into ash. He wanted to rip Gotham apart piece by piece, to tear down every shadowed alley and crumbling rooftop until he held Marinette safely in his arms again.
But rage was a weapon — and he was a master of control. He swallowed the fire, forging it into a cold, lethal focus that sharpened his senses to razor edges.
His fingers tightened on the throttle of his motorcycle, the engine’s growl a beast unleashed beneath him. The city blurred into streaks of neon and shadow as he cut through the streets like an arrow loosed from a bow.
A crackle buzzed in his ear — Oracle’s voice, steady and calm despite the tension.
“Tracking now. Heat signature last pinged on Pier Thirty-Four. You’re not going in alone, are you?”
Damian’s jaw clenched. “I’m already gone.” He cut the comm, the silence that followed feeling like the calm before a storm.
The wind whipped past, cold and sharp, stinging his exposed skin, but he welcomed the sensation — it tethered him to the moment, kept him sharp. The city around him was a maze of dangers, but none would stand between him and the woman they had taken.
Marinette’s eyes fluttered open to a dim, concrete room reeking of oil and rust — a tomb carved from cold neglect. Her wrists were bound in front of her, a careless mistake that spoke volumes about her captors. A proper enemy would have tied her hands behind her back, a subtle, effective way to restrict movement and control panic.
The Tzav were arrogant. Good. That arrogance was their first weakness.
She inhaled slowly, forcing her pulse to slow, letting her breath deepen. They needed her broken, disoriented — and she was anything but. The fog of confusion that threatened to cloud her mind was a weapon she could wield, a mask she could wear.
Time stretched in the silence. Then, with a practiced ease, she rolled her shoulders forward, slid her wrists beneath her feet, and began working the coarse ropes against the serrated edge of a nearby metal grate. The rough steel bit into the fibers, fraying them slowly but surely.
Her muscles tensed as the ropes weakened, inch by inch.
Before the ropes could snap entirely, the heavy door creaked open — the first guard’s presence was mistake that would cost him dearly.
Marinette surged forward like a coiled spring unleashed, snapping the ropes with sheer force and driving her knee hard into his stomach. The breath whooshed out of him in a harsh grunt. Before he could recover, her hand darted to the sword at his hip — the weapon was hers before his body hit the cold floor.
But there was no time to savor the victory. Two more assassins appeared, moving in perfect tandem, their steps deadly and precise.
The first swung wildly — sloppy and overconfident. She caught his blade with hers, the clash of steel ringing sharp and bright in the stale air. With a twisting motion, she forced his wrist to break under the pressure, hearing the sickening snap of bone.
The second assassin was faster, a blade flashing against her arm. Pain blossomed like fire, warm and insistent, but she barely registered it. With a brutal elbow to the throat, she dropped him where he stood.
Blood warmed the sleeve of her gown, dark and vivid against the deep red silk. She didn’t care. There was only one thought fueling every movement: Get to Damian.
Above the city, Damian vaulted from rooftop to rooftop, a shadow hunting shadows. His every movement was fluid, a lethal dance honed by years of relentless training. Each assassin he encountered was skilled — but to Damian, they were nothing more than practice dummies in a game he was destined to win.
Every strike he delivered was precise, every kill silent and merciless. His mind was a blade honed to a single edge, slicing through hesitation and doubt.
The Tzav had made a fatal miscalculation. They believed that by taking Marinette, they would provoke reckless fury — a weakness they could exploit.
They had it all wrong.
Their actions only made him inevitable.
Marinette moved like water — silent and unstoppable through the labyrinthine hallways of their prison. She struck only when necessary, conserving strength, biding time.
But the deeper she ventured, the thicker the resistance grew. The air became heavier, tinged with sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
A blade sliced along her side — shallow, but enough to make her grit her teeth against the sting. Pain was a distraction she could not afford. Pivoting sharply, she disarmed her attacker with an upward slash, the clang of steel echoing off concrete walls like a gunshot in the night.
Every step was agony now — a battle between will and flesh — but she pushed harder, refusing to yield.
Somewhere beyond these cold, cruel walls, Damian was coming for her.
And she was determined not to make him do all the work.
Damian’s boots struck the cracked concrete of the dockside warehouse with quiet purpose, his breath steady despite the storm raging inside him. The air was thick with the salty tang of the nearby harbor, mixed with the sharp, acrid bite of oil and rust. Flickering floodlights cast long, distorted shadows across the towering stacks of shipping containers, but Damian’s focus was razor sharp.
He reached the perimeter just as a body crashed through a second-story window, shattering glass like ice underfoot. The impact sent shards spraying into the stale night air, glittering for a moment before sinking into the grimy floor.
He didn’t need to check — the movement, the force, the precise timing — it wasn’t her. Marinette was no stranger to falling, but she would never fall before she was ready. Her fall would be a choice, not a mistake.
Damian’s hand went to his sword as he pivoted, catching two guards rushing the entrance. Their armor was patchwork — leather and steel plates crudely stitched together — but it was enough to slow lesser attackers. Not him.
His blade sang a deadly tune, slicing clean through the gap between their armor plates, dropping both before they could raise their weapons. The echo of steel on stone reverberated like a gunshot in the hollow space.
The warehouse yawned open before him, a cavern of shadows and steel beams. The scent of metal and sweat — old and new — filled his nostrils, a stark reminder of the grim battles waged in places like this.
Above him, through the broken windows and gaping ventilation shafts, he heard it — fighting.
Light footsteps, rapid breaths, the sharp scrape of steel on steel.
Hers.
His pace doubled, feet pounding the stairs three at a time, muscles coiling with lethal intent.
Marinette’s world was a tempest of pain and adrenaline.
She slammed the hilt of her sword into the final guard blocking the hallway, the heavy thud of impact reverberating through her palm. His body crumpled to the floor with a dull, final grunt.
Her chest heaved beneath her torn silk gown, each breath shallow and ragged. Her hair clung to her forehead in damp strands, matted with sweat and streaked with grime. Blood trailed down her arm and side, the sting sharp but distant beneath the surge of determination flooding her veins.
Ahead loomed a heavy steel door, imposing and cold under the flickering light. It was unlocked — a careless invitation, or a calculated trap.
They wanted her to come through.
Good.
She wanted that too.
Marinette steadied herself, planting her feet firmly on the concrete floor. Her grip tightened around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, but her mind was clear, focused — unyielding.
The game was converging.
And she would be ready.
Damian kicked the double doors open with a force that shook the heavy steel hinges, bursting into the vast central chamber like a tempest unleashed.
The room was cavernous, shadowed by towering crates stacked carelessly against cold concrete walls. A single, harsh light bulb swung overhead, casting long, jittery shadows that danced like ghosts. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and oil — the unmistakable scent of a battlefield primed for violence.
At the chamber’s heart stood the Tzav leader, calm and composed, blade drawn with a deliberate ease. His black coat hung like a cloak of menace, the ancient insignia of his family gleaming darkly in the flickering light. His eyes gleamed with cold amusement, a predator savoring his moment.
“You thought you found my greatest weakness,” Damian said, his voice low and deadly, each word clipped and precise. The calm edge of his tone was a razor blade, sharpened on years of war. “And you were right.”
The man’s smirk widened, but Damian didn’t pause, his gaze locked onto the leader’s with an unflinching intensity.
“I am weak to her.”
The leader’s lips curled into a cruel grin, as if hearing exactly what he wanted.
“I want to please her,” Damian continued, each syllable burning with truth and fire, “and I would die for her…”
The assassin’s amusement faltered, replaced by a flicker of calculation. His eyes narrowed, scanning Damian’s stance, searching for weakness — for the fatal flaw.
“But you have made a fatal error in your calculations—” Damian’s voice hardened, steel slicing through the air like a blade.
Before he could finish, the side door exploded inward with a thunderous crash, shards of splintered wood and twisted metal flying like deadly shrapnel.
Marinette stormed through the breach in a whirlwind of motion, her red silk gown torn but flowing like flames in the chaos. Her sword flashed with deadly intent, locking against the leader’s blade in a ringing clash that resonated through the chamber like a clarion call.
Sparks erupted where steel met steel, illuminating her fierce expression — eyes blazing with unyielding defiance and raw strength.
With a surge of power, she pushed him back, the surprise evident in his eyes. He had clearly underestimated her.
Damian stepped up beside her, the sharp edge of his blade sliding alongside hers like a promise. His voice was fierce, filled with unshakeable conviction as he finished his declaration:
“—because while she may be my weakness,” he said, “she is not weak.”
The leader’s eyes flicked rapidly between them, the weight of realization sinking in — too late.
In that moment, the balance shifted. Two forces united, an unbreakable bond forged in steel and fire, standing unyielding against the darkness that sought to tear them apart.
The fight erupted into chaos — a whirlwind of motion, steel, and raw willpower that twisted through the shadowed chamber like a storm.
The leader moved with ruthless speed, a predator who had honed his craft over decades. His strikes were precise and deadly, each one an attempt to end the battle before it truly began. But Marinette was a tempest, her movements fluid and unpredictable, shifting like water to meet every attack.
Their blades sang a fierce duet, sparks erupting where steel collided — ringing out like the toll of a war bell.
Damian circled wide, his steps calculated and silent. He watched the leader’s rhythm, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. With a sharp pivot, he cut across the floor and flanked the assassin, driving him backward toward a rusted metal corner where escape was impossible.
Every parry the leader made left him more exposed, his breath growing ragged, the sheen of sweat mixing with grime on his brow.
Steel met steel in a flurry, reverberating up Damian’s arms, shaking his muscles with the impact.
Marinette ducked under a slash aimed for her neck, the razor edge whispering past her skin. She spun on her heel, momentum carrying her forward as she drove her blade hard into the leader’s shoulder.
A low, vicious snarl tore from him, pain igniting a wild fury. His retaliatory swing was wide and desperate — right into Damian’s waiting strike.
The clash was merciless, the final blow clean and absolute.
The leader’s blade clattered to the floor, his body sagging as the fight drained from him.
Silence fell, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged panting of two warriors who had just danced on the edge of death.
Damian’s gaze shifted to Marinette, taking in the blood that stained her side, the sweat that slicked her hair and framed her fierce eyes. Without hesitation, his hands moved to brush the sweat-damp strands from her cheek, tender and careful.
Then, his fingers traced the dark stain soaking her silk, his jaw tightening at the sight of fresh blood.
“You’re hurt,” he murmured, voice low and rough with concern.
Marinette’s eyes flicked to the gash across his jaw, the blood seeping into his sleeve. A ghost of a smirk touched her lips.
“You’re worse,” she shot back, voice steady despite the pain.
For a long, suspended beat, they stared at each other — eyes locking with a depth that spoke of battles fought, fears shared, and promises forged in silence.
Then, wordlessly, they stepped closer — their bodies closing the space between them until they were wrapped in an embrace so fierce and tight it hurt.
A moment of vulnerability hidden beneath layers of strength, where neither needed to say a thing, because in that hold, they were unbreakable.
The echo of the fallen leader’s breath lingered in the heavy air, but there was no time to savor victory.
Damian gently released Marinette from the embrace, eyes scanning the room with sharp urgency. Shadows pooled in every corner, and the distant sounds of reinforcements—footsteps, whispered commands—crept closer like a rising tide.
“Move,” he said, voice steady but urgent.
Marinette nodded, wincing as she adjusted her grip on her sword. The wound at her side burned fiercely, but adrenaline tempered the pain. She caught sight of Damian’s jaw again — the blood was darker now, clotted.
Together, they moved quickly, steps silent but sure as they navigated through the maze of crates and metal beams. Every corner they turned held the potential for another ambush, but their combined focus was an unbreakable shield.
Outside, the cold night air hit them like a wave as they burst through a side exit into the pier’s darkness. The city’s distant hum was a lifeline — a reminder of the world still waiting beyond this nightmare.
Damian’s motorcycle was waiting, engine purring softly. He helped Marinette up, and she leaned into him as they sped away, the wind biting against their bruised skin but carrying the promise of freedom.
The silence between them was heavy but comfortable, filled with unspoken gratitude and relief.
At a safe distance, Damian slowed the bike, his voice low as he glanced at her.
“We need to get you patched up. Then we find out who sent them.”
Marinette managed a tired but fierce smile.
“Together.”
And in that moment, amidst pain and uncertainty, their bond was stronger than ever — forged in battle, tempered by trust, and unyielding as steel.
Because they knew they would be okay.
They fought to get to each other.
To be with each other.
And now, they will heal.
Together.