Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part One. Damian Wayne.

“He’s suing us for defamation.” Aless froze mid-sip, the hot coffee searing her upper lip as her brain tried to catch up with what Chief had just said. The sting from the burn barely registered.

“ Again? ”

She was prepared for something like this. Normally, when he called her into his office, it was to break bad news: a bot had spammed her article on Helena Voss’ links to illegal arms deals, crashing the entire Gazette website; they had to print a retraction on her piece about Lex Luthor because he threatened to sue for libel, despite the fact she had eyewitnesses; or Vreeland Oil had sent a cease-and-desist letter after she dug too deep into its new COO’s personal life. 

Now, she braced herself for a list of possibilities to correct her “rouge behavior”: a demand for a correction, an apology letter to Carmine Falcone (a literal mob boss, mind you), or— worst case —the unthinkable. They’d make her pull the article, bury the story, and shove her back into the Food Team. Instead of standing up for the practiced craft of investigative journalism, the Gazette would just email the complainer a carefully worded apology, detailing how they’d punished their brash writer. It was always the same song and dance: a well-crafted letter full of corporate language, promising to "address the concerns raised" and "ensure such oversights do not happen again." 

Meanwhile, Aless was banished to that 11th-floor abyss, stuck editing the recipes column. It was a fate worse than death—relegated to mundane tasks like proofreading cookie  recipes and trying to get the measurement fractions to fit on the correct line in the editing software. Two weeks of endless blandness followed the Voss article. No scoops, no investigations, just the humdrum grind. It felt like a punishment that was as much about stripping her of her passion as it was about her “mistakes”.

However, the last thing that made this time a bit more complicated (and what made her freeze in the first place) was the fact that Aless was already on probation from the Luthor article—because the people she wrote about couldn’t handle facts, and, apparently , neither could the Gazette . This meant Aless had to stand up for herself, or her plight might be even worse than sorting through tired pieces on “Gotham’s Best Breakfast Spots.” She shivered thinking about what that could be. 

“He doesn’t have a case. I have photos and eyewitnesses; He’s linked to trafficking in three different countries, Chief.” Aless leaned forward, her frustration bubbling to the surface. She could never understand why the Gazette never stood by her—why they weren’t backing her up with the truth. They had everything they needed to shut down Falcone’s lawsuit, to prove he was the criminal they all knew him to be.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For god’s sake, Alessandra,” he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “It’s not about whether he has a case. It’s about this happening again . Every time you write about these people—these billionaires, these criminals—they drag us into another legal nightmare. Do you even realize what this is doing to us? Our credibility takes a hit, we lose time, we lose money, and then I have to sit in front of the Board and explain why we keep publishing this mess. And do you know who never gets sued? Jay. Jay never gets us into this crap.”

Aless wanted to throw it back in his face—that Jay never got into this crap because he published it all on The Truth , his own platform, because he didn’t trust the Gazette —but she didn’t (She also was not supposed to know that he was apart of the movement, but, hey, she had great detective skills).

God, was it time for her to get a Substack ?

No, she did the independent journalism thing in college and it ran her ragged. 

“I’m reporting the truth , Chief,” Aless said, her voice rising with a mixture of frustration and conviction. “The truth that no one else in this city has the guts to dig into. What happened to a free press? The readers know it’s the truth, and if you keep retracting it, you’re not just protecting us—you’re ruining the Gazette ’s credibility. What good is a paper that’s afraid to tell it like it is?”

He finally looked at her, his eyes dark with the weight of frustration. “This is Gotham , Aless, and you’re just a junior writer. Not a respected public figure. It’s not about the truth. It’s about who you piss off. And you’re pissing off everyone . At some point, you have to choose between being a journalist and keeping this paper afloat.”

She’d heard that before—the “keep your head down or lose it” talk.

“After talking it over with the rest of the Board, we’ve decided to put you on the gossip column for the time being,” Chief said, his tone final. “You’re still writing. You’re still investigating, but the stuff you publish here will be less likely to get us caught in a lawsuit with someone who could literally buy out our paper. Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing up Bruce Wayne when he came in two weeks ago.” 

Aless stood up from her chair with a force that made the flimsy desk creak under her, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Chief, you can’t be serious? The gossip column?! Really? You’re shafting me to the gossip column?” she nearly shouted, her voice echoing off the sterile walls of the office. She could see out of the corner of her eye the stares of her fellow writers from their cubicles. Thankfully Chief’s office was soundproof. She would know. 

Chief’s face scrunched up, clearly bracing for the storm. He had to have known this would happen. "It’s not like—"

“Not like what?” Aless interrupted, her arms flailing slightly. “I’m supposed to go from investigative journalism to writing about who’s dating who at Gotham’s elite parties? ‘Oh, guess what, folks—Helena Voss was seen with a new boyfriend at a charity gala, and they’re definitely on the fast track to a very public breakup over her terrible taste in wines’? Is that what you want? A scoop about the most famous cheese platter at Bruce Wayne’s wedding?”

“Aless—”

“No!” she shot back, hands on her hips. “I am one of the best writers the Gotham Gazette has, and you’re throwing me into newspaper purgatory!"

Chief sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re still writing, Aless. You’re still investigating—”

"Investigating what, Chief?” she shot him a glare, throwing her hands up in the air dramatically. “The best way to get a good seat at a fancy dinner? The best Instagram influencers in Gotham? Are you serious? You’ve got me writing gossip like I’m some TMZ correspondent!"

"Look, I get it," Chief said, his voice softening. "It’s not ideal, but it’s safer for the paper, and it’s only until—"

“Oh, I know it’s safe ,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Safe from lawsuits, safe from billionaires trying to sue us out of existence. Who needs actual exposure when we can just focus on whose private yacht has a hotter tub, right?”

Aless turned in circles as if looking for a lifeline. "So this is it. I’m not the crusading journalist I thought I was. I’m just a glorified gossip columnist with a press badge."

Chief leaned back in his chair, looking less than impressed by the theatrics. "You’ll still be doing the work, just in a different format. You’ll be investigating—"

She interrupted again, voice rising, "I’ll be investigating if Gotham’s elite are swapping spouses again, oh no, someone call the FBI !"

A beat of silence passed between them, Aless pacing back and forth, but she could see the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Chief’s mouth.

“Those are actually some good ideas, maybe this was the right choi—” he muttered under his breath, his words trailing off as he rubbed his temples, his eyes briefly closing in frustration.

"You’ve ruined me, Chief," Aless snapped, her voice tight with anger.

He stood this time, hands slamming on his desk as he leaned forward, leveling with Aless. Sure, she could yell and yell at him—they would never fire her because her writing was getting them views —but the decision was already final. Aless was going to have to start penciling Gotham social events into her work calendar. It made her sick.

“Look, kid. It’s only until this defamation thing gets shoved under the rug,” Chief said, his voice low and controlled. "We’re not doing this forever. I need you to lay low for a bit, let the storm pass, and then you can get back to what you do best. But right now, this is the only way to keep us out of the crossfire and out of bankruptcy. You understand? Think of it as a vacation for all the hard work you’ve been doing in the field."

Aless stood there, biting back the words that were ready to spill out—words about how this wasn’t journalism, how it felt like a betrayal. But she didn’t. She just gathered her thoughts and took one big breath. 

“I understand,” she said flatly, barely holding back the bitterness. She turned on her heel and walked toward the door, feeling the weight of the decision hanging over her like a shadow.

Walking back to her desk and sitting down with a huff, Aless shoved her notepad aside and ran a hand through her hair, letting out an exasperated sigh. Jay took off his headphones, his brow raised in that familiar, curious way. He wasn’t even waiting for the question anymore; he just knew it was coming.

"Lunch?" she asked, though it was more of a formality at this point. The routine had been solid since their freshman year at MetropolisU when they met in class and bonded over their shared love for Lois Lane. It wasn’t even an official tradition—just something that had naturally happened between them. Even after that strange two-year hiatus when Aless had gone back to Gotham, the second they found themselves back at the same desk, it was as if no time had passed at all.

Jay grinned, giving a half-shrug as if the question had never been asked. “It’s your turn to buy,” he said, already slipping his jacket back on. Aless looked at the document still up on her monitor, full of ideas for her next piece. The Iceberg Lounge’s new owner. Gotham’s caped crusader’s sudden slow down of operation. All pieces that weren’t going to see the light of day for a long time. Instead of saving it, she just X-ed out and proceeded to follow Jay out the door. 

“Cruel of you to make me pay when I’m in such mental distress.” Aless was thankful that they were the only two in the elevator. Was this jacket too much? It was already getting so hot in Gotham, and it wasn’t even August. 

“I gotta save up for Jon and I’s anniversary.” 

“That’s in November! ” 

“It’s five years! That’s a big one, right? Like, it’s wood or something.” 

“That’s only for wedding anniversaries, Jay.” 

“Well, the country only recently decided we could legally get married, so-” 

“And what are you going to do? Build him another barn with the wood?” 

“I was going to take him somewhere nice. Hotel prices are crazy though, even for one bed. I know they’re going to skyrocket, too.” 

“And plane tickets! So glad I'm not in a long-distance relationship anymore. All the money I spent on overpriced tickets? Man! ”

“Oh…yeah, plane tickets… they are gunna be expens-” 

The elevator ding! cut off their rambling conversation and they walked out into the streets of Gotham, Aless debating where she was going to spend her money. 

"The diner?" she asked, turning to Jay. He was staring off into space, his eyes drifting over the buildings of Gotham, a soft smile lingering on his lips. She waved her hand in front of his face, snapping him back to reality.

“Uh…yeah, sure! The diner.”

“I am vehemently opposed to you returning to that… cesspool of a city. It is not your path, Habibi . Here is where you belong,” Talia's voice was sharp, her eyes burning with an intensity that only came from years of careful control.

Damian sighed, his posture stiff as he sat on the floor of the temple, arms crossed, eyes focused on the stone floor beneath him. The silence around him had been a comfort—a rare moment of solitude amidst the Leauge’s chaos of his decision. He had hoped for peace, even if just for a few minutes, to think things through. But, of course, he should’ve expected his mother to find him.

The doors to the temple burst open with force, nearly knocking the candles Damian had so carefully arranged into oblivion. The wind outside swept in, extinguishing each one in a cold rush. Talia entered, every step deliberate, every movement commanding. She had given him thirty minutes. He’d estimated that was the amount of time he had. 

She arrived precisely two minutes late

“ Ummi ,” Damian said flatly, refusing to meet her gaze, his voice carrying none of the drama she sought. “I thought you would arrive sooner.”

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous crossing her features. “You choosing that path, Damian,” she stated as if he were some foolish child who needed correction. “It is a path for someone weak, someone distracted by sentimentality.”

Damian’s sigh was sharper this time, irritation crawling beneath his skin. He met her eyes. “It’s my decision, Mother. Not yours. I am a grown man.”

Talia was quiet for a moment, studying him with the precision of someone who knew him better than anyone else. “I am only trying to keep you from making a mistake you will regret,” she said softly, the venom from before replaced with something much more unsettling: calm, cold certainty. “Your place is here, with us, where you can rule, where you can lead as the Demon’s Head. There is nothing for you in Gotham other than a torn latex suit.”

Damian stood up slowly, his back straight, shoulders squared. “And yet,” he said quietly, his voice laced with quiet determination, “I have unfinished business there. And the knowledge of that business... does not belong to you.”

Though his mother was tall, imposing in her own right, Damian’s presence was commanding, and he towered over her as he stood—his stature sharp, his eyes unwavering, the tension between them thickening. He moved past her with a quiet intensity, the weight of his words lingering in the air. Gone was the little boy who once idolized and obeyed the woman with whom he now had, at best, a fractured relationship with. Damian knew one of the concerns driving her protest was the fear that whatever hold she still had on him—evident from his return to the League all those years ago—would vanish completely the moment he left for Gotham permanently.

Damian was hoping for it. 

He brooded as he walked out into the blizzard that preceded his departure. Not enough peace to even get through one meditation sequence, let alone the clarity he needed to decide if he was about to make the right decision. His mind had been so focused on Gotham, on what awaited him there, but Talia interrupted it.  

His mother’s gaze followed him as he walked into the courtyard, studying the youth class being taught there. It was sharp, prodding, and ever-angry. 

“He’s going to ask you. He would be a fool not to pick you over the other imbeciles you call your siblings.” Damian tried to let go of the fact that she’d just called his family - yes, his family - imbeciles in front of him. With his status as Demon Head, he could have her punished for it. Yet, with the humanity that she was so convinced corrupted him, Damian decided to save her from it. Someone had to command the League when he left. 

“We will have to wait and see.” He answered over the wind, turning to look at her face as he walked backward to his quarters. There was much to pack. This wasn’t just a holiday visit. Even if he didn’t tell Grayson that when his first text came through.

Why did they always text Damian? Especially with all those weird faces and moving pictures. Did no one know how to use a phone these days? Send a signal to his Batwing? Maybe his family was full of imbeciles… but only he could say that.  

“And what will your answer be?” Her voice rang out sharply, the distance between them now enough for her words to feel like a shout, with the sound of children’s laughter filling the space around them. 

Damian didn’t respond immediately, his thoughts momentarily lost to the confusion of his family’s communication methods. It was really only a 3-hour flight. Why did Grayson text such important information to him so casually? And to trust that he had reception out here to even receive it?  

“If you didn’t interrupt my meditation session, perhaps I would know.”

Talia’s eyes flashed with a rare display of public rage, her hands clenching at her sides. “You are the Demon’s Head. You belong to the League. Your loyalty is here, with me, with us .”

Damian couldn’t help but let out a quiet, almost inaudible chuckle, the sound slipping out before he could catch it. He stood there, looking at her, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

Really, Mother? he thought, his mind racing with irony. You’re going to lecture me on loyalty after everything? You’ve tried to kill me before, and now you’re demanding loyalty?

"I was forced to return to the League after you attempted to destroy the Earth once again, proving you were unfit to lead. After restoring order to the chaos you left behind, I can now return to Father with clarity, knowing exactly what my path is. And I have placed my faith in the advisors I've appointed, who will not be swayed by your empty promises."

He had already set up failsafes—back then, when he first re-took control of the League—to ensure that his abdication wouldn’t lead to more chaos. He knew that if he didn’t plan for his departure properly, this mess would repeat itself, and he would be forced to return to the League, abandoning his mantle of Robin once more. Gotham was always a priority for him (even if it took him this long to be able to admit it), and this time, he wasn’t letting anyone stand in the way of his decisions.

Talia’s gaze turned icy, her voice dripping with venom. "If you choose to become Batman, you will be cast out from the League. You will never be welcome here again. You will betray your birthright."

Damian didn’t flinch, his posture unyielding. "Then so be it," he replied coolly, his words sharp as steel. He’d prepared for that reaction, gradually shedding any trace of childish emotion he had once felt for his mother over the past five years since he’d ascended as the Demon’s Head. The affection, the longing for approval—it was no longer something he needed from a woman who was his mother. No, he had a real family now, one that had shown him what loyalty and support truly meant. The League, his birthright, and Talia's manipulations were no longer his concerns.

Talia’s eyes burned, but there was a trace of something darker there too—hurt, perhaps, or a bitter realization that she was losing him. She stepped closer, her voice low but commanding. "You would throw everything away for Gotham? For that… man ?" She spit the last word out like poison. He noticed, after the wedding announcement, Talia’s hatred for his father grew ten-fold.

Damian’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "Yes.” Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the silence that followed. The finality of his decision hung in the air, unspoken, but undeniable, but damn, did it feel good to walk away from this place.

“Hey, Little D!” Grayson’s face filled the Batwing’s screens as Damian was programing in his final destination. He debated flying to Kansas, having not seen his friend for quite a while. The Justice League was taking up most of his time… And a boyfriend Damian had yet to meet. It could be used as a valuable warm-up to dealing with all of his family in one place, but he was unsure if Jon was even home. 

“Richard… looking as gray as ever,” Damian muttered dryly, continuing to program in the Batwing’s final destination. He didn’t even glance up at the screen.

A stereotypical gasp crackled through the comms. “Damian, I’m only 37!”

Damian’s lips curled slightly, but his focus remained on the coordinates. “In a modern-day Gotham, that is practically pushing death. I would start taking precautionary methods.”

Another dramatic pause stretched across the line before Grayson’s voice returned, slightly less enthusiastic. “Selina has requested you stop in Paris to pick up Mulberry silk in eggshell.”

Damian’s eyebrows furrowed, his fingers stilling on the console. “Do I look like a courier service? Can she not send one of Father’s associates to retrieve it? I’m not in the mood for unnecessary errands.”

“She said something about import taxes and shipping costs. Come on, I know you haven’t gotten them a wedding gift yet. Paris is a great place to look.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t take the bait. “I don’t see why I would waste my time on such a task. Besides, it’s not like I’m exactly thrilled about this marriage."

Dick’s tone shifted, his curiosity piqued. “Ah, so you are sour about Bruce and Selina. Finally ready to admit it, huh?”

His eyes flicked toward the screen for the first time, his tone dismissive. “A wedding? After all these years, now they want to make it official? It doesn’t make sense. They've been together longer than I can remember. The notion of marriage, especially at this point… it’s pointless. It’s just another distraction and Batman is slowing down as it is.”

There was a pause on the other end before Dick spoke again, his tone lighter but tinged with that familiar warmth. “You’ll understand when you’re older, Damian. When you’re in love, and you want commitment… you’ll see what it’s all about.”

“And that’s why it took you this long to commit to Gordan?”

“Dami-” Dick’s exasperated tone cut off his attempt at humor.

“-I don’t need to understand it. Love is irrelevant. Bruce doesn’t need this wedding. He needs to focus on the city he’s already half-abandoned. On his decision to pass on the mantle.” He watched as Dick’s face morphed from a grin into one of seriousness, the light in his eyes dimming slightly.

“You think that’s why he’s called us all together a week before the wedding?” His brother asked, his voice quieter, more measured. 

“Isn’t it obvious, Grayson? He’s getting married. He finally gave Drake full ownership of Wayne Enterprises. Batman hasn’t been seen as much lately, and that’s not because he’s busy with wedding plans. It’s because he’s getting older. Slower… He's passing on the mantle. It would be the perfect time to do it.” Damian’s words hung in the air, a subtle edge to his voice.

Dick didn’t respond right away, but Damian could hear how his breathing changed on the other end. It was clear the weight of their father's decisions was something they all felt, in different ways. The responsibility of it all. 

After a beat, Dick spoke again in that happy-go-lucky tone of his. “Hey, don’t worry about it Little D. You’ll be back at the League HQ in no time. You can even enjoy a little summer while you’re in Gotham! Get your tan on!” 

Ah. 

There… it was again. 

Damian had heard it from almost all of his siblings leading up to his arrival. It wasn’t something they said outright, but he could read between the lines—whether it was the unsaid in their group chat or the tone in the conversation with Todd when he stopped by during a mission with the JL Dark last week. None of them were considering the possibility that it could be him.  

He didn’t have the words to fully understand how it made him feel, nor the self-awareness to articulate it, but deep down, Damian knew it wasn’t a good feeling.

“I will see you when I land, Grayson.” Damian hoped he was able to hide whatever that unnamed emotion did to his voice. 

“Don’t forget the silk!”

Chapter Text

“Alright, team, let’s start!” The bubbly blonde at the front of the room clapped her hands together, instantly snapping the small team of five to attention. Aless couldn’t help but notice the bright pink skirt she was wearing, the shade almost comically out of place in the otherwise muted tones of the room. When had she ever been able to wear something like that to work? Even now, sitting in the back corner, she felt the weight of her gray slacks, slightly too wrinkled and far too dull in comparison to her new team’s perfectly styled outfits.

"We have a new member joining us for just a bit. Alessandra, do you want to introduce yourself?" The blonde's voice bubbled with enthusiasm as all eyes turned to Aless. She stood up slowly, acutely aware of the disheveled state of her attire (her alarm went off late, sue her), and felt the sudden pressure to put on a more polished appearance. She caught sight of the flawless makeup on the girl in the blue button-down shirt with feather collars and immediately felt like she was at a disadvantage in both looks and reputation.

Taking a breath, Aless cleared her throat. "Alessandra Vreeland," she said with a smile, lifting her hand in a greeting, though it felt forced. "You can call me Aless. I’m usually in Front Page or Subject Focus, but the team decided I should take a little break and move over here for a while."

There was a pause, and then a voice from the front piped up. It was the girl with the feathered collar, leaning forward with an inquisitive look on her face. "I heard it’s because you kept getting the Gazette sued. Is that true?"

Aless’s smile tightened. She should’ve known. Of course, this was the gossip column, and nothing could stay out of the limelight for long. The whole office had probably heard by now.

“Okay, yes.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead, feeling the familiar sense of frustration bubbling up. "My newest piece on Falcone rubbed him the wrong way and he wants to sue for defamation. Chief put me here on a timeout until things cool off."

Another woman - they were all women, which was a little empowering to Aless, but also not really because it was the gossip column and that couldn’t be very feminist - in a purple dress leaned forward, putting her hand on the and spreading her fingers like a tripod. “Falcone’s been caught in a weapon-smuggling operation, allegedly busted by Batman. Some of his men have been arrested across three countries, and she connected the dots right back to him. I would sue too if I were him, given how much it could ruin me.”

Aless blinked. Once. Then once more. “You read my story?” 

It’s not like she didn’t think they were incapable of reading. Or reading serious news. She just thought, oh well, they’re the gossip column, so they probably took a liking to scrolling through TikTok more than anything else. And that was fine for Aless. Social media gave people news too. She just didn’t think that there was an intersecting Venn diagram of people who got their news from Twitter and people who read her pieces. The realization that she was wrong shocked her a little bit.

Blue feathers spoke up again. “Of course, we read your stuff! I mean, who wouldn’t want to know about Lex Luthor’s secret involvement with the League of Shadows? I find his villainous vibe kind of... sexy, but also, it’s just so interesting. Bald isn’t my type though.” 

“It’s like… professional gossip.” Glasses, red shoes, and a trenchcoat buttoned to the top. She looked like the youngest.  “You deal with hard-hitting political stories, and we cover the social scene—the relationships, the parties, the socialites. But sometimes, our stuff overlaps with politics, too. We put a piece out about the Hamilton’s divorce two weeks before you wrote something about the abuse scandal. It’s just how you look at it. People pass off our stories as rumors, but every rumor has a kernel of truth.”

 Aless realized then that the girl was trying to get her to reframe her thinking, and it struck her that this team probably had to do this a lot. Explain to the men in power or their critics that their work was more than just idle chatter. They weren’t just spinning sensational headlines for clicks—they were digging, connecting dots, and unearthing truths that others overlooked or ignored. She… kinda digged it. 

Oh, fuck. This feels like indoctrination. 

She sat down, and they went around the room with their names. The head writer was Jane. Blue feathers were Amara. Trenchcoat, an intern from GothamU, was Jenni. The last two were Rebs, purple dress, and Piper who hadn’t spoken yet. They were going to have to wear nametags or Aless was just going to refer to them as the clothes they were wearing that day. Unfortunately, that meant Aless was now ‘ill-fitting gray slacks’ until she turned her style up. Apparently, Jenni wrote for GothamU’s fashion magazine. Maybe she could ask her if she thought Aless was a Cool Summer. 

“Alright, let’s begin with our pitches. Throw them out as we go, and I’ll type them up here!” The blonde’s - Jane, her name is Jane - voice rang through the room, full of energy, as her fingers poised over the keyboard. As the ideas started to flow, she would type every single one, displayed on the screen for all of them to see. 

For once, this new way of working gave Aless a moment to reflect. Maybe she had been conditioned to thrive in the high-stakes, cut-throat environment of typical newsroom pitch meetings. The kind where silence looms until someone drops the perfect story idea, the kind of silence that makes you wonder if you'd be the one to break it. She’d spent whole weeks barely getting in a word, and every time it happened, she blamed herself for not being good enough to speak. It was a vicious cycle—she'd push herself to come up with the perfect pitch, the kind that would make the room take notice, that would make her indispensable. That pressure had driven her, kept her going. But this…

This was different.

Aless watched the team around her as they casually tossed around their ideas, their voices overlapping with a natural rhythm. There was no stress, no competition, just an easy flow of ideas. She hadn’t realized how tense her shoulders were until she saw them relax, one by one, as the group started to collaborate. They weren’t fighting for their voices to be heard, but just sharing ideas, taking turns without the unspoken fear that someone else would steal the spotlight.

She couldn’t help but compare it to the vibe she was used to back in the frontlines of investigative journalism. There, every pitch was a battle. Each week, she would arrive at the table, shoulders squared, armed with her latest scoop, and ready to hold her ground. But now, as she watched the women around her laugh and banter, it felt more like sitting at the lunch table with her friends, swapping stories about the latest breakups, rumors, and gossip that circulated through school hallways. A week ago, she would've found it insane to think she’d find this… refreshing.

“And then apparently, she walked in and found his mistress in bed with him. The divorce is going to be brutal because… no prenup!” Rebs tapped her manicured fingers on the table with every work. There were gasps at her last statement and head nods. 

“I hope she takes everything.”

“I knew he was a scum bag!”

“Let’s meet her for an interview! Get her to tell us all the juicy details.” 

“What if we take her out to brunch? This new place on 4th Street has amazing lattes. I read about it in ‘Gotham’s Best Breakfast Spots.’”

Okay, maybe… my time of reflection is over. How the fuck am I supposed to write about any of this stuff seriously? 

“And we still haven’t acquired a Wayne wedding invite? This is the event of the year, and none of you could even seduce an invitation out of someone on Raya? We put that membership on the company card. Vogue is going to be doing a full spread on it. I’m sure the Daily Planet has people on it too. We cannot be the only ones who don’t run something.” Jane’s voice had taken on a slightly dramatic, almost theatrical tone. Aless wasn’t sure if it was just for show, but it had certainly gotten everyone’s attention. Even she perked up. 

She hadn’t said anything for the last ten minutes, mostly observing the easy rhythm of the team. But now, the words slipped out before she could even think about it. The reaction she got from them sent the same serotonin through her brain as presenting a good pitch in front of the board. 

“I have an invite.” 

The energy in the room shifted, the air thick with anticipation. Aless could feel the weight of the moment—everyone was hanging on her every word now. The Wayne wedding invite had catapulted her into a different level of importance in this room, even if she hadn’t fully realized the magnitude of it yet. All five pairs of eyes turned to her, some with their mouths open, and she felt the weight of their gazes, sharp and hungry for the next morsel of gossip. Was she the prey, or the Wayne wedding ticket? 

"You have an invite?" Rebs asked, incredulity written all over her face.

Aless raised her eyebrows, trying to keep a straight face. “Yeah. To the wedding. I’m ah… My, uh, mom’s a family friend, but she can’t go. I’m going in her place.” 

“Well, hell ,” one of the other women muttered, a laugh escaping her lips. “You better get us something good from that wedding.”

It was like someone had just dropped a Pulitzer Prize-worthy piece right in front of them.

Jane grinned, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her arms, clearly impressed. “Well, look at you. You’ve got more pull than I thought. Alright, Vreeland, you’re assigned to the Wayne Wedding.” Uh, oh. What did I just get myself into? I was just going to send a card… 

A flutter of nerves ran through her, and she internally scoffed. Really? She’d chased down Robin— the Robin —to try and confront him, and now she was getting jittery about a wedding? She was acting like a fucking rookie. It was almost laughable. But the truth was, she had no idea what was expected of her in this new role. Weddings, especially Gotham’s most high-profile one, didn’t exactly come with a clear guidebook. There was no getting in with a notepad and an interview; this would be a mess of layers—flashing lights, socialites, whispers behind hands, and gossip flying faster than she could keep up with.

It’s just another story. You’ve handled worse. This will be a piece of cake.

“What do you all want me to focus on? The happy couple? The guests?” Aless couldn’t believe that her career had devolved to this level. 

`“No one cares about the wedding. Hooray, the happy couple is finally getting married! Okay, cool,” Amara said with a flick of her hand as if dismissing the notion entirely. “And then in the next paragraph, we dig into who was and wasn’t present. Who sent gifts and who didn’t ? Do any of his exes show? What was being said between the ceremony and the reception?”

Aless sat back, trying to digest the concept. Who sent gifts? That was the kind of thing she was supposed to dig into. But before she could voice her thoughts, Piper cut in.

“All of that and more!” she said, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in closer, clearly relishing the juicy material. “This is the first time all of the Wayne children will be together since, I don’t know, like years! Are Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon engaged yet? Or are they just playing the long game? What about Tim Drake’s secret gay lover? Or the fact that he’s just been given more than 50 percent of shares in Wayne Enterprises? Is it a Succession situation with the family? Is Bruce losing control of his empire? Is it because of the wedding?”

Aless couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. Tim Drake? Secret lover? What the hell were these people writing about? She barely had time to process the fact that these were the things they were looking for. Piper, noticing her reaction, leaned in closer, her voice low but eager.

“Then there’s Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain—dating or just best friends? Because trust me, there are a lot of rumors swirling about those two. Always has been. And don’t forget the biggest prize: Damian Wayne. No one’s seen him in like, five years. Is he going to show up? Is he still mad at his father? Did he inherit any of the Wayne family’s share? Is he still devilishly handsome, intelligent, and single? If he’s there you have to latch onto that.” Piper’s voice dropped even lower as if sharing some classified intel. Alessa pulled a face of disgust and was tempted to throw up all over the table. 

“Really?” Her tone was flat, but still disbelieving, “Damian Wayne is the prize?” 

Every girl in the room looked at Aless like she was crazy, their eyes widening in disbelief. Jane, clearly unamused by her lack of knowledge, furiously typed in the search bar ‘ Damian Wayne 2025 ,’ her fingers moving with practiced speed. She clicked on the "images" tab, waiting for the results to load. 

While there were noticeably few recent photos (a lot of that annoying, snotty kid standing behind a younger Bruce), Aless recognized the face that popped up. There were two or three blurry photos with captions like Damian Wayne Spotted in Paris!!! Why is the Wayne Heir in the city of love? The images were grainy, the details hard to make out, but even through the poor quality, she could spot that god-awful hairline and the unmistakable green eyes. The blurry images only made it more tantalizing, the mystery of his appearance in Paris hanging in the air. The photo seemed recent. 

“Damian Wayne disappeared from Gotham almost five years ago,” Jane explained, her fingers on the touchpad, using it to circle the blurry face in front of them. It occured to Aless later that they were literally sitting in a conference room at work getting paid to stare at pictures of Damian Wayne. “He went off to some foreign university, and for a while, everyone just assumed he'd return and take his place in the family—especially after Tim Drake started making moves within the company. But it never happened. Last year, we even set up a Damian Wayne Watch on the website, but he never showed. These are some of the only photos of him that have surfaced recently. The buzz is that he's finally coming out of hiding because he's going to the wedding.”

She paused, eyes scanning the screen as if the truth was staring her in the face. “And trust me, this is big . He’s the only bachelor in the family now that Duke Thomas is confirmed not single, and he has the Wayne name. That’s an official heir.” All the confidence Aless had gained in this hour that everything was going to be okay, especially after Jenni’s little pep talk, drained away in a heartbeat. Her acceptance of the assignment melted into cold dread. She could not write about the Wayne Wedding. She would not write about Damian Wayne—that asshole.

She was happy when he left Gotham. 

“Anything wrong, Aless? Are you comfortable with this assignment?” Aless sat up straighter, the question's weight settling in her chest like a stone. Comfortable? Comfortable wasn’t a word she’d ever really used regarding her work. She’d gotten used to the constant churn of deadlines, the pressure to expose the truth, and the inevitable fallout that came with every big story. But this? Fuck it, journalism wasn’t about comfortability. She didn’t get anywhere in life because she was comfortable. 

She glanced around the table, noting the way everyone else was practically buzzing with excitement. These women had an almost infectious energy about them, an energy that wasn’t just about the stories—they lived for this game, for digging, for uncovering what others were too afraid to. Aless? So did she. Regardless of the medium it took, or who it was.  

Damian Wayne was not going to psyche her out again.

"Yeah, I'm fine with the assignment," she said. The words sounded flat, even to her ears. 

During lunch, Aless let it all out. She walked briskly to the bistro patio, where Jay was already perched at their usual spot under the awning, tapping away on her phone. Without a word, Aless slammed her bags down onto the table with a thud, causing a few heads to turn.

“You will not believe this,” she began, her voice dripping with disbelief. “They want me to write about the Wayne Wedding.”

There was a long pause from Jay, who was probably too confused to say anything helpful back. “And it gets better. They want me to write about Damian Wayne. I’m gonna stroll in there and be like, ‘Hey, Damian, remember me? How you tried to ruin my life in school? Would you mind spilling the tea on why you disappeared for five years? Oh, and who’s the lucky girl you’re dating, now, huh?’ Personally, I didn’t believe that he’s straight, but my team - god, that’s so fucking ridiculous sounding now - has informed me that they have first-hand accounts from women of how he is in bed. I’m surprised they don’t want me to just fuck him to get intel!” 

Aless let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “Can you even imagine? God, I’m so out of place. I’m sitting here, trying to figure out if I’m going to have a panic attack over the fact that they expect me to write about Damian fucking Wayne and this stupid wedding.”

She let out another exasperated sigh. “This whole situation is insane. I should be writing about real stories. Like, actual crime, corruption—stuff that matters. But no. I’m supposed to sniff around a damn wedding like it’s some kind of high-stakes undercover mission. I have a master’s in journalism from the top program in the country, Jay. And awards. And a Lois Lane Fellowship. This is hell.” She groaned, closing her eyes tightly, wishing she could just escape the nightmare of the past few hours. If she could will herself into some parallel universe where her career was thriving and her work wasn’t getting redacted, she would. But instead, here she was— gossip columnist. 

Jay, who had been quietly observing her meltdown, finally broke the silence. He reached across the table, his hand light but firm on A​​less’s back, offering some form of comfort in the midst of her chaos.

“Hey, look on the bright side of things,” Jay said, his voice soft but laced with a touch of amusement. “Maybe while you’re there, you’ll land on some crazy Gotham billionaire hush money scheme. I mean, when Bruce Wayne’s involved, there’s always an open bar. Which means people get real loose-lipped. Alternately, you could get blasted and then go home with some hot, trust fund baby.”

He was trying to make it better, Alessa knew that, but she couldn’t stop the negative thoughts rolling through her mind. Yeah, and where am I going to publish that? The gossip column? Oh, no I’ll just wait for when I get re-moted again. And then publish it. And then get sent another libel case. And then, woopie, back to the gossip column. 

“I’m going to do it. I’m going to write this stupid article,” she declared, the words feeling strange on her tongue but steady nonetheless. “And I’m going to write it so well, it’ll make their heads spin. If I can’t write a damn gossip column article and make it sing , how the hell am I supposed to keep writing my investigative pieces? This is nothing compared to the stories I’ve cracked before.”

Jay’s eyes lit up with approval. “That’s the spirit! You’re taking me a little aback with these mood swings, but yeah!” 

“I’ll make this wedding the most disastrous event Gotham’s socialites have ever seen.” 

“Oh...” Should I warn them about this... or...? Jay thought, but then remembered he didn't get an invitation (It was to the Kent family only and Jon already felt bad), so...

“And I get to buy a dress for it on payroll!”

Damian should’ve stopped in Kansas. 

It would've been quieter there. And even if Jon wasn’t in, Ma Kent was pleasant to be around. She would never ask Damian prying questions. She would never try to give him a - what did Todd call that stupid thing? - a noogie as soon as he entered the door. No, she would greet him with class, shower him with compliments on how much he’d grown, and then make him tea the way he liked. The fact that the Manor’s culinary choices had completely gone to hell without Alfred only made it worse. All he had was Sleepytime Tea ? Sleepytime Tea. He was Damian Wayne, not some overgrown child who drank out of a box with a bear in pajamas on it. 

It was going to feel like shit to spend six dollars on a horribly made chai tomorrow when he went into town, but he needed it. 

Instead of peace and calm, as soon as he landed the Batwing—silk in hand—he was immediately put to work to help with the wedding. It was a backhanded compliment from Dick. Look how muscular you’ve gotten, Dami! Now, D, move this. D, help with that. His name barely seemed to matter anymore. No, the great Demon Head (soon to be ex -Demon Head, he reminded himself) had become Demon Brat, Lil' D, Asshole, or just plain D . Even Selina Kyle—a woman he assumed had no use for any of this familial nonsense—greeted him with a soft “ Hey, Dami. Good to see you again. ” 

At least they’d finally acknowledged he was the tallest. In the year since they’d all seen him in Gotham last, he’d shot up to even taller than Todd. Steph was going around saying that he’d gone through ‘second puberty’ and he just glared.  

It might’ve been flattering if only it wasn’t followed by insults from Tim and Duke, or that constant reminder from everyone—including Father—that they still saw him as the little boy they had to look after. How he had grown in height, in muscle, but still wasn’t quite grown up enough to shed the name “Demon Brat.” Even when he towered over them now, it never seemed to matter.

Maybe he was reading into it too much, sure, but if they kept treating him like a child, how could he expect them to ever truly see him as... anything else? His jaw tightened, but he shook his head. Gotham made him weak. It made him feel too much. And he couldn’t afford that. He needed to reel in any illogical emotions like doubt. 

He’d been doing well—better, even. He didn’t just go to the League to right his mother’s chaos. Years of discipline and mental training had given him control, control over his body, and control over his emotions. Those techniques, those rigorous mental exercises, were about mastering himself. Not letting the ghosts of his past drag him back. He was no longer a child who threw tantrums or lashed out because of some bruised ego. He was Damian Wayne. An adult. A master of the mind. He was in control. 

But being back in Gotham? He couldn’t help but feel it all slipping again. Old habits, old reflexes. The unwanted familiarity of being underestimated, and treated like a kid. It stung more than he wanted to admit. There was something unresolved lingering. He would add it to the list to explore in his mind later. 

When he left the Robin mantle, he had been trying to find something real, something that made sense in a way that fighting crime and playing the part of a boy wonder never could. At first, he thought it might be medicine—saving lives in a more direct way. He could be a doctor. He even imagined himself in the sterile white halls of a hospital, someone people trusted to fix their wounds, whether physical or emotional. Then, when that didn’t quite settle right, he considered becoming a veterinarian. Animals didn’t judge and didn’t have expectations. They were simple and honest. He could help them, too.

And for a time, he’d even entertained the idea of becoming an artist. The thought had been strange at first, but he saw it—himself, focused and creating something pure, something to call his own. He hadn’t quite been sure where it came from, but he liked it. He liked the quiet and the freedom that came with it.

But none of that lasted. It never did. Because no matter how far he tried to run from it, the blood, the violence, the legacy of the Leauge was always there, pulling him back. He found himself the only one capable of righting his mother’s wrongs. Batman wasn’t dispensable. He couldn’t move from place to place to fix the League. Damian could. At that point in his life, freshly an adult, he thought, maybe, that was his final cause. What he was made for. It was his birthright, after all, but it never felt quite as... right as being Robin. Being with Batman. Being in Gotham. It’s where he belonged, but it took him years and distance to figure it out. 

“Do you wanna patrol tonight? With so many of us back, I think the baddies will have an aneurysm.”

Steph’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he turned, blinking slightly, caught off guard. She was standing beside him, elbowing him lightly as he set down a box of centerpieces. Her usual grin was there, but there was something else in her eyes—something that felt a little like camaraderie, the kind he wasn’t sure he deserved but had found here, in this city, with these people.

“Are you volunteering to be the distraction again, Brown?” Damian raised an eyebrow, his voice only half-joking.

Steph leaned against the table, unfazed by his teasing. “I’m just saying, it’d be a hell of a night. Bane’s been making noise again, and I’m getting bored of the local punks thinking they can just stroll through the streets like they own Gotham. Besides, I have yet to see the new Demon Head in action. Jason and Cass always get to travel near you but we don’t.”

The teasing, playful smirk that had been hovering on his face vanished in an instant. Damian’s expression went unreadable, cold. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered briefly to the side as if calculating something. But when they returned to hers, they were intense—far too intense for a simple joke. His lips were pressed thin, and something shifted in his posture, becoming rigid.

Her back straightened unconsciously, a slight tension creeping into her own posture as she caught on. “D? You alright?” 

The silence stretched between them, thicker now. She had meant it as a challenge, something to push him a little, to get him to bite. She hadn't expected to hit some kind of nerve.

"I highly doubt the Robin suit will fit. It hasn’t been altered since I left." Steph’s face fell. Damian tried to go back and hide his reaction. He’d lost control, but it wasn’t her fault. None of them knew what he had done to get here. What he had to do. 

“Ah, yeah. That’s… It might stretch? I’m sure you brought some League gear with you. Or we could give you some of Jason’s old stuff? That’s probably the only thing you’d fit in. Or… Well, the Bat gear… You’d fit in Bruce’s things.” For the briefest moment, he looked at her again, and this time, there was a flicker of something softer in his gaze, something almost grateful. The first acknowledgment of him fitting. It lasted only a second before he masked it with a sharp turn of his head and a dismissive shrug.

"I will defer to the others before deciding to join tonight. The flight has left me... fatigued." Steph's brow furrowed as she watched him, her expression softening at the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. He was good at hiding it, but she could read him better than he thought. Still, she didn't press. It was normal for Damian to be guarded. 

"Yeah, sure, Dames," she said lightly, trying to keep the mood casual.

Damian gave a noncommittal grunt, his arms crossing as he turned back to his task, his eyes focused on the centerpieces as though that could distract him. He didn't want to admit how much he missed the weight of the suit, the feel of it—how right it had always been, even when everything else felt off. He didn’t want to put anything else on his body. Sighing deeply, Damian set the centerpiece down and pulled out his phone. Maybe he would join them tonight. Maybe it was time to stop running from what he was meant to be.

Damian: Is there any way to make the Robin suit fit by tonight?

Richard: ill talk to Bruce 

Richard: yours has been in storage 

Richard: since Maps has been active 

Richard: im sure we can modify it

Damian: Let me know when.

It only took Tim’s new machines four hours. 

“How does it feel?” Damian stared at his reflection, his gaze locked on the R emblazoned on his chest, his eyes not willing to wander elsewhere. How did it feel? He couldn't put it into words without giving something away, something he wasn’t ready to admit—not to Dick, not to anyone. If he did, Dick would try to turn it into something sentimental, something absurd like “family” or “nostalgia” or worse— feelings .

So, he simply stood there, assessing the fit. The material hugged him in all the right places, the black and red curving around his limbs and highlighting the muscles he’d spent years honing. It looked right. It felt right.

But he didn’t need to say that. Not aloud.

I’ve missed this. 

He nodded once, a sharp, controlled motion. “ It is acceptable. ”

“ Jesus Christ, Robin! You look terrifying in that suit!” When he landed on the roof where the others had gathered, Nightwing behind him, he made a mental comment that they all looked the same to him. Their suits only went through minor modifications, and in Tim’s case, didn’t change at all. Even Maps, who also seemed to mature between now and the last time he saw him, wore her same yellow glasses. 

“Eh, it doesn’t look right when he’s not four-foot-eleven,” Todd commented, the modulator doing nothing to hide his trademark tone. Damian hoped he didn’t get paired with him tonight.   

“I believe I was about Nightwing’s height when I graduated. The difference is only a few inches.” There was sniggering behind him, and Damian rolled his eyes under his mask. 

“Size matters, D.” 

“Oh, you perv-” 

“Hood started it!” 

“This is Oracle. We have a bank robbery up on 55th Street. Four guys in total. Armed. Who wants it?” 

“Me!”

“Dibs! Red Robin and I can go.” 

“And Robin!” 

“Which one?” 

Damian’s head started to hurt. He didn’t miss this part of it. 

“I also have a reported shooting near the docks. No drug bust scheduled tonight, so could be a fluke?” 

“Cass and I can take that one. We were at the docks last week.” 

“No fair, I wanted to go swim aft-” 

“Guys,” Dick’s voice rang next to him, almost in a groan, “Stop fighting. I know we all haven’t been on patrol together in a while, but have you honestly forgotten how to work in teams?” 

“Maps has a point. We can’t have two Robins and a Red Robin.” 

“Okay, we can call Damian, D.” 

“You can suck this D-”

“-Where’s Batman? Didn’t he say he was coming tonight?” 

“The man’s getting married to the love of his life and got us all out of the house tonight. You think he wants to be here?” 

“Oh, ew. How did we get back to this again?!” 

“Shut u-”

"Look," Damian's voice cut through the air, sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer. The chaos of disorganization was eating away at precious time. He couldn’t afford delays. His jaw clenched. “Nightwing, Maps, and I will patrol the eastern district. We’ll cover the high-rises and check for movement around the old Wayne Enterprises building. I want those rooftops clear by morning.” His gaze shifted to Nightwing, who gave him a tight nod, ready to move without question. Maps gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Damian’s eyes flicked briefly over to the others. "Tim, Steph, and Cass, you’re on the docks. I want eyes on everything first. Keep it tight. If anything feels off, don’t hesitate to call for backup. Oracle will route anyone close by. But make sure you’re capable of neutralizing everything before you engage. No heroics this time—no repeats of last time."

The words hung in the air. Damian knew Tim’s 'last time' was far different from his own, but they both understood what that statement implied. Tim didn’t flinch, though his sharp mind was already picking apart the tactical breakdown. Steph’s grin was almost predatory as she locked eyes with Damian, unbothered. She was clearly enjoying this.

And to think he didn’t want to come tonight. D for Demon’s Head alright…

"Jason, Duke, you're on the bank robbery." Damian continued, voice unwavering. "Tie them up. Leave them in the vault for the police. Evacuate any civilians, patch up any injuries, and get out fast. If Tim, Steph, and Cass need backup, you’re disposable for that. If not, start patrolling the area."

The rooftop was quiet as Damian’s gaze swept across the team, assessing, commanding. He locked eyes with each member in turn before giving a final nod of approval. "We move in five."

There was no extra flourish, no need for dramatic flair. It was just pure, unfiltered command. The words hung in the air, confident and steady, the tone of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The snark, the arrogance, that used to accompany his every order—it was gone. This was a leader, not a brat.

“ Jesus fucking Christ, D.” He heard, whispered through the coms, almost like he wasn’t supposed to hear that from Babs. 

He watched as Tim exchanged a glance with Steph again. Her brow arched slightly, surprised by the precision with which Damian had structured everything. They’d never expected him to command like this, and yet… he was. Even Jason, usually quick to make a jab, stood a little straighter, a rare flash of respect crossing his face as he shot Duke an impressed look. 

Damian hadn’t only undergone a physical change when he went back to the League. 

“This the Demon Head at work, huh?” He decided to let that comment from Tim pass as the groups he sectioned off started to slowly leave the rooftop until it was only Damian, Dick, and Maps left. 

“Are the routes all the same?” Damian looked down to ask Maps who just nodded, getting ready to pull a grappling gun out of her utility belt. When he turned to Dick, he was smiling. 

Dick’s smile was the kind that made Damian’s skin itch—wide, open, and absolutely brimming with undiluted pride. It was the one he used when Damian did something particularly impressive, the kind of thing Dick had probably been expecting him to mess up just a little. It wasn’t mocking, but it carried that annoying big brother energy like he was resisting the urge to ruffle Damian’s hair and say “ Look at you, all grown up. ” It was genuine, annoyingly so, and worst of all, it meant that no matter what Damian did next, Dick was probably going to bring this moment up forever.

“What?” It was deadpan. 

“I’m just happy to be with both my Robins again.”

Chapter Text

“Apparently, the Bats are back.” Aless flipped through the pages of the magazine she’d swiped from the waiting room, telling herself she was studying it, trying to absorb the fluffy content of a women’s lifestyle magazine. G! was touted as the pinnacle of gloss and glamour (according to Amara), and as much as Aless wanted to roll her eyes, the truth was that Aless needed all the help she could get. The prose here was so different from investigative journalism—less digging for the truth, less methodological, more digging for the perfect angle to catch the eye of a bored housewife or a busy exec who wanted to forget her day for a moment.

“There’s even been spottings of the old Robin. Same suit and everything. Social media’s kinda going crazy over it. Posting pictures or videos of him on patrol. It usually happens around the holidays - when their civilian selves come home for Christmas - but now it’s just random.” Aless shifted in her chair, closing the magazine and crossing her legs. She paused, too, as if waiting for an answer. 

“No, don’t worry, I’m not going to go chasing him again. I learned my lesson when he tossed me off a roof that one time. Did I ever tell you that? One night when I finally got him cornered, he grabbed me and tied one of those grappling guns on my ankle before throwing me off an apartment building. It was to scare me, and boy did it work. Decided that identity piece was not worth my life. I guess I should thank him though, because it redirected me to the piece I won the award with. Oh, yeah, I probably didn’t tell you that because I snuck out.” Leaning back in the chair just a bit, Aless let out a small yawn. She’d been talking for a while now, trying to pass the time before the doctor came back in and told her the same news. 

“I have to go shopping for my dress today. For the Wayne Wedding. I… I took your spot anyway, so I’m looking for something you’d wear. It’s a black-tie affair. I had to Google what that meant, to be honest. I’m thankful work is covering this expense, or I’d stick out like a sore thumb. I still might because I don’t know what stores to shop at. The girls at work, they’ve been really helpful in prepping me for this actually.” She took another long breath, the only thing responding to her was the beeping. 

“I’m supposed to focus on Damian Wayne. Do you remember him? This kid who bullied me in school? Well… it was a mutual bullying. We just never liked each other. You always told me to kill him with kindness, but I didn’t listen… Anyway, he did the same thing Bruce Wayne did at his age and left for a bit. He’d pop in sometimes, but I wouldn’t know because I was in Metropolis. Wouldn’t have wanted to say ‘ hi’ regardless. He’s… uh… Well, it’s being speculated that he’s back in Gotham to claim his rightful place on the Wayne throne. I have to find out if that’s true, but I don’t want to. If I could go the whole day without talking to him, it would be great for me, but not for my job.” 

The door slid open, and Aless looked up at the doctor, who entered the room with a soft smile. She stood to greet Shondra, her body stiff, instinctively mimicking a behavior she hadn’t even realized she’d adopted from her mother over the years. She glanced briefly at the still, lifeless form in the bed before meeting the doctor’s eyes.

“How are you doing today, Aless?” 

“I’m fine. And you, Doctor Kinsolving?” 

“I’m great, thanks. I’m just here to do a routine check-up on your mother.” Doctor Kinsolving’s hands were already washed and she had moved to the side of the bed, her experienced gaze lingering on the machines that hummed quietly in the background, keeping her mother alive. Aless knew the routine by heart by now—vital signs check, pressure points, turning her mother ever so carefully to prevent sores, the steady hum of the heart monitor.

She hadn’t expected to be so lost in thought, still tethered to that half-formed wish that maybe one day her mother would wake up and yell at her about how ridiculous she was being about work. Or complain that the hospitals never understood the importance of real fashion and chose the worst possible color for their gowns. Maybe… maybe even tell her she was wasting her potential by writing fluff pieces about Damian Wayne and not the real issues. 

That she should just finally quit her job at the Gazette. 

But her mother didn’t yell anymore. She didn’t complain or laugh or argue. There was just... silence. Almost ten years of it. 

"Is everything looking good?" Aless forced herself to ask, her voice a little tighter than she wanted it to be, but the question came out almost automatically. She was too tired for small talk—her heart felt heavy with the mix of frustration about her job and the life that had been stuck in suspended animation since that day Joker had taken her mother’s mind. Her father.

The doctor paused, checking a few monitors again before giving a soft nod. “Yes, everything’s stable. Her vitals are steady, with no major changes. We’re still waiting on a few results from the latest blood work. I’ll let you know if anything looks different. It’s just... time now, Aless. Time and patience.”

Aless nodded, though the words didn’t really mean anything to her anymore. How many times had she heard them in the last eight years? How many times had she nodded, pretending to hold on to the thread of hope that one day her mother would blink, open her eyes, and scold her for being so damn pessimistic about everything?

Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where a small plant sat—one of her mother’s favorites. A peace lily, the kind her mom had kept in every room. She’d hated them as a kid. Always too much care, always too finicky. But now, it was the one thing she kept alive in the house—something to tend to, a reminder of what was still there.

"How’s your work going?" Doctor Kinsolving asked, her voice calm but probing, a subtle shift in tone as she turned away from her mother’s bedside to address her. “I know you’ve been writing up a storm these days.”

Aless wanted to snap back, something sharp and biting, like she often did when people asked her the question that she couldn’t seem to answer for herself. But instead, she found herself shaking her head, exhaling a breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“It’s… complicated.” She glanced at the door for a second, feeling like she wanted to run from that question.“I’m… taking on a new project. I don’t necessarily like it as much as my other work. It’s not as meaningful.”

The doctor’s eyes softened. “I understand. I know your mom would want you to follow through with your work, regardless. Any type of writing is meaningful.” 

Aless nodded absently. She couldn’t help but glance back down at her mother, taking in her stillness. It was as though she were frozen in time, waiting for something that might never come. Sometimes she wondered if her mother could hear everything and if she said something truly outrageous, that she would jump out of bed and try to correct Aless. Aless' writing was not meaningful to her mother. She actively tried to keep her daughter from pursuing the same career. 

The thought came with a pang of sadness, and Aless quickly pushed it aside, swallowing the lump in her throat. Stop it, she scolded herself, blinking rapidly. 

"Writing's meaningful," Aless repeated quietly, almost to herself, nodding absently. The words didn't feel real, not when the thing she was writing about felt so... insignificant in the grand scheme of her life. It was hard to care about the stupid wedding when the person who had taught her what truly mattered was lying in that bed, unable to speak because of the biggest mystery Lily could never solve. Her mother would have scolded her for even thinking of writing fluff pieces on a spoiled billionaire's son. That it was a waste of her career and education.

Doctor Kinsolving let the silence stretch between them for a moment, before giving a small, understanding smile. "I know it's hard. Especially without your mother. She gives great advice." She paused, glancing back at the monitors before meeting Aless’s gaze. Aless didn’t miss the present tense in her words. She gives great advice . It hit her like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, all she could do was stare, trying to swallow the lump forming in her throat.

It was times like these that Aless was reminded just how many people her mother had meant something to. Kinsolving. Veronica Sinclair. Greg the old Gazette editor. Even Eddie, the florist who still sent flowers on her birthday, because that’s what Aless’ father had set up in his will. Bruce Wayne. Sometimes, Aless forgot that her mother wasn’t just her mom—wasn’t just the woman who made her tea when she couldn’t sleep, who proofread her essays, who always seemed to know exactly what to say. 

She was— is — an award-winning writer, a self-made woman, a friend to some of Gotham’s greatest and some of its most forgettable, and yet none of them had forgotten her . Her mother’s words had settled into people’s lives like ink on a page—permanent, impossible to erase. And it was only in moments like this, standing in a too-bright hospital room with Kinsolving saying she always gave the best advice, that Aless realized her mother wasn’t just hers . She belonged to Gotham, too.

"You’ll figure it out," the doctor continued, her voice gentle but firm like she believed it was a certainty.

"Yeah..." Aless managed, though her voice didn’t carry much conviction. She didn't know how to respond to things like that—things people said about her mother. Praising her, wishing she were here, telling her how amazing she was. What was she supposed to say? Yeah, me too! ? All Aless really wanted was to scream and ask, Why can’t she just be here? To just have one more moment when she didn’t feel like she was alone in all of this.

But there was no point in saying it. No one wanted to hear her raw grief. No one wanted to see the cracks in the armor she’d been forced to build for the past eight years. And that was what it felt like now—an armor. A suit of steel around her chest, around her heart, suffocating her slowly but steadily.

She glanced back at her mother. Still, quiet, lifeless. There was nothing else to say. Nothing to fix it. If there wasn’t a cure after eight years of waiting, there was never going to be one. Even with all the Wayne money they're funneling into R&D. Kinsolving looked at her with something softer than sympathy—something closer to understanding, though it was clear she couldn’t truly comprehend the depth of what Aless was going through. No one could.

"You don’t have to have it all figured out, Aless," Doctor Kinsolving said, her voice gentle. "It’s okay to not have all the answers. Sometimes, you just have to be and let the answers come on their own. Your mother would never want you to lose yourself while trying to hold on to everything."

Aless' chest tightened. Her mother had been the rock—the one who always knew what to do, what to say, how to keep moving forward. But now, that strength had been taken from her, and Aless had to carry it all on her own. And some days, it felt like she couldn’t do it anymore.

"Thanks, Doc," Aless murmured, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. "I guess... I guess I’ll just keep on trucking."

Doctor Kinsolving gave her a small, approving nod, though her gaze lingered on Aless for a beat longer than usual, a quiet understanding passing between them. She seemed to know there was more Aless wasn’t saying, but she also knew better than to push.

“I’ll check in again later,” the doctor said softly, but Aless barely heard her. Her eyes were on her mother again, her fingers gently stroking the back of her hand, wishing she could feel any kind of connection again, any sign that her mom was still here in some way.

When the door clicked shut, Aless remained, standing by her mother’s side in the quiet room. She didn’t feel like moving—didn’t feel like doing anything at all, really. Her thoughts, as always, wandered back to Damian Wayne. To Gotham. To her uncle. To the mess of her job and everything she was supposed to be doing. Sometimes she felt guilty about it all, because while she was complaining about simply living, her mother was in a coma, deprived of all the life she had left.

“I have to get going, Mom. I think I’m going to buy a red dress. Is that too much for a wedding?” The question went unanswered, but Aless could hear her mom’s voice in her head, You always want to be the second best looking person there besides the Bride. 

She sighed and left the room quietly, heading toward the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long moment, the weight of her exhaustion reflected back at her. Her eyes were puffy from tears she hadn’t even realized she’d shed. I hope it wasn’t in front of Kinsolving. She wiped her face, hoping to scrub away the evidence of the quiet grief she carried with her every day.

When she stepped back outside, she found herself standing on the sidewalk, her mind hazy as usual, her body moving on autopilot. The bus ride back was just another routine. She didn’t even have to think about where she was going. It was always the same—she’d ride the bus to her apartment, staring blankly out the window at the buildings that blurred past. Her hands gripped her purse tightly against her chest as she tried, unsuccessfully, to push the sadness down.

Every Tuesday and Thursday it was like this—derealization. The same feeling of floating in a sea of disassociation, trying not to let her mother’s stagnation drag her under. She couldn’t allow herself to break. Not for her mom, and not for the mess that was her own life. Life was something to cherish. She shouldn’t be taking it for granted. 

Getting off the bus six stops early, Aless needed a pick-me-up if she was going to shop for hours and hours at the mall. She was too picky for her own good and would second guess every selection until she found the dress that was ‘ the one’. There was even more pressure on picking something right for the job. Jenni told her that she needed to look enticing so that people would want to talk to her: No one is going to say no to talking to a beautiful woman. 

The coffee shop was half empty when she walked in, a bell ringing over the door to indicate a new customer. She’d been to this place before, and even if they had some tempting seasonal drinks, Aless would be getting the same drink she always got. 

“Hi! Welcome in. What can I get started for you?” 

“A chai, please.” She debated asking for oat milk until she saw the dollar upcharge. 

Damian’s head snapped up from the book he had borrowed from Todd’s shelves. That voice—it was unnervingly familiar, though he couldn’t immediately place it. His mind raced through a thousand possibilities. Damian was not one to forget faces or voices easily. His work in the League had taught him to memorize everything—names, places, patterns, even the smallest details. Once, he had even calculated the number of breaths it took Father to fall asleep as a future benchmark.

He glanced up toward the counter, his sharp eyes scanning the figure ordering. The woman was unremarkable—a brunette—but there was something about the way she stood, poised, deliberate. Damian’s gaze methodically moved upward, attempting to spot any sign, any clue that could help him identify her. The face was hidden behind the angle at which she stood.

He ran through a mental catalog: the League, the Justice League, the Titans, Young Justice, the Outsiders... But she didn’t match anyone from that world. There were no telltale signs of an encounter in any of those spheres. That meant she had to be someone from his civilian life. A connection from before . 

He didn’t have many of those. 

The coffee shop was noisy, the low hum of conversation blending with the sounds of milk steaming and espresso shots being pulled. His mind returned to high school. To Gotham Academy. A place he hadn’t thought about since he left the night of graduation. There were so many people in that foul place that he didn’t care to remember their names… or their voices. 

Damian would wait til she turned around to see if her features jogged his memory. 

Setting his book down, he watched as the barista hurried to make his latte. He watched, noting that the chai, that he paid six-twenty-five for, came from a plastic container. It made him wince. Maybe the one thing he would miss from his time as Demon’s Head was the way the servants made his tea. Properly. Standing, he readied to grab his cup from the counter. 

“Chai latte for D-” Both Damian and the brunette turned toward the counter at the same time, as if some invisible force had pulled them together. They reached for the latte simultaneously, hands brushing over the cup that was clearly marked with Damian’s name.

The brunette turned to look up at him, looking like she was about to apologize until their eyes locked. The moment stretched on, the past and present colliding. They both recognized each other at once. Neither of them spoke a word. 

Aless nearly swore aloud. Her fingers gripped the chai latte tightly, her jaw clenched, but the moment her hand brushed against his, she jerked it back as if he had burned her. Seeing him here, in this ordinary place, so far removed from Gotham Academy or the screen of Jane’s computer, felt like a cruel twist of fate. Like the universe was playing the most fucking ridiculous prank on her. And of course, on a day when she had to visit her mother. When her eyes were still swollen.

Damian Wayne, in the flesh, standing right in front of her like some twisted echo from her past. He looked different—when the fuck did he get so tall—but those familiar sharp jade eyes were still there. Still so damn confident, she thought bitterly. Like he knows everything.

When their eyes locked, Aless felt her stomach tighten. The memories flooded back—the late-night study sessions, the constant attempts to outdo him, to outsmart him in every way. She remembered their daily exchanges, sharp and biting, each word designed to find a weakness, to pierce through the other’s armor. He always knew exactly where to hit, she thought bitterly. She’d never fully succeeded—not entirely—but it had always been so close, so painfully close. They had been too alike, both driven by the same relentless need to prove themselves the best, to never back down, to never show a crack in their armor.

And now, standing here, face-to-face with him once again, it was like those old feelings were rising back to the surface. That anger, that frustration. But something else too. A flicker of… what? Was it nostalgia? Regret? Or was it just the reminder that, no matter how much they had tried to outdo each other, they had always been too damn similar?

The urge to scream at him—like she used to—flickered in Alessandra’s mind, as familiar as it was painful. She remembered it being cathartic in those days. A girl so filled with anger, so consumed by grief over the passing of her father. Fighting with Damian had always provided some kind of release, even if his biting words sometimes made the pain worse. There was something satisfying in the raw, brutal exchanges, the way it let her unload everything that she had buried deep inside. He had become the convenient target for all the guilt she carried—the guilt of surviving when her parents hadn’t.

Why he had suddenly shown up again, after all these years, when she had barely begun to make sense of her life? Do you have any idea what this is doing to me? she wanted to scream. I got demoted, and now I have to write about you—of all people!

The words felt like they were choking her, an unspoken frustration simmering beneath the surface. She couldn’t even get started on the damn article. Just thinking about it made her freeze up. How is it that you can just show up, barely do anything, and still be winning again? I sit there, she thought bitterly, just staring at an empty page, completely paralyzed by the thought of having to write about you.

But Alessandra was too emotionally exhausted from the day to do any of that. 

Damian had a similar reaction upon seeing his childhood… rival—a sudden jolt of recognition, followed by an immediate flicker of annoyance. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it felt like no time had passed. It was as if he had been thrust back into those endless days at Gotham Academy, always competing, always trying to one-up each other. Those moments would often resurface in his mind during meditation when he reflected on his times of lost control—the anger that had flared up inside him and spilled out toward the easiest targets. His siblings. His father. His servants. Her. 

Alessandra had always been a formidable rival, and he had always known he was better. Whether it was academics, athletics, or any one of their constant challenges in Arts Club, Damian had consistently found a way to come out on top. He had always been smug about it, of course. He had the resources, the intellect, the skills—everything to ensure he bested her. He had never once questioned that.

But now, seeing her again after all these years after all but forgetting about her, something felt… off.

It wasn’t just the fact that she was here - in Gotham specifically because Damian remembered she’d gotten a full ride to Metropolis -  standing across from him. It was the sharp, biting way they used to spar—those moments where they both tried to tear each other down, finding whatever weaknesses they could. He could still hear her harsh words, the way she always tried so hard to find a way to one-up him.

Her hair was… brunette now. The reason he didn’t recognize her at first. In high school, her hair had been a defiant shade of blue—so vibrant, so loud—and he had made fun of it relentlessly. Troll. Smurf. Crayon. He smirked at the memory, the corner of his mouth quirking up involuntarily. She had never let him know just how much his teasing bother her, always meeting him with an eye-roll or a sharper comeback. Pipsqueak. Daddy’s Money. Asshole. But back then, he had found it all too easy to brush them off and get under her skin.

Alessa saw the smirk, and a glare instantly crossed her face. She could almost see the memories replaying in his mind.

As he studied her now, something in Damian shifted—a small, almost imperceptible softening. The rivalry they had once shared, so fierce and all-consuming, suddenly felt distant, almost insignificant in comparison to the life he had built for himself. It hadn’t been everything, despite how it had seemed at the time. Since joining the League and beginning his path toward true self-mastery, his perspective has changed. His struggles with control, and his grappling with the darker aspects of his nature, had all become part of his personal evolution. In the quiet moments of reflection, he’d come to realize that their rivalry—his whole time in the education system he once scorned—had been one of the few things that made him feel more... human .

Still, the old Damian lingered just beneath the surface. It made sense—he had only just returned to Gotham, and the weight of everything he had buried in his mind to survive his time as the Demon’s Head was hitting him all at once. He couldn’t fully push away that smugness, that quiet pride in knowing he had always been the one ahead, the one who had outshined her at every turn. She had always been one step behind, constantly trying—and failing—to catch up. But now, there was something else. Something that hadn’t been there before. A quiet understanding that maybe, in the end, they hadn’t been all that different. Both of them locked in a race to nowhere, each driven by an unrelenting need to prove themselves, but ultimately chasing after something they couldn’t quite name.

What have you done since I left? Did you become a journalist like you wanted to? That thought crept into his mind, uninvited. Some part of him was curious, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Damian definitely wasn't what he wanted to be when he was eighteen.  Perhaps, she had finally bested him. 

“Alessandra.” Damian didn’t know why he even bothered to start a conversation. Her body language was practically screaming for him to leave her alone—shoulders stiff, posture rigid, eyes avoiding his. Everything about her said she wanted to run far, far away from him. But there was something about her, something in the tension between them, that made him want to push past it, if only for a moment.

Perhaps it was the strange pull of curiosity, the same force that had always seemed to draw them together at Gotham Academy, pulling them into each other’s orbit no matter how hard they tried to avoid it. Or maybe it was just the inexplicable sense that he needed to acknowledge her—after all, they had been more than just classmates once. Alessandra had forced him to confront parts of himself he didn’t want to back then—made him feel more human in ways he resented at the time. But now, looking at her, it felt like exactly what he needed. He needed to feel less like the Demon’s Head he was never meant to be and more like the Robin he was struggling to reclaim.

Aless took a slow breath, trying to ground herself, but the tension remained. The weight of their history, of the rivalry, of the job she hated—it all pressed in on her. All because of a chai latte. It was time to leave. 

“Wayne,” she said, her tone indicating her intention. Naive of her to assume Damian would let her leave that easily, especially after she’d given him an acknowledgement that she still knew who he was. 

“I believed you to be in Metropolis.” Oh. He wanted to engage in a civil conversation? Alessa had expected him to insult her like he always did before. This sudden change caught her off guard, making her take a second, longer look at him. Tall— that was still the first thing that came to mind. She had to crane her neck to meet the eyes of the boy who used to be the same height she was.

He had grown, and something about that upset her. His face, once soft and youthful, had transformed—his jawline more defined, his shoulders broader, his features more angular and mature. His voice, too, had changed. It was softer now, but no less commanding. The boyishness that once reminded her of a whiny, irritating Bruce Wayne clone seemed to have faded, replaced by something far more imposing. The playful spark in his eyes was gone, replaced by a guarded intensity, something she hadn't seen in him before.

“Metropolis?” she repeated, her voice colder than she intended. It shocked her too that he’d kept tabs on her. Aless had no idea where he fucked off too, and frankly didn’t care. Sucks that it’s my job to care now. “I came back to Gotham this year.”

Damian’s gaze swept over Alessandra again too, noting how much and how little she had changed. Her face, though still familiar, was sharper now—her features more refined, with high cheekbones and a jawline that spoke of maturity. The once angry, youthful “ I hate the world” expression had been replaced by one that carried a weight, an air of someone who had seen more than she let on. Damian could only guess it had something to do with her parents, whose condition he hadn’t thought of since he dragged her father’s lifeless form into Gotham General’s Emergency Room. 

He could still see it in her eyes—the lingering sadness. It was faint, nearly concealed behind a carefully crafted mask, but unmistakable. It reminded him of the girl he’d once found crying in a corner on graduation day, knowing that no one had come for her. That was one of the only times young Damian had empathy for his rival. That sadness, it seemed, had never truly faded with time.

"Why did you return to Gotham?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It was laughable. Aless should be asking him that question. The one that all of Gotham apparently wanted to know. Instead, her flight mode was engaged and she was serious about making an exit the moment her drink was set down on the counter. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets to hide the impatient twitch in her fingers.

Hurry up with the drink! How long does it take for you to pour milk and the chai base together? I could’ve made it myself in this time.

She hadn’t expected him to push, hadn’t expected him to try to drag this out. She had already made up her mind to leave—now, with every word from him, it felt like she was being slowly pulled back into a conversation she hadn’t mentally prepared for.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything resembling this… need to continue a conversation. Not since the League, not since Gotham, and certainly not with someone from his past. The urge to just let her walk away, to let the interaction die in that cold, unsaid silence like he normally would want, fought with something else inside him—something he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that childish need to see if he was better off than her (even though he doubted that was the case currently). 

"Work," she said, trying to keep the edge of frustration out of her voice. 

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a tight line as he received an answer he didn’t want. It was short. It held the tone of ‘Can you fuck off?’ He wasn’t used to people talking to him like this. It annoyed him. “Work? What do you do now? Are you a journalist?” he asked, his tone casual but still probing.

Aless was taken aback by the question. For a moment, she just stared at him, completely thrown off. She hadn’t expected Damian Wayne—of all people—to actually care about her life, let alone remember that she had once wanted to be a journalist. She braced herself, waiting for the familiar sting, the cutting remark that would follow like it always had. With prose like that, no one would ever waste their time reading your work , he once said to him during their shared creative writing class. But it didn’t come.

Damian was just... asking? 

“Chai latte for Alice ?” Hallelujah! I don’t even care that they got my name wrong this time. She grabbed the drink, hot in her hands, and turned again quickly. Her shoulder was now parallel with his body, ready to run through the exit door and back onto Gotham’s streets. Jeez, how was she supposed to have the energy to shop after this? 

 “Goodbye, Damian,” she said, her tone almost weary, though still a bit defensive. She prayed and prayed that he wouldn’t try to stop her again, and he didn’t. He watched as she walked out of the cafe, leaving his question unanswered. 

Damian. It kept repeating in his head. 

Later that night, he fed into his curiosity, using the Bat Computer to pull up any information on Alessandra Vreeland. Right below her profile of her at Gotham Gazette , was a link to her college profile at Metropolis University. He decided to start there: year one of his departure. 

She had gone on to attend Metropolis University, majoring in journalism, and had become co-EIC of the student paper alongside someone named Jay Nakamura. Why does that name sound familiar? Damian thought. 

The search results offered more than just a quick college biography. Damian found links to several articles she had written. Headlines like "The Shadow Network: Uncovering Gotham's Hidden Criminals" and "Metropolis's Dirty Secrets: How Corporate Greed is Killing the Planet" grabbed his attention. He clicked through one article titled "Toxic Ties: The Hidden Hands Behind Gotham's Wealthy Elite" and quickly skimmed through it. Aless had always had a knack for getting to the heart of a story, but this... this was something else.

Petty rivalries or academic competition no longer clouded Damian’s eyes to her talent. Aless’ articles went deep—too deep for many to be comfortable. She had managed to dig into the corporate underworld, uncovering the shady dealings that linked Gotham and Metropolis to organized crime, climate destruction, and even corruption within the political elite. Some of her work was scathing, pulling apart the veil that hid some of the richest and most powerful people in the world.

One article, "The Green Mask: How Metropolis' Corporate Giants Are Fueling Climate Change While Selling 'Eco-Friendly' Products" was damning. It detailed a scandal involving some of the top companies in the city—big names with powerful investors. Damian couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for the work she’d done. The girl who had once challenged him in every class was now laying bare the lies and corruption in ways that were—dare he admit it— impressive .

Damian’s gaze drifted to a press release further down the page: Alessandra Vreeland Wins ACP Pacemaker Award for Reporter of the Year . He couldn’t suppress the smirk that tugged at his lips. Of course, she’d won awards. Her writing had always been sharp—he just could never admit it back in high school. Instead, he had made it a point to tell her how bad her writing was. How it shocked him that her mother was a writer, considering Alessandra seemed to have inherited none of those talents.

As Damian dug deeper, he found something else. Clicking through to the Gazette’s website, he came across several more recent articles by Aless, all focused on Gotham’s wealthiest and most influential figures. Titles like "The Price of Power: How Gotham’s Elite Manipulate the System to Keep Control" and "A City Built on Blood: The Dark Ties of Gotham’s Power Brokers" were the kinds of exposes that could bring real consequences. These weren’t just stories—they were seismic tremors shaking the foundations of Gotham’s wealthiest.

He read through the first article, noting the precise language Aless used. Every accusation was meticulously backed up with evidence and every claim was supported by sources. Damian found himself nodding in agreement, impressed by how well-crafted it was. But then, he noticed something strange. As he moved to the next article, he saw something that made him pause.

The editor’s notes. They were redacting certain statements—sections where Aless had originally named names, where her sources had been less anonymous than they should’ve been. He clicked on the notes, and his brow furrowed as he read: “Due to legal concerns, these portions of the story have been removed.”

Damian's mind began to race. Everything she’d written... it was true. So why redact it? The answer clicked in place quickly: money . Of course. The people Aless had been writing about—the city’s elite—had the resources to bury the truth. If they had connections to the Gazette, they could easily influence the editorial decisions. The paper was likely under pressure, either from lawsuits or from powerful financial interests threatening to pull support.

His fingers moved quickly, tracking down more details. There, buried in a newer article, was a story about her uncle, a man who, he remembered, always tried to rival Bruce. 

“Vreeland Oil’s CEO: The Controversial Takeover” —it was an in-depth investigation into how Aless’s uncle had secured control of her father’s company after his death, or rather, it once was. At the end of the article short article filled with redacted information, Damian read: “Due to legal concerns, portions of the story have been removed. However, the author wishes to voice her express disapproval to the Editor-in-Chief: This is my family’s story. I, myself, stand as the truth to it all. I won’t stop until the truth comes to light, no matter the cost.” Damian clicked off the article, her Gazette profile page now on the screen, and leaned back, deep in thought. Alessandra Vreeland had grown into something far more than the rival he remembered.

“I come in here to tell you to stop working at this hour, just to find you staring at a picture of a girl?” Tim’s voice broke through his thoughts. “I know the League was probably a meat fest, but come on. You’re not a horny teenager anymore. Use your phone to watch porn, dude, not the computer.” Damian’s eyes flicked up at him, his expression unreadable. He felt a flicker of annoyance that was normal around Tim but quickly squashed it. 

“It’s not like that.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Then what is it?”

Damian didn’t respond immediately. He glanced back at the screen, his mind still on Alessandra. The girl he used to spar with back in high school. The girl who, after the Joker’s attack, had become obsessed with unmasking Gotham’s heroes and villains alike. The girl who hated both Damian Wayne and Robin. 

“I ran into her today,” Damian said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “We went to school together. We were… rivals.”

Tim smirked, crossing his arms, not believing that. “So what, you were just curious to see what she’s up to now?”

Damian glared at him, the teasing tone in Tim’s voice rubbing him the wrong way. But instead of lashing out, he continued. “Do you remember, after the Joker’s toxin attack, the girl who was stalking our patrol lanes trying to catch Robin?”

Tim’s eyes widened slightly, as the pieces started clicking together. He leaned in closer to the screen, his gaze sharp. “Wait, you’re telling me she—Alessandra Vreeland—is the girl who was chasing us around the city? The blue-haired one?” His voice was incredulous. “The one always trying to snap photos of us? Didn’t you throw her off a roof once?”

Damian nodded slowly, eyes focused on the screen, trying to avoid Tim’s gaze. He was confident in his ability to lie - to omit the truth - but he also knew Tim was too perceptive. “Yes, that’s her.”

“Damn. So now, she's a reporter. That’s a pretty big leap. She works at the Gazette? ”

Tim leaned forward, clicking through all the tabs Damian had opened. “In high school, she was always pushing to expose things, even when no one wanted to listen. She utilized the newspaper to uncover the old principal’s embezzlement of scholarship funds. But now...” He trailed off, fingers hovering over the mouse. “Now, she’s going after Gotham’s elite, digging into their dirty secrets. She’s got a talent for detective work.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So, she always had a way with words, huh?” Again, Damian had to pretend he didn’t hear what Tim’s tone was hinting at. 

“She was… adequate.” 

Tim smirked. “Sounds like you were just bitter.”

Damian shot him a look. “Sounds like you want to be tazed .”

That comment didn’t faze him; Tim kept scrolling through the articles. “I didn’t expect her to be this... involved. She made waves in Metropolis, and now in Gotham. Huh, the Lois Lane Fellowship. Impressive. ” Damian leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting off. He had just decided that Tim’s interest in this situation was enough to make him lose his own. Or at least signal to Tim that. 

“So, again, I ask: You’re deep diving into this beautiful, accomplished woman’s life just because you’re curious where your high school rival ended up? Just reminiscing about the good ol' days of dodging her camera on rooftops? Doesn’t sound like something Damian Wayne would care about. ” 

Damian’s lips thinned. He was going to taze Tim. “I didn’t say I was reminiscing . She refused to answer my question about her job at the cafe, so I took matters into my own hands. I’m sure that will be our last time meeting.” He gestured vaguely at the screen, his eyes lingering on her photo again before Tim quickly moved to the next tab and hummed at Damian’s non-answer. 

“And if I told you there’s an Alessandra Vreeland on the guestlist for the wedding next week, now that you got the answers about her job, you wouldn’t take the chance to talk to her again? Hypothetically speaking.” Tim sing-songed, not buying the nonchalance. 

Damian’s hand stilled on the armrest. For a moment, he didn’t respond. The idea was absurd, of course. He had no reason to speak to her again. None. What was buried should stay buried. What was at rest should remain undisturbed. And yet... why did the thought of seeing her again spark that faint, unwelcome knot of excitement in his chest? The same knot he’d felt back in school when she’d round the corner by her locker—always conveniently next to his; V and W— ready for whatever fight they would get into that day

“I’m not interested,” Damian said flatly. Too flatly. His inner voice bristled at the lie, but he buried it beneath years of practiced indifference. Without waiting for a response, he stood and strode toward the door, leaving Tim behind to shut down the computer.

“Sure you aren’t, big guy,” Tim muttered under his breath, creating a folder on the computer for Alessandra. Damian would need it for later.

Chapter Text

They all knew why they were here. Bruce had spent the better part of a week wrestling with the decision to finally call this meeting, barely talking to any of them, and now, just two days before his wedding, he had decided the time was right. It was the obvious reason he had gathered them all—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, and Duke—here in the study.

The room, always the unspoken heart of Wayne Manor, felt heavier tonight like the air itself braced for the weight of what was to come. Everyone had seen this conversation looming on the horizon, even if no one wanted to be the one to force it. Bruce, in his trademark way, had waited for the moment when they were all together, under one roof, the excuse of wedding preparations providing the perfect opportunity.

Damian sat near the window, where the shadows clung to him like a second skin. He stretched his legs out lazily, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone as he observed his father rise to his full height in the center of the room. Though the years had tempered Bruce’s movements with age, the sheer gravity of his presence remained. His piercing gaze swept over each of them, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the tension like a blade. He was about to speak the words they had all been expecting—and some dreading.

Not Damian. 

“You’ve all known this day was coming,” he began, his tone quieter than usual but no less commanding. “I’ve worn the cowl longer than anyone thought I could. Longer than I should have.”

He paused, his gaze drifting to the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne on the wall. “I became Batman because Gotham needed something more than a man. It needed a symbol. Something incorruptible, something eternal. For a long time, I believed that meant I could never stop. That Batman couldn’t stop.”

His voice tightened, and for a moment, the years seemed to catch up with him. “But I’m not eternal. I’m human. But Batman isn’t. And as much as I’ve tried to fight it, time wins every battle. My body isn’t what it used to be. My reflexes aren’t what they were. And Gotham… Gotham doesn’t need a broken man trying to pretend he’s still in his prime.”

The room remained silent, each of his sons hanging on his every word. Even Jason, who rarely took anything seriously, looked uncharacteristically somber.

“I’ve fought for this city my entire life,” Bruce continued, his tone softening. “I’ve given it everything I have—my time, my body, my soul. But Batman has always been more than just me. It was never meant to end with me. It’s a legacy. A responsibility. And it’s time to pass that responsibility on to someone who can carry it forward.”

He turned, his gaze sweeping over each of them. “This isn’t just about protecting Gotham. It’s about what Batman represents. Hope. Justice. The idea that no matter how dark the night gets, there’s always someone willing to stand in the shadows and fight for what’s right.”

Bruce’s voice steadied, the weight of his words settling over the room like a heavy fog. “You’ve all stood beside me, fought with me, and made sacrifices for this mission. Each of you has carried the mantle in your own way, whether you realized it or not. But the cowl... the mantle of Batman... it has to belong to one of you now.”

He let the silence linger, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. “This isn’t a decision I make lightly, and I know it’s not one you’ll take lightly either. But Gotham needs Batman. And I trust that one of you will rise to the challenge—not for me, but for this city and what it stands for.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “You’ve all shown me, time and time again, that you understand what it means to protect Gotham in ways I never could.”

He took a step closer to the center of the room, his presence somehow growing heavier. “I’ve spent decades blinded by the mission. The anger, the guilt, the weight of it all—it consumed me. It made me think that there was only one way to fight this war, only one path forward. But you’ve all proven me wrong.”

Bruce’s voice deepened, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through his usual stoicism. “Dick, you’ve carried this mantle before. You didn’t just wear the cowl; you redefined it. You showed Gotham—and me—that Batman could inspire hope, not just fear. You led with compassion, with light, in a way I never could.”

He turned to Jason, who looked away but didn’t interrupt. “Jason, you taught me that even in the face of unimaginable pain, redemption is possible. Your path hasn’t been easy—God knows, it hasn’t been easy—but you found a way to turn your scars into something more. You remind me that Batman isn’t just about justice; it’s about humanity.”

Next, his eyes rested on Tim. “Tim, you’ve always been the smartest of us all. Your mind, your strategy, your ability to see ten steps ahead—it’s what kept Gotham standing in some of its darkest hours. You’ve proven that the mantle isn’t just about strength or agility; it’s about intellect, about outsmarting the chaos that threatens to consume this city. You’ve proved that it’s also a job that cannot be done alone.”

Then, Bruce’s gaze shifted to Duke, standing quietly in the corner. “Duke, you’re the future of what this family can be. You see Gotham not as a battlefield but as a community, a place worth saving not just from crime but from despair. You remind us all that the mission isn’t just about fighting—it’s about healing.”

Finally, Bruce turned to Damian, his youngest. For a moment, his voice softened further. “And you, Damian. You’ve carried a weight that no child ever should have, yet you’ve risen above it. You’ve shown me that destiny isn’t something we’re bound to—it’s something we choose. Your strength, your determination, your ability to stand unshaken in the face of anything… it’s more than I ever had at your age. More than I could have imagined.”

Bruce’s tone grew more resolute as he addressed them all again. “Each of you has taken what I built and made it better. You’ve challenged me and pushed me to see beyond my own flaws, my own failings. And now, I trust you to make this decision. Not because I’m stepping aside, but because you’ve proven to me that you can carry this burden. Perhaps better than I ever did.”

He let out a slow breath, the weight of his words filling the room. “The mantle of Batman was never meant to be mine alone. It’s always been bigger than one man. And now, it’s time for one of you to decide how to carry it forward.”

Looking at them one last time, his expression was unreadable but unmistakably weighted with the gravity of what he’d just said. “I’ll leave the room for now. You need to discuss this among yourselves. Whoever takes this on—it has to be your choice.”

And with that, Bruce turned, his steps heavy but deliberate, and left the room as quickly as he came in, leaving his sons to grapple with the decision he’d laid before them. The room fell into a charged silence after Bruce’s departure, the echo of his words lingering like a shadow in the study. The mantle of Batman—a responsibility each of them had carried in some way, but never permanently—now lay between them like an unspoken challenge.

Dick leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he rubbed the back of his neck. Damian thought he saw the distinct shine of tears in the corner of his eyes. Dick was always emotional. Too emotional for Damian. For Batman. “Well... we all knew this was coming,” he said, his tone carefully neutral, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed him. “Doesn’t make it any easier to hear.”

Jason snorted from his spot against the far wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Yeah, well, doesn’t exactly scream ‘wedding vibes,’ does it?” His voice carried a sharp edge, but there was no real venom in it. “Can’t believe he dropped this two days before tying the knot.”

Tim, perched on the arm of a chair, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He’s been wrestling with this for years. You could see it every time he put on the suit. It’s not a question of if he’d step down—it’s a question of who he thinks can fill those boots.”

“And that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Jason shot back, his eyes flicking between his brothers. “Who’s ready to give up their life to take it all on? ‘Cause that’s what it is—a life sentence.”

Duke, standing quietly near the bookshelf, finally spoke up. “It’s not just about giving up your life. It’s about dedicating it to something bigger. And whoever takes it on... they have to be ready to carry that weight. Gotham doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

Jason laughed dryly. “Gotham doesn’t forgive anythin g.”

A heavy silence fell over them again, each man lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Dick broke it, his voice low but steady. “We can’t pretend this isn’t our responsibility. He’s right—it has to be one of us. And as the oldest...” He trailed off, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “I guess that means it should be me.”

Damian had seen it coming before Dick even opened his mouth. He knew his brother—better than he let on, better than he ever admitted. It was in the way Dick leaned forward in his chair, the way his shoulders tensed as if bracing for the inevitable. Dick Grayson would always try to take the weight of the world onto his own shoulders. It was who he was, who he’d always been.

Damian’s mind flickered back to a memory, one he hadn’t thought about in years. It was that night in the car, just the two of them when Dick was pretending to be Batman. Damian had been young, brash, and bitter, lashing out at the new world he was thrown into—and at Dick for daring to wear his father’s cowl. But even then, even when his anger had blinded him, he saw the truth in Dick’s eyes. The last thing I want is to be wearing this damn thing. Dick wore the mantle because he had to. Because someone needed to in the wake of Bruce’s “death.” He carried it like a shield for all of them, even as it chipped away at him.

But Nightwing had always been better than Batman. 

That memory burned in Damian’s mind now as he watched Dick prepare to do it all over again. Starting a family, building a life with Barbara—it was everything Dick deserved. He had people to care for, people who cared for him. He had a future. Damian wouldn’t let him sacrifice that future for a burden he didn’t truly want.

Damian knew what it felt like to be forced into a life you never asked for. For the past five years, he had been the Demon’s Head, a title he’d only accepted to save the League of Assassins from his mother’s chaos. He had taken on a crown of shadows, bearing the weight of a thousand lives, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice. And while he had risen to the occasion, it had cost him everything—his freedom, his sense of self, his connection to the family that had given him hope. 

Now, as he stood in the study, he saw the same crossroads before him. But this time, it wasn’t his father or his mother dictating his path. This time, it was his choice. And for Damian, the choice was obvious. He had no wife, no other, no attachments that would be put at risk. His family had already given so much for him—sacrificed time, trust, and safety to help him become something more than his upbringing. It was time to repay them. It was time for him to carry the weight so they wouldn’t have to.

It wasn’t just about the mantle of Batman; it was about protecting his family in every way that mattered. They deserved lives outside the shadow of the cowl. Damian had lived in shadows his entire life. If someone had to sacrifice, if someone had to step into the role of Gotham’s protector, it would be him. It had to be him.

Everyone turned to look at Dick besides Damian, surprise flickering across some faces, though not shock. Jason raised an eyebrow, Tim frowned slightly, and Duke’s expression remained unreadable. Damian, however, stayed perfectly still in the shadows, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

“Dick,” Tim said carefully. “You and Barbara are about to start a family. Taking on the cowl would mean sacrificing that future. Don’t do this just because of your savior complex.”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “But I’ve worn it before. I’ve led the team. If anyone knows what it means to be Batman, it’s me.”

Jason scoffed. “You’re not wrong, but that doesn’t mean you should do it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to live outside of his shadow. Now you’re just going to step right back into it?”

Dick turned to him, his voice firm. “It’s not about stepping into his shadow. It’s about doing what’s right for Gotham.”

“But what’s right for you ?” Jason’s voice was sharp, challenging, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Dick. “You all have always done it his way. Hell, look at him—he just waltzed in here, dropped his little bombshell, and then left like it was nothing. Because he knows you’ll fall in line. You’ll be obedient to him. Someone’s gonna rush to fill that damn spot, like it’s some kind of duty, all because he’s been indoctrinating you since day one." He gestured toward the others, his tone rising. “Well, not me. I’ve never been a pawn in his game. I’m not giving up Red Hood, my team, or my life to go play dress-up in the cowl, pretending to be the saint Gotham needs. I’m not about to step back into that cage for him.”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed, his jaw tight as he stared at the group. "So yeah, maybe you guys will fight for it, take on the mantle because he wants you to. But I’m not doing it because I don’t want to. Not when I have a life that’s mine to live— my choices, my rules. Hell, me and Artemis are about to get serious. I’m not gonna let him ruin my life again."

Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair as he perched on the edge of a chair. “Jason’s got a point—well, maybe not all of it, but some of it,” he admitted reluctantly. “Just because Bruce handed this to us doesn’t mean we have to play by his rules. I mean, look at us. We’ve all carved out our own spaces in this... family, in Gotham. We’re not just his soldiers anymore.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to Dick. “And, Dick, you don’t have to do this just because it seems like you’re the logical choice. You’ve done enough for all of us. Hell, you were Batman when we needed you to be. But you don’t have to carry that weight forever.”

Duke, standing by the bookshelf, crossed his arms and nodded in agreement. “Tim’s right. Bruce might’ve built this whole thing, but we’re not him. We don’t have to think like him or follow his plan to the letter. And Dick... you’ve got Barbara, you’ve got a future. Don’t throw that away because you feel like it’s your responsibility. You don’t have to be the one to fill the hole he left behind.”

Dick opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Tim cut him off.

“I’ve already been Red Robin, worked in the shadows, played detective for years. I’m fine with that. But the cowl? That’s a whole other level. It’s not me either. I’ve taken on Bruce’s civilian burden of CEO, and honestly, that’s more than enough of a headache to deal with. Plus...” He hesitated, his tone softening as he glanced at his hands. “Kon and I have talked about what comes next for us. Jon’s already got the Superman thing handled, and Kon can only mentor him so much before Jon outgrows the training wheels. We’ve been thinking about stepping back—retiring, maybe. Not completely, but enough to focus on... life. Ours. Together.”

“Who knew you were such a sap?” Jason pat him on the back as his face reddened, probably saying all of that out loud for the first time. Damian’s initial instinct to bristle at Tim’s words softened as he processed them. It wasn’t a weakness—he could see that now (after years of working on it). It was honesty. Tim wasn’t shirking the responsibility out of fear or laziness. He had carved out a life for himself beyond the shadows, a life where he could afford to make decisions that weren’t dictated by the mission.

His gaze flicked to Tim briefly, his expression unreadable but his thoughts measured. He’s earned this, Damian thought. Tim’s life as Robin had almost ruined him. They all have, in their own ways. What have I earned? 

Duke chuckled softly, though his tone was serious. “I’m not saying the cowl doesn’t matter, but I know it’s not for me. At least not right now. I work best out in the open, in the light. Gotham needs more than just a shadow on the rooftops. It needs people like me too. I’m fine with where I am on the team, but whoever becomes Batman, I have their back.”

Damian’s fingers tapped against the armrest, the soft sound barely audible but filled with tension. His gaze swept the room, catching each of his brothers’ faces, lingering a little longer on Dick who hadn’t morphed into a smile yet. They were all refusing—finding power in that—but not one of them had looked at him. Not one of them had asked. He was trying to pretend it didn’t anger him. 

“Also, why didn’t he ask any of the girls? Come on! Cass as Batman?... Woman? Hell, Batperson. The Bat! ” Jason was doing what he always did. The comic relief. The one who balanced out the seriousness of the room with a witty remark. He always knew how to break the silence with a witty remark, a comic relief that kept everyone from getting too heavy. But Damian wasn’t in the mood for jokes, especially not now.

“Steph as Batman would be terrible. Don’t even give her the option, she might take it for the bit.” 

It wasn’t a joke to him. It wasn’t something to be thrown around casually. He had given up everything for this. His title as Demon’s Head. His place in the world that raise him. He had made sacrifices none of them could truly understand, and here they were, tossing the mantle back and forth, pretending like it didn’t matter. Pretending like Damian wasn’t the obvious choice to doom to the damnation of the cowl. He wanted it. He wanted to do it. Couldn’t they see that?

“What about Kate? She’s pretty much already Batman.” 

His patience, always razor-thin, was wearing out. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, knuckles turning white as the frustration bubbled beneath his calm exterior. For the first time in a while, he let his insecurities fuel his actions. 

Why not him? Never him.

“Enough.”

The single word silenced the room instantly. Jason’s smirk faded, and all eyes turned toward Damian. He rose from his seat with deliberate precision, his posture rigid but his expression unreadable. He could tell what they were all thinking in their minds. How much he’d grown. How tall he was. How he was the Demon’s Head. Damian wanted to scrub that name off the face of the Earth. 

“I’m taking the cowl,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

The room seemed to freeze, the shock settling over each of his brothers in waves. Even Jason, always quick with a retort, seemed at a loss for words. Damian’s chest rose and fell with controlled breaths as he stood there, unwavering, daring anyone to challenge him. Damian’s declaration wasn’t just unexpected—it was a bombshell. Tim’s face hardened into something unreadable, while Duke stood there, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion.

“What?” Duke asked, his disbelief clear.

“You?” Tim added his tone a mix of confusion and shock.

“Are you serious?” Jason asked, his brows knitting together.

Dick only stared at him, eyes wide, probably not trusting himself to verbalize anything. He'd seen this coming. He'd brainstormed with Babs on how to stop Damian from doing this. But, as soon as Dick heard those words exit from his youngest brother's mouth, all of that preparation seemed to shoot out the window. 

Damian’s posture was impossibly straight, his voice steady as he met their gazes one by one. “I’ve spent my entire life being groomed to lead. To fight. To take on burdens no one else could. The League of Assassins, the shadows, the darkness—it was my inheritance. Now, the cowl is.” 

“You? You want to be Batman?” Jason’s brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “And what about the League? Isn’t that exactly what Ra’s wanted for Bruce? To be both the Demon’s Head and the Batman.”

The question struck a nerve, and Damian’s fists clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened, and his gaze burned as he glared at Jason. “Don’t you dare compare me to my grandfather, Todd,” Damian hissed, his voice low and simmering with fury.

“Come on , Damian,” Jason continued, raising his hands defensively. “You stepping in as Batman when you’ve been running the League for five years? It sounds like the same damn playbook.”

Tim, ever the tactician, interjected with a more measured tone. “Jason has a point. You’ve been the Demon’s Head, Damian. That’s why we all didn’t want to push you to accept the cowl. You already have that responsibility. And, anyway, that’s... a lot of power for one person. Even if you’re serious about the cowl, can we trust that the League won’t still have its claws in you? It’s not just about Gotham. It’s about—”

“You think I wanted to be associated with the League? Do you think I asked to become the Demon’s Head? Who am I fooling? Of course , that’s what you all think. That I took the title out of some hunger for power I couldn’t get while being Robin. No ,” Damian’s voice sharpened, his fists clenching at his sides, “I took on that title to save you all from my mother—to stop her from tearing the League apart and bringing the whole damn world down with it!” His words came faster now, raw emotion barely held in check, his hands shaking with the weight of everything he had carried. 

“And for what?” He continued, his tone bitter now. “For years, I sacrificed everything. My freedom, my choices, my identity—all of it—for a legacy I never wanted. I rebuilt the League into something better, something that wouldn’t perpetuate Ra’s madness. And when I finally made it what it could have been—when I did what none of you could even comprehend—I gave it up. I walked away.”

Damian’s voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. “I am banned from the League. They exiled me the moment I renounced the title of Demon’s Head. My mother has put a kill order on for me. They don’t want me, and I don’t want them. So don’t sit there and act like I’m Ra’s al Ghul’s successor. I’ve given up more than any of you realize just to be here. To become Batman.”

The room was suffocatingly silent now, the weight of Damian’s revelation hanging in the air. His brothers exchanged uneasy glances, the tension thick and unspoken. Damian squeezed his eyes shut, his hand moving instinctively to his temple as he rubbed it in a futile attempt to steady himself. He had lost control. Of his emotions. Of the situation. In his mind, taking the mantle had always been simple—a decision, a move, and then he would assume his place. He hadn’t anticipated this kind of emotional explosion, this break in composure, especially not in front of them.

He exhaled sharply, berating himself internally. I should have handled this better. He cursed his lack of control. Tonight, he would force himself to meditate for hours—something to center himself, to regain the focus he had clearly lost. His return to Gotham was making him confront everything he'd pushed aside when he left, and maybe he wasn’t as ready for that as he thought.

“I don’t have families or loved ones to go back to,” Damian said, his voice steady but edged with the exhaustion of dealing with this emotional mess he’d dragged himself into. “You all do. Dick, you’re starting a life with Barbara. Jason, you’ve built a team and have Artemis by your side. Tim, you’ve got Kon and a future ahead of you. Even Duke—” He gestured toward him, his tone laced with something sharp. “You’ve found your own place and people in this god-awful city.”

He took a step forward, his gaze locking onto each of them in turn. “This—this city, this family, this mission—it’s all I have. And unlike the rest of you, I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid to carry the weight. Because someone has to, and none of you want it. So stop pretending like you do.” He finished the sentence by locking eyes with Dick, whose gaze was filled with distress, a silent sadness directed squarely at Damian.

For once, none of his brothers had a quip or a rebuttal. The usual sharp retorts, the sarcasm, the easy dismissals—all of it was absent. They were too busy processing the raw, unvarnished truth Damian had just laid bare. A Damian they’d rarely, if ever, seen before. The cold façade was gone, replaced by a vulnerability that none of them had expected. For a moment, they were all left in stunned silence, caught off guard by the depth of his words, and the weight of the reality he had just shared with them. 

He straightened, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly but the resolve in his voice as strong as ever. “I’m taking the cowl. And I’m staying in Gotham. Are we in agreeance?”

There was a long pause before anyone spoke, the weight of Damian's words hanging heavy in the air. Dick was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with a furrowed brow and that look still painted on his face.

“Damian,” he began, his voice strained, “are you sure about this? Taking the cowl... ” His eyes flicked briefly to the others, seeking support, but the silence was deafening. “You’ve already been through so much. Why not take a break? From all of it? You don’t have to carry this. There’s another way.”

Damian’s gaze hardened at Dick’s obvious lack of approval, his shoulders straightening with the weight of the decision he had already made. “This is my choice.”

Jason crossed his arms, a look of resolve settling on his face. "Well, I sure as hell don’t want the cowl. You got my vote, Demon Brat. Just don’t start killing people again. That’s my thing.” 

Tim hummed in agreement, “It’s yours if you want it. And it seems like you do, so…” 

Duke just nodded. 

They all looked to Dick, waiting for him to speak. His expression was pained, but he held Damian’s gaze with a quiet determination. “No,” he finally said, voice low but firm. “I’m not okay with this. Damian shouldn’t have to do this. Not him. Someone else. We can find someone else.” But as the room fell into silence once more, his words lost their weight against the unanimous stares of the others.

Jason sighed. “Sorry, Dick. Four to one.” 

Damian almost smiled, “Then it’s decided. I’ll tell Father.” 

He sat back down, the weight of the decision settling over him like a cold, unyielding pressure. It was done. What he’d wanted—what he’d fought for—was finally his. But as his gaze swept over his brothers, a strange emptiness began to creep in. There was no rush, no excitement, just a quiet stillness, as if the weight of the world had suddenly found its place on his shoulders, like Atlas with his impossible burden. But unlike Atlas, Damian felt no bitterness, no resentment. There was only quiet resolve. This was his fate, his responsibility. Gotham was his to protect now. Not his brothers’. He had saved them from it, and now the burden was his alone to carry.

Before they all left the study, Dick reached out and grabbed Damian’s arm.

"Wait."

Damian paused, his hand hovering just above the doorframe, his body stiffening at the tone in Dick's voice. It wasn’t commanding or sarcastic; it was raw, almost pleading.

“Don’t do this,” Dick said, stepping closer, his words quiet but urgent. “Damian, you don’t have to do this. You shouldn’t do this.”

Damian turned to face him, his expression unreadable. “We already decided, Richard. There’s nothing more to say.”

But Dick shook his head, his desperation rising to the surface. “No. You decided. And we let you because—because you’re stubborn and determined, and you make it so damn hard to argue with you. But this isn’t what you want, Damian. This is what you think you have to do.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, his arms crossing over his chest. “How can I make it clear to you Grayson that I am ready and willing to be Batman?”

“That’s not… No, ” Dick said, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re still so young. You have so much ahead of you, so much life to live that doesn’t involve this— You’ve never lived outside of Bruce or Talia. What happened to the Damian who wanted to be an artist? The one who loved sketching and painting?”

Damian flinched at the mention of his younger self, the memories stirring emotions he wasn’t ready to confront. But he stood firm. “That Damian is gone, Dick. He was never meant to last. You know that as well as I do. The only thing I’ve found fulfilling in life is being Robin and fighting for Gotham.”

Dick stepped closer, his blue eyes filled with anguish. “No, he’s not gone. You’ve buried him under all this—this guilt and responsibility you’ve put on yourself. You were never meant to be Batman, Damian. You were supposed to be my Robin.”

Those words hit Damian like a blow, but he didn’t let it show. “And what, Dick? I stay your Robin forever? Live in your shadow while you live in Bruce’s? That’s not who I am. That’s never been who I am. I’m choosing this path. My path. Don’t you see? I was always supposed to be Batman.”

Dick’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his voice growing more desperate. “You deserve a life that isn’t this. You deserve more than the cowl. You think taking it on will set you free, but it won’t. It’ll trap you. It’ll crush you! Just like it did to Bruce!” He hesitated, his next words trembling with sincerity. “You deserve to find out who you are outside of this family, Damian. Not who Bruce wanted you to be. Not who Ra’s or Talia wanted you to be. You. ”

Damian’s chest tightened, but he didn’t let his resolve waver. “And what about you, Dick? What do you deserve?” His voice was quieter now, almost accusing. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’re tired, Dick. You’ve carried this family on your shoulders for years. You’ve lost pieces of yourself to Nightwing, to Blüdhaven, to this endless mission of Bruce’s. Think of everything you’ve sacrificed—your dreams, your life, your relationships—just to hold us all together. You deserve more than this. You deserve a life free of it all. Free of Batman.”

Dick’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as he stared at his younger brother. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Dick exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I just wanted better for you, too, Damian.”

Damian’s expression softened, just for a moment, as he placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Sometimes, while Damian secretly relished his height over others, it didn’t feel entirely right that he was taller than Dick. There had been a time when he had to crane his neck just to meet his older brother’s gaze, a time when Dick’s height was just another reminder of how far he had to go. Now, standing taller than the man who had once seemed larger than life, it felt like - no it was a reminder - that a fundamental balance had shifted. “You gave me better, Dick. Batman is better than I’ve ever had. And now it’s my turn to make sure you get the same.” With that, Damian turned and walked out of the study, leaving Dick alone with the weight of his own helplessness.

These people were supposed to be her co-workers. Colleagues. The kind you’d nod briskly at in the office hallways, exchange a polite “Good morning” at exactly 9 AM on a Monday, and engage in superficial pleasantries about the weather or their kids' soccer games while waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing. Then you’d both return to your respective desks, mutually agreeing to avoid further interaction unless absolutely necessary—like encountering each other in the communal kitchen while refilling your water bottle.

At least, that’s how it usually worked with Aless and the older men who made up most of her colleagues; men with wives, mortgages, and children who referred to her as "kid". But now, her new co-workers were sprawled across her apartment on a Saturday morning, commandeering her tiny kitchen to whip up mimosas and critiquing her wardrobe with alarming enthusiasm. Not even what she was supposed to be wearing to the wedding. Her literal everyday wardrobe. 

"Aless," Piper groaned, holding up a beige sweater with a tragic frown. "Do you have anything that doesn’t scream tax consultant ?"

“This is why I never let people into my apartment,” Aless muttered, yanking the sweater back and tossing it onto her bed. “And for the record, I like neutrals. They told us in school neutrals were the best, especially when interviewing people.”

“Well, neutrals don’t exactly scream, ‘Hey, I’m here to seduce you all to get the juiciest scoop at the wedding of the century!’” Amara shot back, flipping through hangers with a speed that made Aless nervous.

“You’re lucky you have that dress we approved,” Jane chimed in, giving Aless a pointed look. “Otherwise, we’d be dragging you to the mall now. Maybe we still should. How many hours do we have?”

Aless groaned. She’d spent hours picking out that dress (which was the 10th one she tried on), sending 25 photos from every conceivable angle to the team Slack channel until they grudgingly gave it their blessing. It was beautiful, sure, but she was starting to wonder if it was worth the ordeal.

The dress was a deep, rich crimson, the kind of red that turned heads and made an impression. It was sleek and form-fitting, with a high neckline that balanced out the thigh-high slit on one side. The back dipped low, but not scandalously so, and the fabric shimmered subtly under the light like it had been spun from liquid rubies. Aless had known it wasn’t exactly traditional wedding attire—red could be seen as bold, even inappropriate—but she’d also known who was hosting. This wasn’t just a wedding; it was a Selina Kyle wedding (screw Bruce Wayne), which meant the fashion world was going to be out in full force, pushing boundaries and breaking rules. She’d agonized over the dress for days as it hung in her closet just staring at her. She worried it was too much… Even if she was sure it was something her mother would pick out for herself. 

“And don’t get me started on the makeup situation,” Rebs added, staring at Aless’s bathroom counter with wide eyes. “How do you survive with just mascara and lip balm? This is borderline criminal.”

“I don’t need a full face of makeup to write about criminals,” Aless said, crossing her arms.

“But now you’re writing about celebrities, ” Jenni pointed out, brandishing a curling iron like a weapon. “You’re going to network. You’re going to charm secrets out of Gotham’s elite, and you can’t do that looking like you just rolled out of bed. Or with Burts Bees. ”

Rebs grinned, pulling out her phone. “Speaking of charm, let’s go over those flirting tips again. So, you walk up to Damian Wayne, you bat your lashes, and you say—”

No,” Aless interrupted, leveling a sharp glare at the group. She was seriously considering trademarking a new kind of Bechdel test—The Damian Wayne Test. Could her team go one hour without mentioning his name? Absolutely not. Could Gotham? Not a chance, judging by how his face had been plastered all over social media lately. “Absolutely not. If you’re about to suggest something as ridiculous as, ‘Are you a magician? Because whenever I look at you, everyone else disappears,’ I’m walking out of my own apartment and locking the door behind me.”

Her tone was firm, but the exaggerated eye roll gave away her exasperation more than actual anger. Still, she crossed her arms, daring them to keep pushing her. It was ridiculous. The Damian Wayne she knew wouldn’t have even acknowledged a cheesy pick-up line, much less fall for one. He would probably hiss at any girl who came close. The idea of flirting with him— strategically flirting, no less—made her skin crawl too. Not because it was humiliating, although it was, but because deep down, Aless hated the way the idea made her feel. Nervous. Anticipatory. Like she was bracing for some unpredictable storm.

All week, Aless had been replaying their interaction at the café, dissecting every second of it like it was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Why hadn’t he insulted her? Was he actually being civil? That couldn’t be right. There was no way he’d suddenly developed basic human decency. No, it had to be something else. Maybe he was just shocked—so caught off guard by seeing her again that it short-circuited his usual rudeness. A temporary lapse in judgment. A momentary break in his otherwise insufferable personality.

Because that’s who Damian Wayne was: a rude, arrogant ass. End of story. A single polite exchange over coffee wasn’t going to change that. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him win again—not after everything he’d put her through. The mere thought of him stopping her from writing this article... it pissed her off. She wasn’t going to let him derail her— again . Not now, not ever. She had a job to do, and no matter how obnoxious or complicated Damian Wayne was, she was going to finish this piece.

Ugh, this is so fucking ridiculous, she told herself. He was just another assignment, no different from any of the countless men she’d written about in her career. A fluff piece. That’s all. She wasn’t some starry-eyed socialite hoping to catch his attention. She wasn’t even interested in him. In fact, Aless was willing to bet she was now the only woman in Gotham who actively wanted to avoid Damian Wayne altogether if Twitter was her source.

Her coworkers were still laughing, oblivious to her spiraling thoughts. “Oh, come on,” Piper teased, nudging her shoulder. “You’ve got to at least try to be charming. This is for the job, Aless. For the story.”

“No,” Aless repeated, sharper this time, trying to drown out her own nervous energy with irritation. “If anyone here seriously believes that Damian Wayne—of all people—would fall for a line like that, then I have a bridge in Gotham to sell you. Trust me, I’ve seen him run at the sight of a woman.”

She immediately regretted the words leaving her mouth. But it was too late. The words were out there, and no matter how much she wanted to pull them back, her coworkers weren’t going to let it go. Their eyes were all on her now, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“Wait,” Amara cut in, her voice dripping with suspicion. “What do you mean ‘you've seen him’? ‘You’ve seen him’...how? 

Five pairs of eyes locked onto her, and Aless felt her stomach twist. “I, uh—” It came out as a squeak and she cleared her throat, “We… may… know each… other ?”

“You know him?” Rebs shrieked, dropping the curling iron in shock. Instead of moving to catch it, her hands shot out, gripping Aless’ shoulders tightly. “Since when? How? And why the hell didn’t you tell us?”

Aless sighed, running a hand through her hair. She could already feel the interrogation brewing, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to get through it. “It’s... complicated,” she said weakly, bracing herself for the onslaught.

Amara leaned forward, her eyes practically sparkling with curiosity. “Complicated? Come on , Aless. You can’t just drop a bomb like that and leave us hanging. How do you know Damian Wayne? Seriously, we need all the details. This is the jackpot !”

Aless rubbed her temples, already exhausted by the attention. “We went to high school together,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “We hated each other. I mean, really hated each other. Academic rivalry, insults - the whole thing.” She winced at the memory, the idea of her high school days with Damian still as irritating. 

“Wait…” Rebs blinked as if processing the new information. “You two were, like, enemies? In high school?” She let out an excited laugh. “That’s gold , Aless. Gold! You’ve got the inside track. Forget the flirting lines—this is the real deal.” She all but threw the phone in the air with glee. “You’ve got to use this. We can use this! How can we use this?”

Aless stared at them, feeling the weight of their expectant gazes. “I’m not using anything. To be honest, I’m not excited to talk to him at all. I’m just doing it for the article,” she muttered, but it didn’t stop her from feeling the pressure.

Piper didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, no, no, no, you have to use this. If you’re going to get any scoop on him, this is your best shot. You have history. You’ve got the access. You could dig up the kind of dirt people would pay top dollar for. Make him angry enough to blurt out something. Make him doubt his position in the family or, or poke him about the woman thing, maybe. You thought he was gay, right? Say that! Damian, I thought you liked guys. What are these women from China and Morocco talking about having sex with you? Get him to rant about something!”

“Do you have any idea how much Gotham loves a Wayne?” Amara added with a grin. “And Damian Wayne is the hot single one. Physically and social media-ly. If you can get him to talk, maybe even crack a smile for an exclusive photo…” She trailed off, and the rest of the girls exchanged knowing looks.

Aless’s stomach churned, but there was no escaping the idea. She had been sucked into this whirlwind the moment her editor sent her to cover the wedding. She had no choice. 

“I’m not going to do that. I’ll just inquire about where he’s been from his siblings or a family friend. That was my plan,” she repeated, though it didn’t sound as convincing as she’d hoped. When they all stalked into her apartment at 8 AM, she’d been practicing what she was going to say to them in the mirror.

I know I promised you all that I’ll write about Damian. And I will! I just… won’t have to talk to him. He’s such a closed book anyway! I’m sure one of his siblings will want to spill about him because he’s so annoying!

Rebs shot her a sharp look. “You’re already in deep, Aless. Let’s just say it’s mutual knowledge. You can either pretend to be all innocent and go in blind, or you can actually take control of the situation. You know this guy, which makes you way ahead of the gossip columns.”

Aless opened her mouth to argue, but the reality hit her like a wave. She did know him—too well. And if she was going to make this piece work (because if she didn’t make it work that would be literal rock bottom for her journalism career; like ego death level rock bottom), she couldn’t afford to waste that connection. She closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath. “Fine. But I’m not doing anything sleazy. You all want gossip? I’ll get you what I can, but don’t be surprised when all I have to write about him is a few paragraphs.”

They all grinned at each other, knowing they had just cracked open a treasure trove of potential. “You’ve got this,” Piper said with a wink. “We’ll help you with the details. You just get him talking on tape. I’m sure wearing that he’ll be quite loose-lipped. Damian Wayne cannot be impervious to a beautiful woman!” Uh , yeah, he can. I’ve seen it. “Come on, put it on!” 

Aless stepped into the red dress, feeling its luxurious fabric hug her curves. The fit was perfect, the neckline daring yet sophisticated, and the slit showed off the perfect amount of leg. The moment she zipped it up, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and paused. For the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like a journalist merely existing in Gotham’s social scene—she felt like a part of it like she belonged. The dress wasn’t just a piece of clothing; it was a statement. Bold. Vibrant. Unapologetically her.

Be like Lois Lane. Be like Lois Lane. Be like Lois Lane.

The thought of wearing something so eye-catching, so out there , had seemed like a risk at first, but now that she was in it, it felt empowering. The color alone was a challenge, almost defiant in the sea of understated, black-tie elegance that would surely dominate the Wayne wedding. 

She pulled her hair back into a sleek bun, leaving a few strands loose to frame her face. A touch of makeup—more than she usually wore courtesy of Amara and her eyeliner skills, but just enough to make her eyes pop—and she was ready. She had the confidence now. Even if she wasn’t thrilled about the task ahead, the dress had given her an armor of sorts. She was a professional, and today, she was going to play the part to perfection. And how often did she get to spend the company's money on something so expensive? 

“You look hot,” Jenni declared as she stepped back to admire the look they’d all put together.

“Scorching,” Rebs added, grinning. “Selina Kyle would be proud. Plus, red makes a statement. Everyone will remember you.”

Piper chimed in with a playful smirk, “And Damian Wayne might, too.”

“Now let’s pick up that confidence with some alcohol!”

Chapter Text

The ceremony was breathtaking, a moment that felt almost unreal in its perfection. The soft glow of candlelight filled the cathedral, casting long shadows along the marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of roses, elegantly arranged in high bouquets that adorned the aisles and altar. Every corner of the space had been meticulously planned to create an atmosphere of timeless beauty. The high, vaulted ceilings seemed to stretch on forever, their intricate designs forming a canopy above the gathered guests. It was as if time itself had slowed, suspended in the weight of the occasion.

I wonder how many millions of dollars this all cost. 

Aless sat near the back, her gaze fixed on the front of the room where Bruce Wayne, dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, stood waiting for the camera shutter. He looked every bit the part of Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, his expression calm but intense. At his side, Selina Kyle—now Selina Wayne—looked like something out of a dream. Her wedding gown shimmered in the soft light, the lace and satin intertwining in delicate patterns that seemed to mirror the elegance of the cathedral itself. She wore a serene, almost otherworldly smile as if she was both present in the moment and somehow beyond it, a woman who had achieved something most people could only dream of.

Every guest seemed to have been plucked from the pages of a fashion magazine. The women wore gowns that seemed to float as they moved, delicate silk and lace shimmering with every step, while the men were dressed in sharp tuxedos, tailored to perfection, exuding an air of effortless charm. The attention to detail was almost overwhelming—no one was underdressed, not a hair was out of place (besides Aless - she felt very underdressed), and the air hummed with the intoxicating scent of freshly blooming roses and the faintest trace of expensive cologne.

Yeah, the smell of Dior Savauge is horribly intoxicating me right now. 

The entire ceremony felt like something pulled from the pages of a fairy tale, only this one had Gotham’s signature twist. There were no grandiose speeches, no elaborate displays of emotion—just a quiet exchange of vows, spoken with a sincerity that cut through the opulence of the surroundings. Selina’s voice was soft, but every word held weight, as though she was giving her soul to Bruce in that one moment. And Bruce, ever the stoic figure, spoke with a calm intensity, his words measured, but powerful. The entire room hung on every syllable as if they understood that what was happening in front of them was more than just the joining of two people—it was the union of two forces, two titans of Gotham who had built empires, both separately and together.

As they exchanged rings, Aless’ gaze drifted once more. Standing around Bruce and Selina were his children, an odd mix of Bruce’s sons on one side and daughters on the other. Aless noted the color of each daughter’s dress. The nice sharp suits that looked really good on that one brother with the white streak in his hair. Yet, no matter how much she tried to focus on anything but him, her attention kept being drawn back to one person—Damian Wayne.

His green eyes fixed on her, unwavering and intense, right when the vows started. Like he found his prey. It wasn’t a casual glance or a passing interest. No, it was as if he was studying her, waiting for her to notice. Her skin prickled, and she fought the urge to look at him. Instead, she trained in on the priest. The idea of it unsettled her, yet a strange curiosity tugged at her. Was he waiting for her to look back? Did he want her to acknowledge him? It didn’t make sense. Damian Wayne wasn’t the type to silently signal for attention. 

She could feel the weight of his gaze on her as everyone stood to cheer for the kiss, but she refused to meet it. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the ceremony and the beauty of the moment. She wasn’t going to give in to whatever this was. Not like at the cafe where she should’ve just walked out when they locked eyes. 

Damian had been a part of her past—a past filled with competition, animosity, and bitterness. Without intense atonement (like him begging on his knees for forgiveness), she wasn’t about to let one moment, one fleeting glance, change anything. No matter how intense it felt, she was not going to make the mistake of looking back. Not for him.

He’ll come to me. The mantra repeated itself, over and over, like a lifeline. I attract. I don’t chase. He’ll come to me. Then we can talk and I can get what I need before I leave. There. That was it. She just needed to hold firm, to keep her composure. Please, she prayed to whatever cosmic force might listen, make him come up to me so I don’t have to embarrass myself. She could feel the resolve building in her chest. By the way he was staring at her, Damian Wayne would approach her. He’d come to her. And when he did, she’d be ready. 

It’s all for the job. For the article. If I could take on Voss - who is literally five seats away from me, oh my god - then I can take on stupid Damian stupid Wayne.

Also, she’d gotten enough gossip to fill up five pages of her pocket notebook already. The mingling before the ceremony was prime time for snippets of juicy tidbits, and Gotham’s socialites never disappointed. Aless had made her rounds (some people recognizing her and asking about her mother’s condition), sticking to the edges of conversations, half-listening to the flurry of voices around her. It was the usual chatter, of course. The kind of gossip that could fill a tabloid without breaking a sweat.

There was a whisper about how a certain heiress had been seen at a private event earlier in the week, wearing what could only be described as a “crying engagement ring”—a large diamond with a deep-blue sapphire stone, a symbol of a breakup that no one had seen coming. Apparently, it had been a long-time relationship that no one knew about, and she was now dodging questions about her mysterious ex in the most dramatic way possible.

Then there was the rumor about one of Gotham’s richest families, the Dobson family, who were currently facing an internal crisis. A scandal had allegedly erupted over the family patriarch’s will, and his children were at odds over who would take control of their vast fortune. There was talk of a “secret trust” set up to bypass some of the family members completely, and that trust was rumored to be tied to Wayne Enterprises in some capacity—no one seemed to have the full details yet, but it was already stirring up all sorts of speculation.

And then there was the tidbit about the head of Gotham’s most famous charity foundation. A certain donor had recently pulled out of funding, and now there was speculation that the foundation was being eyed for a hostile takeover by some new, mysterious benefactor. Aless had overheard one of the foundation’s staff members, a nervous young man who had been trying to smooth over the situation, mention the name “ Damian Wayne ” as a possible new investor. His tone had been cautious, almost like a secret that shouldn’t have been said out loud.

She wrote in her notes, too: The wedding failed the Damian Wayne Test twenty minutes before the ceremony was supposed to even start. 

Now, as the guests poured into the Manor’s ballroom, Aless’s eyes swept over the lavish scene that had unfolded around her. The towering ceilings gleamed under the glow of crystal chandeliers, their light catching the movement of the crowd below like stars suspended in the night sky. The room was a symphony of opulence: intricate tapestries lined the walls, golden accents shimmered in every corner, and the soft hum of Gotham’s elite mingling filled the air, creating an almost tangible atmosphere of power and wealth. Aless couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer spectacle of it all, though a quiet part of her resented its perfection.

She had always been an observer in settings like this when she was a child, a bystander in a world of privilege she could never quite claim. Her mother, a natural at fitting into this glittering crowd, would’ve known exactly how to move through it, a smile on her lips and a drink in her hand, effortlessly blending in with the conversation. But tonight, Aless stood apart—alone in this sea of Gotham’s most powerful and influential figures, no longer chasing their secrets through dim-lit alleyways. No, tonight she was standing among them as a Vreeland representative, watching from a distance but not partaking in the dance. It was almost surreal. She was here not as an outsider, not as the journalist who dug for the truth behind their smiles, but as a guest—well, kind of. 

Bruce probably preferred me over my uncle though. The invitation that Aless received in the mail months prior was specifically addressed to Alessandra Vreeland, even though it was delivered to her family home. It was an intentional move. 

As the cocktail hour began, Aless lingered at the bar for a few minutes, trying to catch snippets of conversation in the hopes of gleaning some fresh gossip. The clink of glasses and the hum of chatter surrounded her, but her nerves were starting to get the best of her. Damian Wayne had disappeared and she was on high alert. Every other Wayne kid seemed to be accounted for, but not him. That absence only added to the knot forming in her stomach.

She scanned the room for any sign of him. Stephanie Brown, beautiful and blonde as always, was deep in conversation with Cassandra Cain, who, despite her silent presence and head-to-toe black attire, looked positively animated. Aless had already confirmed—thanks to some well-placed questions during earlier mingling—that the two were not, in fact, involved romantically. Too bad.

Meanwhile, the hot one from the ceremony—the one she’d noticed from across the room—was positioned against the wall, separated from the crowd, looking like he was taking in the scene from a distance. His name started with a “J” or something—Jason? Aless couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t dare approach him. Not yet.

Dick Grayson, the ever-charming eldest Wayne, was holding court with Barbara Gordon, effortlessly greeting guests and subtly letting everyone know that he’d soon be gaining another mother-in-law. From the way he smiled as people congratulated him, Aless was almost sure he had no idea what he was really saying, but the crowd ate it up anyway. She had yet to get any solid information on that mysterious engagement (and no ring on a finger), though she was sure it would make for some juicy headlines if she could crack the story.

Tim Drake was there too, chatting animatedly with Duke Thomas—who looked as out of place in this crowd as Aless felt. Tim was with his boyfriend, the one who wasn’t even remotely a secret and who Aless had definitely seen around Gotham before. He looked insanely familiar, but she couldn’t put her tongue on it. Social media star maybe? Magazine model? He was good-looking enough to be. The two of them were deep in conversation, and it seemed like Tim had his full attention on whatever topic they were discussing.

Aless took another sip of her drink, trying to steady her racing thoughts. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass absently, but her mind was elsewhere. Where was Damian? It was eerie. She couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, despite his disappearance, he was still watching her. Even if he wasn’t there, her instincts told her he was still lingering at the edges of the crowd, in the corners of her vision, somehow aware of her every move.

It was like some kind of phantom presence as if his green eyes were still fixed on her, even from a distance. The very thought made her pulse quicken. It was stupid, she told herself. This was her third drink anyway. He was probably taking pictures with his newlywed parents.

Aless swallowed, the bitter tang of her drink settling against her throat as her thoughts swirled. Why was she letting this bother her so much? It wasn’t like she hadn’t faced far worse situations in her career—chasing down dangerous leads, digging into Gotham’s underworld, putting herself in the line of fire for far juicier stories. He was nothing but another piece of gossip to dig into. She could talk to him, write this piece, and never see him again. Easy. 

Damian stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching Aless out of the corner of his eye. His gaze flicked back to the older ladies who had surrounded him, fawning over him like he was a prized piece of livestock. They pinched his cheeks, cooing about how tall he’d grown, as though they had any right to talk about his life, his future, or anything else for that matter. He tried to smile, to engage politely, but his mind kept drifting back to her.

Aless stood at the bar, alone, her back turned to the crowd, deep in thought as she toyed with her drink. Her lips moved as if she were talking to herself, though no one seemed to be around to hear. Damian could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight furrow of her brow—she was overthinking something, and whatever it was, it clearly had her on edge. He watched as people came up to her, briefly interrupting her solitary moment. Her mother’s name, her job, even her uncle were mentioned in hushed snippets of conversation that he could read on her lips. 

He found himself studying her too closely, wondering what she was thinking. His eyes tracked her movements, his curiosity piqued. He knew it was reckless to be this aware of her, to allow his thoughts to linger. But despite his best efforts, his gaze kept returning to her.

You’re doing it again, he thought to himself.

Damian blinked, breaking his focus for a moment as the woman in front of him prattled on about something he hadn’t even bothered to absorb. He could feel the tension building in his chest. He had already caught Tim teasing him earlier at the ceremony for staring at her so openly.

He fought back a sigh, feeling guilty for the distraction. He had a job to do, just like everyone else here. Charm people. Spread the rumor that you’re staying in Gotham and helping Tim with the Wayne Enterprises takeover. It was what he practiced over and over again with his Father to make it sound believable. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the conversation in front of him where he was supposed to be telling these women all of this, Aless’ presence kept pulling him in. He shifted his stance, mentally scolding himself again for giving in to this ridiculous impulse.

Stop letting your guilt get the best of you, he berated himself, fighting the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw a frown cut across her features as she talked to some old man he didn’t know the name of. You don’t owe her anything. 

Damian forced himself to focus on the conversation, the words a distraction from the pull of his gaze toward her. Don’t look over there. Don’t do it, he told himself.

“Yes,” he replied smoothly, keeping his voice steady, “ I’ve finished my MBA, so I’ll be staying in Gotham to help Timothy run the company. I’ve taken a position on the Global Strategy Team.”

“Oh, how marvelous, young man!” the woman gushed, clearly impressed. “You know, I have a granddaughter about your age who’s also interested in traveling, business, and all those exciting things. I should introduce you to her sometime.”

Damian offered a smile—polite, disarming, the kind that wasn’t quite genuine but was effective all the same. It was the smile Bruce had perfected over the years. It was a mask. A mask he would need to wear more often if he were to fulfill his role as Gotham’s next Bruce Wayne .

“I would love to meet her.” He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. This was part of it, wasn’t it? The smile, the charm, the image of the rich and carefree billionaire. A perfect cover for someone whose nights were filled with crime-fighting and shadows.

I’ll need to practice and make it natural, Maybe I’ll get Grayson to give me a few pointers. He’d never imagined himself needing to create this kind of persona, but if he was going to take on the mantle, it was emphasized to him that this was the only and easiest option to hide under. Damian blinked and shook his head slightly, trying to push last night’s conversation aside.

“If you want to take up the cowl, you’re going to need a persona,” Bruce had told him, his tone matter-of-fact.“I didn’t build this legacy by just being Batman, Damian. I built it with the billionaire playboy, the entitled heir to Wayne Enterprises, the philanthropist. It clouded any public perception that I could be Batman. You’ll need all of that.”

Damian hated the idea. He could already hear the condescending chuckle that followed the word "playboy." He had no interest in playing at being some shallow, rich brat who used charity events to cover his late-night patrols. But Bruce’s words had a certain logic to them. It’s a cover story, Bruce had insisted. The more people who see you as the charming, untouchable billionaire, the fewer who will suspect you’re also the city's dark protector.

Tim’s mouth was full of chips as he leaned back, looking entirely unfazed by the weight of the conversation. At 2 AM, after another round of tense arguing with Bruce about Damian taking on the mantle of Batman, everything felt a bit more absurd. “And the more people you have sex with,” Tim said casually, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as some movie played in the background. “The easier it is. I bet Bruce didn’t tell you that part, but it was a core part of his persona. I once tried to make a diagram of all the people he’d slept with—Kon and I, just for fun—and let’s just say it took up the entire screen of the Batcomputer. Nine-point font too. It was... extensive.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Are you suggesting I go out and objectify women, sleep with hundreds of them—all for the sake of Batman?” His voice was sharp, though underneath the anger, he struggled to reconcile what Tim was saying with the moral code Bruce had always instilled in him.

Tim glanced at him, unimpressed. “No, I’m not telling you to go out and do that. Maybe throw some men in there too, D. Bruce made it part of his playboy persona for a reason. It’s all about control, power, and knowing how to play the game. If people think you’re off having wild sex parties every night, they’re not going to draw the connection between you and Batman.”

Damian was silent, unwilling to admit that Tim might have a point. But the idea of reducing himself to a mere playboy—using people like that—felt wrong, even if it was part of the plan. In the League, they had trained people to do that. To use their bodies as a means to an end. He didn’t like it. He never attended those classes. He was active in paring them down. But it was logical for the League’s mission. He didn’t know if he could live with it, but if it was what was expected of Batman, what was necessary... then maybe he had no choice.

And so, reluctantly, Damian had agreed. For the mission , he'd thought at the time. That was the excuse. His personal discomfort with the idea didn’t matter when Gotham was at stake. But that didn’t make the role any easier to stomach.

Now, as he stood across the room, fighting the urge to look her way, Damian couldn’t help but think of the face he’d need to adopt. The smile. The flirtation. All of it. He’d need to do this more often if he was going to maintain the "Brucie Wayne" image as Brown called it. Well, she said his “Dami Wayne” image and he almost pitched her off the dock and into the ocean.

Damian winced at the memory of the conversation, the bitter taste of it lingering in his mind. But, like so many things in his life, it was a necessary evil. He had to focus on the goal, not the discomfort it stirred within him. Focus on the mission , he reminded himself, smiling down at another offer of romantic connection. 

It wasn’t as though he was a eunuch, even if all his siblings seemed to think he was still a walking virgin. Jason tried to give him ‘ the talk’ while they were getting ready this morning. Sex, seduction, and women could be enjoyable—he'd learned that, albeit a bit later than some others in his family, in the League. Five years as the Demon’s Head had taught him many things, after all, about power, control, and the fine line between duty and desire. 

His eyes flicked across the room, and there she was again— standing stiffly in the midst of an awkward conversation, her expression tight, her body language tense. The man she was talking to was oblivious to her discomfort, his hand resting far too casually on her arm, his eyes drifting over her like she was some kind of prize to be claimed. The way he looked at her—hungry, assessing—set Damian's teeth on edge. 

He watched her shift uncomfortably under the man's gaze, her jaw set and her posture stiff as if she were counting the seconds until she could escape. The faint flush rising in her cheeks suggested she wasn’t used to such obvious, uninvited attention, and it irritated Damian more than it should have.

His gaze flicked back to the man, narrowing with silent disdain. There were few things that Damian found more repulsive than a man who couldn’t respect the boundaries of a woman, who saw her only as something to be taken. And yet here he was, standing far too close, treating Alessandra like she was a prize to be won rather than a person to be respected.

And then, almost as if he had no control over himself, he found his feet moving toward her. His mind was still racing, his thoughts conflicted, but something in him knew he had to go.

He took a moment to examine her as he crossed the room. The dress, that deep crimson shade, was striking against her skin. The sleek, fitted silhouette hugged her frame perfectly and drew his attention more than he'd expected. The way the fabric clung to her as she shifted her weight was more… tempting than he cared to admit. Her eyes, bright and sharp, darted between the man and the floor, but even from this distance, Damian could tell she was desperate for an out.

He thought about what Tim had said earlier. Maybe he could practice his new persona on her. It wouldn't hurt. After all, she'd been throwing insults his way ever since he'd crossed paths with her in Gotham, and he’d let her get away with it. A little harmless flirtation could serve as her penance—if only for a moment. It was comical to even think she would ever end up in a bed with him. 

Damian approached, making sure his steps were measured, calm, and confident. He could feel the familiar chill of his arrogance rising as he approached, slipping into the mask he knew so well. His eyes never left her, noting every little shift of her posture, the way she clenched her jaw as the conversation with the man continued. He could almost hear the undercurrent of frustration in the air between them. This was it—his moment to flex the "Dami Wayne" persona; the charming, confident, and carefree billionaire playboy he'd been practicing.

“I’ve already had so many drinks. I can’t take another.” Aless’s voice was a little too sharp, a little too defensive, but she couldn’t help it. If she could punch this guy in the face without facing the wrath of Gotham’s elite and ruining her night, she would’ve already buried her right hook into his smug expression. The man was making her skin crawl. He wasn’t even trying to hide his intentions. It was clear as day—he wanted to get her drunk enough so he could slip into her bed. Every time she tried to swat his hand away from her arm, it would, shockingly, find its way back.

“Oh, come on,” he slurred, waving a hand toward the open bar as if it were a magic ticket to his goals. “The open bar is here for us to utilize! Why did anyone come to this wedding other than to get drunk?”

His words reeked of entitlement, and Aless could feel her patience snapping. She could already see his eyes scanning her body, calculating how much longer it would take before she was pliable enough for his disgusting advances.

She fought back the urge to roll her eyes and took a slow sip of her drink to keep herself steady. “Perhaps to watch two people in love?” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s usually why people have a wedding.” That was the first thing Damian heard as he approached them. That distinct and recognizable tone of annoyance and snark, when it was directed at him, almost made him smile. 

The man smirked, obviously unimpressed by her response. “You can’t really believe they’re in love, can you?” He waved his hand dismissively, as though love were some far-off concept that didn’t belong in a wedding. “It’s all money. Power. You know that, right?”

As he reached them, he allowed his presence to be felt before he spoke. The man's eyes flicked toward him, recognition in them, but Damian didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he locked his gaze on Alessandra, letting the corner of his lips curve into a faint, knowing smile.

“Alessandra,” he said smoothly, his voice low and warm, "I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting such an engaging conversation." His tone was just the right amount of playful, letting her know he wasn’t taking the situation seriously.

Aless blinked, visibly startled as she turned her attention to him. Any time he could’ve walked over and he chose this one? Also, what is that tone? Did he drop his voice five octaves? Fuck, at this point I’d rather talk to dirt than this guy. And Dirt is Damian Wayne’s middle name. Damian saw a flicker of confusion in her eyes at the sudden intrusion, but he could see the flicker of relief too. She didn’t have to play the polite game with this man any longer.

“Wayne,” she replied her tone cool but laced with a touch of wariness. Her gaze flicked between the two men, and for a moment, the tension in the air seemed almost palpable. Both of them stood in front of her, glaring at each other, but Damian’s stare was far more intense. It was as if he were daring the man to challenge him, to make a move. The other man faltered, glancing away, clearly losing in their alpha male staring contest.

Damian’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he watched the man back off. It wasn’t subtle—Damian had never been one for subtlety, especially when it came to staking his claim in a situation. His presence was like an invisible force in the room, powerful and commanding, and as he shifted his focus back to Aless, she could feel the sudden shift in the atmosphere. It was no longer just about the two men clashing, but about her too, standing there between them. And for the briefest moment, she almost felt like a prize to be fought over.

That pissed her the fuck off. 

The man she’d been speaking with, clearly uncomfortable now, took a step back. "I think I'll find someone else to talk to," he muttered, offering a stiff smile before retreating into the crowd. The tension in the air didn’t dissipate though, now encompassing the two of them.

“I didn’t need you to save me.” 

Damian took a small step closer, his presence more imposing despite his relaxed posture. His energy was commanding, but there was a cool, effortless ease about it that made the air around him shift. Tan skin, broad shoulders, and an athletic frame he carried with an unshakable confidence—all of it made it impossible not to notice how much he’d grown. Damian Wayne was handsome, maddeningly so, and in realizing this, it seemed to infuriate her. There was a sharpness to his features, a striking contrast between his piercing green eyes and the dark, unruly hair that fell just out of place enough to make him look effortlessly polished. It was the kind of look that was sculpted by wealth and honed by something harder, something dangerous. 

He let his eyes scan her up and down once more, a subtle move that didn’t escape her notice. It wasn’t the kind of look that made her feel comfortable; if anything, it made her feel like he was evaluating her like he used to.

He leaned slightly on the table, just enough to bring them to eye level, making sure that the space between them was now charged. Aless tried not to react, but his proximity was shocking. He’d pulled her hair the last time they’d ever been this close, and she’d responded in kind, ending them both in the principal’s office. The faint gleam of his Rolex caught the light as he placed his wrist on the table, the expensive watch making a silent statement. It felt deliberate as if he was trying to underscore his wealth and status with just a small, seemingly casual gesture. Aless couldn’t help it when her eyes rolled, her annoyance bubbling up despite her attempts to stay composed. 

Was he really this predictable?

“Was that man bothering you?” he asked, voice smooth and low, with a quiet edge that was sincere, though he was careful not to let it show too much. He could tell she was already doubting his intentions, and that familiar spark of mutual hatred started building. It felt exhilarating to Damian. For a moment, she almost wondered if he actually cared until she gave herself a reality check. “I must say, it’s hard to imagine anyone would have the audacity to keep you cornered like that.” He tilted his head, his gaze lingering on her face, watching as her expression shifted from slightly irritated to very irritated.

Damian inched closer, his presence unyielding as his breath skimmed the curve of her ear. "You look breathtaking tonight, Alessandra," he murmured, his tone smooth and deliberate, as if savoring the words. "It’s almost unfair to the rest of the guests. Though, I suspect you're no stranger to commanding such attention." His words were playful, but the subtle flicker of his gaze, lingering on her lips, hinted at something far more potent just beneath the surface.

A compliment? From Damian Wayne? It was almost like he was mocking her as if somehow, she’d just become another game to be played at the party. But he had a way of making it sound almost... sincere, despite the unmistakable arrogance beneath it.

Is this fucker trying to flirt with me? No. Way. He’s toying with me. I’ll say something back, and he’ll be all like ‘Ha, ha. You think I would flirt with someone as ugly as you?! ’ 

Aless couldn’t help but scoff inwardly. Stunning? Please. He's just playing his little game. He’s trying to get me to crack and run away. Like I did at the cafe. Two can play that game.  Her expression remained stoic, but internally, she felt a surge of frustration. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.

She didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between them, until finally, she broke it with a cool, measured tone. “Is that your way of flirting, Damian? Because I’ve got to say, it’s not very convincing. I’m sure you’ve told half of the women in here the same thing.” The words were a challenge, a deflection, but also a slight on his attempt. She wasn’t going to fall for his act. Not tonight, not ever. Not when it felt like he was trying to manipulate her. 

Damian didn’t flinch at her response; if anything, his smirk only deepened. He’d expected her to resist, to push back—it was part of the fun. He was used to it from her. His posture remained relaxed, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—never left hers. He took another small step forward, closing the distance between them, though Aless felt like it was more to test her than anything else. 

Damian's gaze never wavered, and his voice dropped to a velvet whisper, rich with intent. "Perhaps I'm simply admiring the view," he said, each word measured, like a secret shared between them alone. "You possess an aura that could easily command the spotlight of this entire affair. Something tells me you're accustomed to such attention—though not solely from the men in the room. Selina might not appreciate that. "

The way he said it made her skin prickle. He was implying so much more than he said aloud, letting her interpret the rest. And that’s what he was always so good at—his words never fully revealed his true intentions, leaving just enough for her to guess.

Aless felt herself tense, but she fought to keep her composure, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her uncomfortable. She had a job to do. One that involved getting Damian Wayne to reveal his secret hiatus. The phone recording everything in her clutch reminded her of that. Two could play at this game. 

“I saw you looking at me during the ceremony,” she said, her voice steady but edged with challenge. “Haven’t you had your fill?”

Damian’s lips curled into a slow smile, his eyes never leaving hers as he leaned in just enough to close the space between them. “Fill?” he repeated, his tone almost playful. “I wouldn’t call a glimpse of someone like you ‘having my fill.’” His words came out smooth, and deliberate, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “There’s always more to see, more to understand.”

I’m going to throw up.

She cocked an eyebrow, a sharp look in her eyes. "That’s quite a bold statement," she remarked, leaning in just a bit, not enough to touch, but enough to let him know she wasn’t backing down. "Do you make a habit of studying people like that? Taking your time?"

Damian’s gaze flickered to her lips before returning to her eyes. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his mouth. He wondered what took hold of her. “I do like taking my time,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “But you like the attention, don’t you?”

Her pulse quickened, but she didn’t flinch. She met his gaze head-on, her voice smooth despite the flicker of heat that threatened to betray her calm. "I think everyone likes a little attention," she said evenly. “Isn’t that why you acted out so much? You weren’t getting the attention at home, so you had to find someone else to give it to you?” 

There it was. The first provocation of the night. And it came from her. The words hung in the air, sharp and biting, daring him to respond. Damian’s brow arched, the briefest flicker of surprise passing through his eyes before his lips curved into a knowing smile. He admired the boldness, the audacity in her challenge. 

Just like old times.

Damian was starting to remember why he kept her around.

Alessandra’s heart beat faster as she let the words hang between them, like an invitation, an opening for him to drop whatever facade he was using with this random flirtation. This wasn’t just playful teasing anymore. This was a challenge. She was ready for it—ready for him to stop pretending they were anything but the two of them in this quiet, tense confrontation, trying to one-up each other like they always did.

Damian saw the shift in her. The moment she stopped playing along with his game. The flicker of something deeper in her eyes— the need to push, to test, to fight. And that’s what they did best. 

He leaned in just slightly, closing the space between them. His voice dropped, low and smooth, each word thick with intent. "You’ve always had a sharp tongue, Alessandra. Are you just trying to provoke me at my father’s wedding?"

Her gaze didn’t waver, and neither did her resolve. "I’m not trying to provoke you," she replied, her voice steady but with an edge. "I’m just curious. A lot of time has passed. You’ve been gone for five years, Damian, and no one knows where. But I’m just trying to see if you’ve grown at all."

She let her eyes slide up and down his form once more, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, a challenge in her look. "Perhaps physically, but the jury’s still out on whether you’re still the same kind of asshole you were before."

Damian’s eyes flickered, just for a moment. The slightest hesitation before his lips curled again, though this time, it was more guarded, less playful. He straightened up slightly, his gaze flickering over her with that same calculating look he always gave, weighing her words, but also appreciating the directness. She was digging for information, and while her approach might have worked on others, he knew it wouldn't be that easy with him.

"All of this, merely to satisfy your curiosity about where I’ve been?" he mused, his voice still smooth, though now tinged with a colder edge.

Alessandra’s breath caught for just a moment as he easily maneuvered through her question, but she quickly masked it with a calm, almost bored expression. "Call it a professional curiosity," she said, though even to her, it sounded a bit too rehearsed. But the truth was, she didn’t really need to make it sound so detached. She did want to know. It’s just… his answer might end up in the gossip column next Monday.

Damian’s eyes never left hers, and he could see right through the scheme she was crafting. How had he not made the connection sooner? "A professional curiosity," he repeated, his tone amused. "Is the Gazette running a piece on me?”

Fuck. She never told me about the Gazette.

Wait. I never told him about the Gazette. 

Damian’s lips curled ever so slightly, sensing the moment she realized she’d been caught in her own web. Her feigned indifference wasn’t as convincing as she thought. He could see the calculation behind her words, the way she had tried to hide the true nature of her interest. But there was no fooling him. Not with her. 

Alessandra’s pulse quickened at the realization that he had read her so easily. She cursed herself for letting the cracks show, for letting him slip beneath her guard when she’d meant to stay composed. But that was the thing about Damian. He always knew how to get under your skin.

She forced a tight smile, doing her best to remain unflappable. "You really think you’re that interesting, Damian? A piece in the Gazette ? No, I just like to know where people have been when they go missing for five years. It’s... curious." She bit the edge of her lip, daring him to take the bait, even though a part of her was irritated with herself for bringing it up so blatantly. “It was peaceful while you were gone. No little pipsqueaks yammering in my ear, telling me of how inadequate I am.”

Damian didn’t let the comment slide. Instead, he leaned in just a fraction more, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. He was enjoying this, the tension, the dance of words. And she knew it. She… might have been enjoying it too.

"And what exactly do you think you’ll uncover in the story of my disappearance? That I’ve been off on some wild adventure?" He gave a mocking, exaggerated sigh. "Or perhaps you think I’ve been in hiding, running from something? Or someone?"

Her heart raced a little faster. She wasn’t expecting him to turn the tables quite like this, but she wasn’t about to back down.  "I don’t think you’ll ever find a woman willing to date you, Damian Wayne.” 

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, something dark and dangerous. It was almost a challenge of his own, a promise of things left unsaid. The silence between them thickened, and Damian, as always, seemed to thrive in it.

There she is. Now she’s come out to play. 

Damian felt a flicker of self-awareness, and at that moment where he caught himself in the act and questioned the absurdity of it. Flirting wasn’t his game—it never had been. It felt semi-ridiculous, like trying to wear a suit that didn’t quite fit. Did he really have to engage in such behavior to become Batman? 

And yet, there was something intoxicating about it, something that scratched the same itch as catching the Riddler. The careful calculation of her responses, the adrenaline of testing her limits, the rush of catching the faintest flicker of vulnerability before she masked it again—it was all a challenge, a puzzle. And Damian Wayne lived for the challenge. With Alessandra, it wasn’t just the words exchanged but the electric undercurrent, the razor-sharp wit, and the way her eyes burned with defiance that made him feel like he was untangling a labyrinth only he could navigate. It wasn’t about winning - well… not entirely. It was about the thrill of the bite, even if it meant letting himself feel foolish for a fleeting moment.

Besides, this was probably his most mentally stimulating conversation of the night, so why shouldn’t he indulge? 

“Now, that’s an interesting assessment,” he murmured, his voice silky smooth, his gaze fixing back on hers. Fiery. Purposeful. It almost made him skip over the fact that the phone she was clutching in her hand now was obviously recording him. “I wasn’t aware you were so invested in my romantic prospects, Alessandra. Is this what they have you writing about these days? It cannot be any better than the drivel you used to write in school.”

“I just pity the poor soul who’d have to tolerate you. Five minutes in, and they’d be begging for an escape.” Her tone was light, but the jab was precise. “And since you clearly know where I work, I’ll assume you’ve read my articles. Drivel, was it? Funny—I don’t recall your so-called artwork winning any awards.”

“Oh?” Damian’s brow arched, his smirk sharpening with unrestrained amusement. “You mean those articles riddled with redactions and editor’s corrections? A shining beacon of investigative journalism, truly.” His tone dripped with mockery, each word deliberately chosen to provoke. “I thought you wanted to uncover the truth about Gotham’s most nefarious figures. And now? It seems they seem to keep covering you.”

The jab landed. Alessandra’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment—a subtle crack in her armor—but Damian noticed. Of course, he’d studied her. As if he was preparing for their second meeting, trying to find pain points that he missed in the last five years. The thought just pushed her more to level him in his own house. This recording was going to be utterly unusable, but she didn’t care. She’d find out more information later. 

“Funny,” she said after a beat, her voice like silk wrapped over steel, “coming from someone whose entire legacy is bought and paid for, and yet you have nothing to show for it, do you? Tell me, Damian, does it ever bother you that the only reason anyone tolerates you is because of the name plastered on half the buildings in Gotham?”

The smirk faded—just for a moment. She caught it, and the flicker of satisfaction warmed her chest. But Damian was quick to recover, leaning in slightly, his presence magnetic and unyielding. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, sharper; right next to her ear. “You might start to sound bitter. It’s a shame, really, all that ambition of yours wrapped up in snide remarks and hollow accomplishments. You’ve spent the last five years clawing at relevance, Alessandra, and here I am - barely a week back in Gotham, and your Gazette has you skulking around trying to record our conversations just to figure out where I’ve been.”

The air froze in her lungs as his words struck with the precision of a sniper’s bullet. The casual venom in his tone wrapped around the admission like a steel cord, tightening her chest. He knew. He’d known the whole time.

Oh, fuck this motherfucker. How did even notice that? You know what? I’m going to strangle him. I’m going to drop him from the balcony. Then I’ll jump myself. I’m going to-

The smug flicker in his eyes was unbearable, confirming what her body had already realized in the split second before her brain could catch up. He’d caught her out—completely this time. He’d won. Damian Wayne had won, and he knew it.

For a brief, damning moment, Alessandra was frozen, her brain scrambling for any response, any retort that wouldn’t betray her spiraling thoughts. But nothing came. The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water: he’d turned the tables so cleanly on her.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Damian said, his tone soft, almost teasing as if he were savoring the moment. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with a calculated nonchalance, the Rolex glinting on his wrist. “I’ll admit, it’s rare. Maybe I should enjoy it while it lasts. Let’s not pretend you came here expecting to win this little game. If anything, I’d say you’re exactly where you meant to be—on the defensive.”

She clenched her jaw, trying to push down the heat creeping into her cheeks. She was trying to grab anything to throw at him, but with the admission that he knew she was recording, her mind was scrambled. Her silence betrayed her again, and Damian’s smirk widened like a predator catching the scent of blood.

At that moment, she just decided to be a reporter. Not a rival of Damian Wayne. Not a guest at his father’s wedding. He scented out why she was here, and had seen through her pretense with alarming ease. So why not own it? Why not be bold?

“Fine then.” Alessandra pulled out her phone, the gesture deliberate and unflinching. She slapped it onto the table beside his elbow, the sound sharp in the still air. With a pointed nod toward it, she continued, “Gotham would like to know what Bruce Wayne’s son did for five years and why he’s suddenly decided to come back. A penthouse in the center of town was purchased yesterday under your name, meaning you’re not just here for the wedding. People are curious.”

Damian’s gaze flicked to the phone, then back to her face, the smirk never leaving. “Curious…” he repeated, as though testing the weight of the word. “Or prying? I’ve never thought nicely of people trying to dig information out from my family.”

Damian wondered if that was too pointed. If she was smart enough to see through his words and connect them back to her, to him, to Robin . There was a subtle gamble in what he’d just said, a risk that she might be sharp enough to recognize. She’d been relentless in chasing him. A year where her tenacity had burned in his mind, always a step behind, always reaching for something just out of her grasp. It was no surprise that the woman across from him had grown into the reporter she was now after publishing her first piece years ago about Robin, determined to unravel mysteries, to expose the city's secrets. But had it ever occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, she had never understood the complexity of the puzzle he’d presented?

Damian's gaze flicked to her as she straightened herself, the challenge in her eyes unmistakable. You’re not the same girl, he thought, but everything is still too complex for you to ever understand. A small, dangerous part of him wondered what she might have uncovered if she'd known the full story. If she had known everything about why I left Gotham... about why I didn't come back, he thought darkly.

“Call it whatever you want,” she shot back, arms crossing as she leaned against the edge of her chair. “But you can’t disappear for years, pop up unannounced, and expect the city to shrug. You know Gotham better than that. Secrets don’t stay buried here. Especially Wayne secrets.” 

Oh, and what Wayne secrets do you claim to know? 

Damian’s thoughts swirled with a calculating edge. His next move was carefully crafted, far from a mere indulgence of his pride or the lingering tension between them. The idea of keeping Alessandra close wasn’t just about the present moment—it was a strategic decision, one rooted in the larger game he was playing. There were pieces to move, personas to craft, and he wasn’t about to let a sharp reporter like her slip away from his grasp so easily.

He could see it already: Alessandra, with her relentless pursuit of stories, and her sharp eye for detail, could be a perfect tool. A microphone for his own designs. There was no doubt that keeping her around again would be useful, especially now. Gotham needed a new face, a new narrative to swallow. And why not give them exactly what they expected? A billionaire playboy, living his best life after a mysterious absence— Dami Wayne , the devil-may-care heir to Wayne Enterprises. It was the persona he needed to solidify, to mask the return of a far darker figure—a Batman who wasn’t the same as before. 

Alessandra’s curiosity, Gotham’s curiosity, would play right into his hands. He could feed her bits and pieces, carefully planted rumors, and let her chase after them like the dogged reporter she was. Each carefully crafted story she printed would build the legend of Damian in the public eye, adding layers to the facade he was constructing.

His mind clicked through the possibilities, each more tantalizing than the last. He could start throwing lavish parties and engaging in extravagant social events where the whispers would be thick. Alessandra would be a perfect guest—her curiosity burning hot, their mutual hatred driving an instinct constantly hungry for something to one-up the other. And in the midst of it, he’d throw a few choice “gossip” pieces her way—rumors about his supposed relationships, about his future business dealings, about whatever he could use to bolster this new image he was crafting for the world.

With her taking the bait, he could strategically manipulate how the press viewed him—and more importantly, how they didn’t see him. It was all part of the plan. Keep her close, feed her the narrative that served his purposes, and in the process, indulge in the satisfying sense of winning every argument - the shock or anger would beautifully fill her eyes - they’d have from here on out. 

He grabbed her phone, bringing it up to his mouth like he was taking an interview. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tim watching him, a shit-eating smirk plastered on his face. Soon, his father and Selina would enter to start the night’s festivities. He would be pulled away from Alessandra, so he would have to make things count. 

“Hey, what the hell are you—” Her words caught mid-breath as she lunged forward, her hand instinctively reaching for her phone. Before she could snatch it, Damian’s hand—the one with that stupid watch on his wrist—moved with precision, his fingers encircling her wrist. His grip was firm but not harsh, enough to halt her without truly restraining her, as though he wanted to remind her of how effortlessly he could maintain control. The warmth of his palm against her skin sent a jolt through her, frustrating her even more. 

“Hello, Gotham, or whoever cares enough to listen. This is Damian Wayne. Apparently, there’s some curiosity about where I’ve been. Honestly, the answer isn’t all that interesting. I spent the last few years abroad, earned my MBA—at my father’s insistence, of course—and now I’m back to take on a role in the Global Strategy Division at Wayne Enterprises. Riveting, isn’t it? For those dying to know, yes, I’m still single. No, I’m not looking to change that anytime soon. My priorities lie elsewhere—namely, expanding Wayne Industries’ philanthropic initiatives and focusing on international development projects.

“But don’t worry, you’ll still see plenty of me. Galas, fundraisers, red-carpet events—I plan to make my presence well-known. I do enjoy being part of the ‘ Best Dressed List’. Next Friday, August 9th, I’ll be hosting a birthday celebration at my newly acquired penthouse. My birthday celebration. That said, consider that last bit off the record. That invite was exclusively for Alessandra.” 

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes after his speech. An off-the-record invite , the way he said her name like it was some kind of dare... She ignored the tiny blip of something low in her stomach, choosing instead to focus on the blatant arrogance of it all. He was baiting her. He’d laid out his grand return to Gotham like it was a curated marketing campaign, casually tossing in personal details and calculated vulnerability. She was going to go home and fact-check everything. It all just seemed to roll off his tongue too…easily. Aless didn’t trust it. 

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp as if trying to contain the sheer bewilderment bubbling up. “You gave me exactly what I came here for, just like that? So all of this—” she gestured between them, still glaring at him—“was just you entertaining yourself?”

Damian’s smirk returned, lazy and insufferable. 

Before she could press him further, a familiar voice called out his name. They both turned to see Dick approaching with his usual composed demeanor. “Hey D,” he said, his tone warm but firm. Dick looked at Aless with curiosity, but the moment's need was too urgent for him to stop and talk. He just sent her a trademark smile. One that felt sunny and genuine, unlike Damian. “The reception is about to begin. Your presence in the front is requested.”

Damian glanced back at Alessandra, his expression unreadable. Then, as if nothing had happened, he placed her phone back on the table and released her wrist, his touch lingering just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “Duty calls,” he said smoothly, stepping away as if their entire exchange had been nothing more than a passing amusement.

“Friday, yes?” he added over his shoulder, his voice laced with playful arrogance, before disappearing into the crowd with Dick. 

“Friday?” His brother asked from beside him. Under normal circumstances, Damian wouldn’t have answered. He would’ve dropped his smirk, slipped on his usual neutral mask, and faced his family with practiced indifference. Control was everything.

But not this time. This time, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins blurred the edges of his restraint. He blamed her for it—for the sharp thrill of outmaneuvering her, for the satisfaction of unraveling her plan and seamlessly weaving it into his own. He felt great, almost untouchable.

It was her fault he couldn’t quite keep the smug curve from his lips or the flicker of triumph from his tone as he replied, “Yes. My birthday party.”

Alessandra was left standing there, her phone still recording on the table, her pulse racing for reasons she refused to acknowledge. She exhaled sharply, snatching the phone, turning off the recording, and stuffing it into her bag. “What the hell just happened?” she muttered to herself, her frustration mounting.

Whatever game Damian Wayne was playing, she felt like she’d just lost. Again. Just like in school. Sure, she’d gotten what she needed from him, but he gave it to her deliberately. Like he was dangling a carrot in front of her, waiting to see if she’d bite. It wasn’t just the smugness that made her blood boil; it was the ease. The way he tossed out information as if it didn’t matter. And that invitation—God, he knew exactly what he was doing with that. The girls were going to make her go. That was a given. Once she sent everything over to the Gazette on Monday, they were going to go insane with excitement. 

Dragging herself to the bar, she ordered a double vodka and downed it in one go, the burn doing little to temper the roiling frustration within her. The future suddenly felt unbearably long, stretching out into a horizon where Damian Wayne was an unavoidable fixture. And as much as she wanted to punch something—or someone—she couldn’t help but wonder how she was going to survive this job with her sanity intact.

Chapter Text

Damian had no idea how to throw a party.

They didn’t teach that in the League. He’d rarely attended Wayne galas as a child, and those certainly hadn’t been any help—what twenty to thirty-year-old trust fund babies wanted to come to his house for a fancy affair? Bruce Wayne had mellowed by the time Damian entered the picture, too, so he had no example of the crazy parties Bruce’s ex-flings used to mention to him.

The closest thing to a “party” Damian had ever attended was the celebration marking his ascension as the Demon’s Head. It had been a formal, ritualistic affair that went on for hours—at first , anyway. His mother had insisted on some ridiculous formal wear that made him feel more like a puppet than a leader. The entire League feasted, danced, and worshipped beneath a thousand blazing torches, all while he sat on his throne, watching with barely concealed boredom. The whole thing felt more like a spectacle for everyone else than a meaningful event for him.

On his way back to his quarters that night after the Elders had retired, however, he heard it. Music—loud, lively music—drifting from the foot of the mountain. He followed the sound, curious despite himself. As the lights came into view, he saw the flickering of dozens of bonfires, around which young League assassins danced and shouted, lost in their own celebration.

They froze when he arrived, unsure what to make of the Demon’s Head intruding on their revelry. He hadn’t interacted with any of them during his rise to power—he’d always seen himself as above these mundane activities. But that night, he couldn’t quite ignore his intrigue. He raised a hand, signaling them to continue. It was a simple gesture, but it seemed to earn him a kind of respect. Perhaps it was then that he realized the importance of connecting with the younger generation of the League—not alienating them—and finding advisors who weren’t already loyal to his mother.

Most of those he kept close now were original to this celebration. They greeted him cautiously at first, but after his first drink with them, they acted like he wasn’t even there anymore, like he wasn’t the Demon’s Head lost in their revelry. When he asked, later, one of his advisors of that night, Amir just shrugged. 

We all knew no one had taught you how to be young, and so we all collectively thought why should we deprive this from our Master now? Even if he was the Demon’s Head, he was our age.

Damian, too, got lost in the night. He slept with a beautiful, nameless assassin girl who died the following week. He allowed himself to mourn for a day. It was a revelation.  

So, perhaps, this was the kind of atmosphere he could model his birthday after. He wasn’t about to ask his siblings for help—though Dick had sparked their curiosity by mentioning whether they were going to get an invite in the group chat. Damian was certain he could handle this on his own, without any input from the others. 

That was until he called a red alert and Jon flew in from a window to save him. 

“The only party I helped plan was the JL’s Christmas one last year. Rookie has to do it. Not that exciting. Apparently, Dick and Tim’s teams used to throw wild ragers. Then they were caught, so…” Jon rubbed the back of his neck, making the collar of his plaid flannel bunch. Damian, who was pacing, reached around him and straightened it out. He pretended to know what wild ragers meant. 

“Do you have anyone trustworthy to consult on this matter?” 

“Uh, I could ask Jay.” Damian sighed, pinking the bridge of his nose at that answer. 

“No, I told you. We cannot consult any of my brothers. They would want an invitation, and I refused to risk being ‘ meme’d’ by then.” Jon kept his snicker inside when Damian said me-me’d instead of meme’d. 

“Jay is my boyfriend, Damian. Didn’t I tell you that?” Oh. 

Did he tell me that? 

“In passing.” Jon sent him a playful glare. All the times he and Damian had phone calls or video conversations - which wasn’t a lot for two people claiming to be best friends - he would mention something he and Jay did. Flying to the Dolomites; Bora Bora for three years; Wanting to go to a basecamp at Everest where he asked Damian for recommendations. In the almost five years he’d been dating Jay, did Damian really not pay attention once? 

And, Rao, to think Jon had a crush on Damian before meeting Jay. Talk about dodging a streaking bullet. Hehe, good one. 

“Jay’s taken me to some college parties before. Their media department used to put on these themed ones that were really cool. Oo, what about a theme, Dames?” Damian thought about the Krytonite he’d just put in his Robin utility belt. 

“Call him. Or go get him. Either suffices.” 

Damian was still pacing around the living room while Jon talked on the phone. 

“I mean, I think it’s pretty urgent… Just say it’s a family emergency or something. I know you used that last month when we went to Peru, but they won’t ask questions. If they do, that’s invasive. Okay, then come after lunch. I don’t see a problem. I can pick you up. Can you bring me a sandwich too? Tell A I said hi! Okay, babe, I’ll see you soon. Love you!” Jon hung up the phone and shot Damian a sheepish look. Idiot in love. Damian just glared back, trying not to show how much the casual affection Jon threw around annoyed him. It was still jarring to hear Jon’s “lovey-dovey” tone when talking to someone else. 

Still, Damian was happy for his best friend having found someone who could understand being metahuman. He was also happy he didn’t need to hear Jon groan on and on about having an “unrequited love” anymore. 

“Should I have told him to bring you a sandwich too? I can text him real quick?” Jon was about to jump out the window, so Damian waved him off. 

“I’ve eaten.” He hadn’t. 

Damian waited near the windows that made up his living room's outer wall for Jon to return. When he heard the familiar sound of wind rushing through the air, he glanced up from the book he’d been reading to see Jon flying in with Jay on his back, the two of them gliding through the balcony. Jon gently lowered Jay to the floor, and the moment Jay's feet touched down, he stepped back and looked around with wide eyes. 

"Oh wow, babe you were right. This place is huge ! Leave it up to Wayne money, huh?" He grinned, completely at ease, his pink hair catching the light. Damian's mind whirred as he took in the sight of Jay who he recognized from some vacation pictures Jon sent to him. Pink hair…Pink hair…? Where had he seen that before? 

A beat passed, and it hit him— Jay Nakamura. The Metropolis University website—he and Alessandra had been past Editors-in-Chief of the school’s newspaper. Then there was the Gotham Gazette website. It flashed in his mind, remembering that Jay looked familiar, his headshot placed right next to hers. Damian didn’t acknowledge the recognition, though. Instead, he simply regarded him with cool indifference as they sat down on his couch and Jon tore into the sandwich.

Maybe Damian should’ve asked for one. 

“So, Jon tells me you’re having a crisis of party-planning confidence.” Jay said with an abnormal confidence in Damian’s presence (probably because he was dating Superman), “It’s normal. Honestly, I think you just need to decide what kind of vibe you want to go for. Like, are we talking laid-back hangout or more of a, you know, rager ? Either way, you’re talking to one-half of Metropolis University’s best party-planning duo.” There was that word again. Damian was going to write it done in his notes to look up later. 

Damian sighed, finally stopping his pacing. “I just don’t want it to be... unmemorable. I want it to be something people talk about.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to use these types of events to craft my civilian persona before I take on the cowl.” 

Jon nodded thoughtfully, then looked over at Jay who seemed to not be following. Oh. That’s right. He forgot that this was Jay’s first time meeting Damian. 

“Damian’s moving on from Robin and taking on Batman. Super cool. We get to be Super Sons again, but were, not like… sons? Supermen? SuperBat? Anyways, it means he has to come up with this big, larger-than-life persona so that people don’t think he’s that Batman.” 

Damian blinked, caught off guard. “You told him about me?” He threw his arm out to gesture to the couple now cuddling on his couch as if Jon hadn’t gone around revealing Damian’s biggest secret. 

Jon shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but Damian could see the sincerity behind his expression. “Well, I didn’t exactly tell him everything. Just… the important bits. I mean, come on, Damian, you’re my best friend. Figured it’d come up. And he knows about my dad and the Titans and some of the JL too.”

Damian shot a glare at Jay, who had been listening intently. Damian wasn’t sure if that was comforting or more infuriating. “I’m not telling you anything ever again, Kent,” he just mumbled. 

“If you want to have a memorable night, you’ll need lots of alcohol. Games. Snacks. Music,” Jay continued, his excitement building with each idea. “I’m talking themed drinks, like Riddler margaritas or something dark and twisted for Gotham’s vibe—black vodka shots, maybe, or cocktails that glow in the dark? You could have a cocktail station where people can mix their own, but with a twist—like a secret ingredient that could totally mess with their drink. And activities, Damian! Think about it: a photo booth, maybe with a backdrop, or Mariocart. People our age love Mariocart. It’s something competitive, something fun to get the adrenaline going and to turn into a drinking game. Oh, and maybe a few games that have that wild factor—pin the tail on the Bat— kidding , but you get the point.

“Then, the snacks. Not your typical boring stuff, either. It has to show off that you have cash. Sushi platters as big as this table. A huge birthday cake. Or—wait—how about a chocolate fountain? You dip your marshmallows into it. Or cheese. Or apples. Yeah, this party is gonna be legendary. And, of course, music . We need a DJ with vibes. High energy for the first half to dance, then something to cool down with later on when people are drunk and want to have deep conversations. Like smooth jazz or, I don’t know, some retro soundtrack stuff to set the mood, right?”

Damian blinked, clearly overwhelmed by the suggestions. His mind raced with how much effort this would all take… And how he was going to have to clean it all up. It wasn’t exactly what Damian envisioned, but the idea of having an unforgettable night seemed logical enough to cement his place at Bruce Wayne’s son–taking on the mantle of his playboy, party-hard lifestyle. 

“Jay,” Jon said, exhaling slowly. “That’s... a lot. Especially to do in a week.”

“I know, but trust me, Gotham is gonna be talking about this for weeks. It’ll be the party. A legend in the making.” Jay grinned like a cat who’d just caught the canary, leaning back into the couch with his arm around a still-eating Jon. “Damian Wayne carrying on the family legacy.” 

“I have no idea how to… source these things.” Jay’s eyes lit up, and it made Damian feel a little uneasy. He was clearly someone who thrived in social situations, unlike Damian who would have preferred quiet, introspective moments—or just training, really. Jay leaned forward, clearly enthusiastic.

“Trust me, I’ve got connections,” Jay continued, leaning back with a confident grin. “I know a DJ who’ll bring the energy and get people moving. I can ask one of my friends to handle bartending—they’re pros, and they know how to make the drinks pop . As for food and drinks? Piece of cake. If you’ve got the budget, I can have catering here in no time—anything from hors d'oeuvres to a full buffet. Trust me, Gotham’s top spots are more than happy to cater to a Wayne. And don’t even get me started on the snacks. We’ll have everything from gourmet sliders to candy stations to keep people satisfied between drinks. It’ll be seamless.”

“I had no idea I was dating this crazy of a partier, babe.” 

“Nah. Me n’ A just like to plan. Most of these parties ended up with us playing Mario Cart while high.” 

Damian considered Jay’s words, the weight of the plan beginning to sink in. Jay was right—the logistics were straightforward with the right connections. All it took was the willingness to spend a little, and this party could be everything he needed it to be. Damian met Jay’s eager gaze.

“Alright,” Damian said, giving in. “I’ll leave the planning to you, but I am overseeing every detail. We are not making this a disaster with candy stations and…and popping drinks. I would like to keep the debauchery to a happy medium.” 

Jay grinned, clearly pleased with Damian's compromise. “A happy medium, huh? I can work with that.” He began gesturing around the room as if he were already mapping out the entire event. “Here’s the plan: we kick things off with some classy cocktails in the kitchen as guests arrive. Food will be sophisticated—finger foods, small bites, nothing too casual. As the night progresses, we loosen things up. The bar will be self-serve, and open for anyone to grab a drink. The vibe will evolve with the music, and by midnight, we’ll have everyone on the dance floor, letting loose. We can’t let a Damian Wayne party turn into a frat party, but it should definitely be the right balance of classy and wild.” Damian had to write down frat party for later too. The list in his notes app (which he will not be showing anyone ) included lots of terms that he’d seen when scrolling on his hashtag. He learned what that was from Jason. The others, that did not have a definition by it yet, included: rizz, af, slay, and fine shi . 

“Don’t make me regret this.” 

“You should probably hook up with someone too. Just to keep to persona going. Jon and I can wingman you since you probably don’t know how to flirt well. Honestly, who needs to know how to flirt when you’re Damian Wayne.” 

“I’m going to regret this.”

The week leading up to Damian’s party was, probably, one of the worst weeks of Aless’ life. Well, no, it wasn’t. It felt like it. But she was always known for being dramatic. 

When she gave the girls their gossip on Monday, they fell out of their seats. Especially when they all collectively listened to the recording of her and Damian - including pausing it, giving commentary, and rewinding, all while shrieking with excitement.

"Oh my god, his voice ," Amara gasped, slamming her hand against the desk as she rewound it for the third time. “He sounds like he’s purring when he talks to you. Why is he so… smooth? I was not expecting that from him. I mean, he’s got this deep voice, and you’re like all like, ‘I hate you!’ And he’s just charming you all over the place! Ugh, I’m jealous ."

Jenni was practically vibrating with excitement. "Hold on, hold on," she said, pausing the recording. "Did you hear that? This is gold. Seriously. That man has game . Aless,  this is going to be amazing going into the gossip column. I can see the headline now: Damian Wayne: Massive Money and Massive Flirt. Well, you get it. I’m not the person who writes the headlines here.”

Aless couldn’t help but roll her eyes, though a little heat crept up her neck. “He was doing it just to use me. All the information he told me was a plant. I’ve already looked and can’t find his MBA degree anywhere. I even called schools in Italy and there was nothing. ” 

“No, no, hold up ,” Rebs interrupted, replaying something else on the tape, not caring about Damian’s lack of credentials. “He asked you about the party? You can’t tell me you’re not going . No way! Damian Wayne personally invited you, like personally invited you to his party! This is the first one he’s thrown too. This is major. Aless, this is like, golden journalistic opportunity territory. You have to cover it. You have to .”

The rest of the room erupted into a chorus of “Yes! Yes! You have to do it!” and “This is our chance, Aless, like this is G! gossip column worthy!” Each girl seemed more excited about the idea than the next as if they were living vicariously through her.

“Can’t I send one of you? I’m not the big party type.” Aless knew it was futile, but she tried anyway. And, if she didn’t show up, she knew Damian would be disappointed, and that made her really not want to show up. 

Who are you kidding? He doesn’t care. Why would he be disappointed? He won’t even notice you didn’t show. 

“Are you kidding me?” Jane shot her a knowing look, eyebrows raised to the sky. “Do you know how exclusive that is? Think of the details, the juicy gossip you could get! This could be a feature article in the Gazette, Aless, not just part of the gossip column. Do you know how many people would kill for an invite to a Wayne party? And you're there— with Damian Wayne ." She paused, as if savoring the thought, her voice dropping a little. "And the flirting? Girl, that’s content right there. He’s flirting with you. That’s an angle. You can write about his charm . You could even—" She cut herself off as if struck with an idea. "Wait, hold up , is there more flirting in the recording? Play it again! I wanna hear how far it goes!”

Aless rolled her eyes again but relented, pressing play as the office became a whirlwind of commentary.

“ Did you hear that?! ” Lisa squealed. “That was definitely him pulling you in closer with that comment. Oh my god, it’s like he’s giving you an opening. He’s not even trying to hide it.”

The group continued in a frenzy of gossip, theories, and suggestions. “Aless, you need to write about this party. It's not just a party—it’s a Damian Wayne party. It’s going to be like, the thing to be at. You could have insider access too. If one of us went, he wouldn’t know who we were. I doubt he would even talk to us. But you! ”

“You guys are hearing the twenty minutes when we verbally assaulted each other, right?” Jane just swatted her hand in the air and turned up the volume. 

“Oh my god,” Piper snorted. “The sheer audacity . And you just snapped back at him! You’re not even intimidated by him, Aless. I love this for both of you. The tension is palpable.”

“Intimidated?” Aless said, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms. “He’s not intimidating…He’s just... an insufferable asshole. Always has been.”

“Insufferable and ripped I’m sure,” Amara said, fanning herself dramatically as Damian’s voice came through again, low and pointed, another sharp retort in their ongoing back-and-forth. She sat there, like she was on trial, trying to defend herself against their ongoing accusations that she liked fighting with him. That they were so good as it. 

“You like fighting with him,” Jane declared, crossing her arms like she’d just solved a murder case.

“You’re so good at it,” Jenni added, wagging a finger at her.

“And, honestly, we can hear the sexual tension in your voices.”

That one nearly made Aless throw up. “What is wrong with you people?”

Sure, Damian was good-looking. She wasn’t blind. But his attitude ruined everything. He was smug, infuriating, and entirely too pleased with himself whenever they argued. He was like the human embodiment of a hangnail—small (in her mind), irritating, and impossible to ignore. And now, thanks to him, her career was starting to revolve around writing about him.

The Gotham Gazette’s eight-page wedding spread was going to print tomorrow, and Aless had just finished submitting her piece for the gossip column to Jane. Mercifully, it was tucked away on the last page, a small blip compared to the glossy, sprawling coverage of Gotham’s most eligible bachelor finally tying the knot. Aless tried to forget what Jane went through and added more embellishments to each rumor and story - specifically when talking about Damian’s new physical appearance. 

Thankfully she managed to sign her article with an “A” instead of her full name, a privilege reserved for the gossip section. Features didn’t allow that kind of anonymity—no, her original piece, the one that got her reassigned, had been printed with her full name in bold, practically inviting Carmine Falcone’s wrath. But the gossip column? That at least had some built-in protection.

Funny how that worked. Aless couldn’t shake the bitter irony of it once more. She’d been a respected investigative journalist—someone who uncovered truths that mattered—and now she was reduced to writing fluff about high society weddings and billionaire heirs.

And worse, she was still stuck thinking about him . About his stupid smirk, his stupid voice, and the way their stupid back-and-forth played out on that stupid recording her coworkers couldn’t stop dissecting. Right now, he was winning. It made her jaw clench. He was controlling her actions, where she went and what she wrote through proxy. He even lied to her about his schooling, but Jane did not care. That’s Feature stuff. You can take on uncovering his lies in your personal life. Right now, we only care about making him seem sexy and aloof on paper. 

Yes, he’d won this first round but that was about to change at the party. 

“Can I at least use the company card to buy a dress for the party?” Aless asked, her tone half resigned, half hopeful. Jane didn’t even bother looking away from the computer, which was still playing the audio on an endless loop. Without missing a beat, she held out the red piece of plastic between two perfectly manicured fingers, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

The dress Aless was chosen—painstakingly chosen for her after enduring seven grueling rounds of approval from her coworkers—felt more like a costume than an outfit. It was sleek, short, and revealing, a far cry from the practical clothes she preferred. The deep emerald color clung to her frame in all the wrong (or right, depending on who you asked) places, and the neckline made her wonder if she’d accidentally wandered into the wardrobe of a Bond girl.

The heels, borrowed from Piper because Aless couldn’t justify buying new ones for a party she didn’t even want to attend, were another story entirely. She’d practiced walking in them all day, clacking around her apartment while cleaning, hoping to avoid an embarrassing stumble in front of Gotham’s nepo babies. She shouldn’t say that. That would include her too, and she did not want to be a part of their circle. 

By the time she arrived at his apartment, she felt like a battle-worn soldier going into the fray. Damian’s penthouse was almost offensively luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the living room, offering an unobstructed view of Gotham’s glittering skyline. The sleek, modern furniture was carefully curated—dark leather couches, glass tables, and minimalist decor that screamed “tasteful wealth.” A grand piano sat in the corner near the windows, untouched, though someone had carelessly left a half-empty something glass on it.

The air was thick with the scent of cologne, spilled alcohol, and faintly burnt hors d'oeuvres. The music—loud, bass-heavy, and energetic—pulsed through the space, making the glassware tremble on the bar. People were everywhere, some perched precariously on the armrests of couches, others sprawled across the floor, shoes kicked off and ties loosened.

Someone was loudly arguing about whether Bruce Wayne had ever really punched a penguin (“ Of course he has! ”), while another group was chanting for a guy to chug a full pitcher of something. Laughter and shouting bounced off the walls, drowning out the music at times. A couple had taken over the piano bench, giggling and clinking glasses like they were in their own world. Weirdly, the setup reminded Aless of college. Specifically, the parties she and Jay hosted.

She scanned the room for Jay’s distinct pink hair. Apparently, his boyfriend was friends with Damian—who knew? More like, why did Aless not know him then? Jay had grilled her over lunch the other day: Wait, you’re going to Damian Wayne’s party? The first time she met Jon—a cute, sweet, impossibly wholesome farm boy who seemed like the absolute last person to be friends with Damian—there had been a flicker of familiarity. But they just laughed it off. He’s from Kansas. No way we’ve met. Though, apparently, he did some modeling on the side, so maybe that was it.

Aless slipped through the door just past midnight, fashionably (and very intentionally ) late. The party had kicked off at nine, which meant by now, most people were well into their cups—loose-limbed, uninhibited, and too distracted to care who was showing up when. Perfect. It was exactly the right moment to make an entrance—and, more importantly, she hoped it pissed off Damian.

She wasn’t sure why she assumed he’d be waiting for her to show, but whatever. The thought made her feel better about how she looked, so she ran with it.

Her heels clicked sharply as she made her way to the bar, deciding Damian could wait . He was clearly busy with his usual flock of admirers, and she had no interest in adding to the audience. Besides, if she was going to survive this night, she needed a drink.

Sliding up to the bar, she ordered something strong and let her gaze sweep the penthouse. If she knew Jay and Jon, they’d either be in the middle of the chaos or stuffed into a closet somewhere. The last time they’d all gone out together, they’d vanished for a solid thirty minutes to "get some air" in a family bathroom, leaving her to fend off some guy who mistook her temporary solitude as an invitation. She hadn’t gone clubbing with them since.

Drink in hand, she wandered deeper into the party, letting her eyes adjust to the flashing LEDs, the pulse of bass shaking the walls, and the overlapping buzz of laughter and conversation. And—was that Mario Kart ? The space was massive, made even bigger by its open floor plan, but it also meant no one could really hide. The other doors—probably leading to bedrooms—were locked, presumably because Damian had the foresight to lock them. Or at least, she hoped he had.

Finally, after venturing around, she spotted Jay, leaning against the balcony railing, his signature mischievous grin cutting through the dim light. Jon was beside him, mid-gesture, his expression doing half the storytelling as always. Their backs were turned toward her, deep in conversation with a third person—tall, dark auburn hair catching the shifting light.

Aless didn’t hesitate. She cut through the crowd, closing the distance, ready to insert herself whether they liked it or not.

“ Look what the cat dragged in,” Jay called out as she approached, raising his glass in a mock salute. Aless could tell he’s already had a few, and Jon was the DD tonight. His eyes flicked to her outfit, and a slow, approving smirk spread across his face. “ Gotham Gazette’s money was well spent. Are you adding yourself to the Damian Wayne Hunger Games?”

“Hi, Aless!” Jon sent her a wave, his glasses sliding down his face just a bit. She noted the flannel. Did he ever not wear flannel? 

“Not interested,” she shot back, rolling her eyes. “But I could kill him tonight.”

Jon stifled a laugh, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Don’t make us accomplices, Aless. We’re terrible under pressure. If what Jay told me was true, I think you really might end up killing him. He’s on one tonight.” Aless assumed that Jay had filled him in.

“Speak for yourself,” Jay said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’d make an excellent accomplice. I even know how to dispose of a body. We could even do something like Saltburn . What a great movie, am I right?”

“You’re not helping,” Jon muttered, elbowing him lightly. Jay just gave him a kiss on the side of his face. God, another reason she didn’t go out with these two anymore was because it reminded her how single she was now. 

“I’m not here for homicide,” Aless said dryly. “I’m here because of the gossip column. So, unfortunately, I can’t kill him because he keeps me employed.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m not following. Why are we plotting Damian’s murder?” The guy they were speaking to finally turned to look up at Aless. 

Oh. He was cute. 

His dark mahogany hair was an absolute mess—the kind of tousled that looked completely unintentional but somehow perfect . His golden eyes glinted with amusement, standing out sharply against the chaos of the party around them. He had that kind of boyish charm that made Aless hesitate like her brain needed an extra second to process why exactly she was suddenly paying attention.

She forced herself to focus, clearing her throat. “Because he’s been an asshole recently. Historically, even. ”

The guy raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Nahhh. Damian? The Damian I know is an angel .” That earned a round of laughter from the group, and Aless didn’t miss the way his eyes tracked her movements. There was something playful in his gaze like he was already trying to figure her out. Then, he reached out a hand to introduce himself.

“I’m Bart Allen. Visiting from Alabama. I’m Kent’s friend. Well, I know Damian too, but I don’t think he’d call us friends .”

“Bart’s grandfather, my dad, and Bruce go way back,” Jon added, jumping in to provide context. “He’s staying with me in Metropolis for a bit, but we came to Gotham for the party.”

Bart tilted his head at her, grinning. “I haven’t seen you around before, but any enemy of Damian Wayne is a friend of mine.” Aless chuckled, feeling herself relax despite the noise, the crowd, and Damian existing somewhere in the same space. There was something easy about Bart, something lighthearted and mischievous that was… annoyingly hard to ignore.

She extended a hand for a shake, but instead of taking it normally, Bart—dramatic as ever—lifted it and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand, as if she were some kind of medieval duchess. Aless resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Usually, if a man pulled this move seriously , she’d gag. But Bart? He was clearly doing it as a bit. And, annoyingly , it was kind of cute.

She smirked. “Alessandra Vreeland. I go by Aless. Childhood enemy of Damian Wayne, a new friend of Bart Allen.”

She gestured toward Jay. “Jay and I went to college together, now we work at the Gotham Gazette .” Then, with a dry sigh, she added, “I’m currently on a temporary assignment writing about Damian since he just reappeared. The world wants to know all about Gotham’s favorite billionaire, so I write.” She lifted her drink with a shrug. “At least I get paid to do it.”

Bart grinned as he released her hand, his golden eyes dancing with amusement. “I can’t say I envy you. Damian’s got that... special charm that really gets under people's skin, doesn't he?” Aless raised an eyebrow, trying to hold her ground despite the easy banter. 

“I’m pretty sure he could make a saint roll their eyes,” she said dryly. “But don’t worry, it’s all professional. No real murder.”

Bart chuckled, clearly enjoying the sarcasm. “Of course, professional. That’s what I was thinking too,” he teased, giving her a wink. “But I have to admit, it’s a little more interesting to hear about Damian from a new source. Most of our friends don’t interact with him outside of family get-togethers.”

Jay, who had been watching the interaction like a hawk, exchanged a knowing look with Jon. Jon smirked, lifting his drink in a silent toast to his friend’s apparent success in riling Damian up.

Tim, banned from attending the party ( for reasons ), had apparently enlisted Bart—the speedster wildcard who had materialized out of nowhere while they were still setting up—to gather intel on the night’s events. Jay hadn’t thought much of it at first. Tim always had lists, and Bart was the perfect chaos agent to check them off. But when Bart casually shared the tasks, one in particular stood out.

"Talk to Alessandra Vreeland."

Jay had blinked. “Oh? You know her?”

Bart had just grinned. “Tim said Damian’s interested in her. Is she cute?”

Jay had raised an eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself, filing that away for later. Instead, he had simply promised Bart he’d make the introduction.

Now, watching the scene unfold, he leaned back with a satisfied grin. Oh, they were absolutely enjoying this. Aless, though? She still looked hesitant. But hesitation wasn’t the same as disinterest. And, judging by the way Bart was already working his charm, Jay had a feeling this night was about to get very interesting.

Aless couldn’t suppress the small laugh that bubbled up. “Yeah, well, I’ve only interacted with him at school.” She glanced over to where Damian was still lingering on the couch, chatting with some guests, his posture stiff and unimpressed. Maybe he hadn’t spotted her yet. “Unfortunately, he tends to be... Damian whenever I’m around.”

Bart followed her gaze, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I get that. He doesn’t exactly come with a charming first impression. I think he punched me the first time we met.” He smirked as his gaze shifted back to her. “But you know, I think that just makes him more... intriguing. What’s he hiding under all of that skin?”

As soon as Bart caught sight of Damian standing up across the room, his expression shifting from carefully indifferent to mildly homicidal, he knew he’d hit the jackpot. Bingo .

Jay smirked, leaning in to whisper something to Jon at a volume only the Super could hear. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” He didn’t even bother hiding the amusement in his voice.

Jon just grinned and lifted his water. “Couldn’t have picked a better spot to enjoy the show.”

Bart barely held back his own smirk, keeping his expression open and charming—innocent, even. This was exactly what he’d wanted. Stir Damian up, get a reaction, see just who Alessandra Vreeland was to the kid, and report back to Tim for his well-earned reward.

And now? All he had to do was sit back and watch Damian take the bait.

Damian had spotted Alessandra the moment she stepped through the door, her dark green dress drawing all his attention. It was practically indecent—so tight, so short, no bigger than his hand, hugging her in a way that made his eyebrow shoot up. He’d been waiting for her for hours , his irritation growing with each passing minute. She was a coward if she didn’t show, he thought. But of course, she did—just when he was starting to convince himself she wouldn’t. And she had the audacity to stroll in like she didn’t already know how much she deliberately angered him.

He watched her from across the room, his anger simmering. She was scanning the house with that calculated gaze of hers like a predator scenting the air. The way she lingered by doors, pretending not to check his locks was too obvious. He was perfectly aware of her every move, of the fact that she was trying to sneak around. She wasn’t exactly trying to hide her intentions, either. Every time she bent over a doorknob, adjusting that scandalous dress, some of the men in the room couldn’t help but look.

Damian wasn’t foolish enough to let his gaze linger… too long. Every time he saw one of them sneak a glance under her skirt, he turned his head away, doing his best to focus on the sea of women who were making their way toward him.

And it wasn’t just any women. They were the same kind—dressed similarly, in outrageously tight, revealing outfits, their perfume too strong, their laughs too flirtatious. The attention made his skin crawl, but he couldn’t ignore it. He had a role to play, after all. He had to be the charming, aloof heir, the perfect civilian persona. That meant he had to entertain these women, smile, laugh, and keep up the façade.

One after the other, they came. At first, it was just polite conversation—trivial comments about the event, the music, the food. But the more they circled him, the bolder they became. One woman slid her fingers across his chest as she leaned in too close, her breath warm against his ear as she cooed something about how handsome he looked tonight. Damian stiffened, his jaw clenched. He hated it. Hated the way her fingers seemed to linger, the way the others followed suit, brushing against his skin with no hesitation. 

How dare they touch him so lightly?  

But what else could he do? He couldn’t afford to show weakness. A break in character. He had to play along.

Every time a woman would leave, another would take her place, like some well-practiced routine. They weren’t shy. One by one, they’d sit next to him, sometimes even sliding their hands over his chest, tracing the lines of his shirt. He could feel their eyes on him, the way their touches became more and more intimate as if they owned the right to his attention. They asked him about his work, his interests, and why he came back—questions that were as hollow as the looks they gave him. Their lips would part, their voices were soft and almost too sweet, as if they thought this would be enough to win him over.

It wasn’t. Not in the slightest. But he was going to have to eventually pick one of them to bed. 

Still, it was nice , in a strange way. It was, albeit with an added sexual dimension, similar to how the Leauge member revered him as Demon’s Head. The attention. The reverence. The way they fawned over him, the way their eyes would dart to his lips and then back to his eyes. It was a game. A manipulative, shallow game that made him feel like nothing more than a trophy, but still… the weight of it was addictive. In the League, no one dared to treat him this way—not that he would have ever allowed it. But Gothamites? They were ready to carve a piece of him. It was the first time in a long while he felt wanted for something other than his skills or what he could bring to a team, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it was almost a relief.

When he finally sank into the couch, the women followed. One sat next to him, close enough that her thigh brushed against his. He barely flinched and gave her a sweet smile. Another perched on the armrest, leaning over him with a mischievous smirk as she whispered something that made his stomach turn. Still, he said something similar back and her face reddened. Yet another draped herself over the back of the couch, her fingers brushing against his neck as she flirted openly. He leaned into it. 

However, it was getting exhausting. How did Bruce keep it up for so long? No one had ever taught him how to deal with this—how to navigate the constant demands to perform like a clown. He was too used to being treated like a warlord, too used to being in the shadows, and yet here he was, the center of attention in a room full of people who saw him as nothing more than a handsome face with money to be admired.

Through all of it, though, Damian kept his composure, his face carefully formed in a constant, charming smile. His mind was a storm of frustration. He just wanted to leave. He just wanted to find her and throw all this frustration at her and watch her dance with it. She was the only person who would fight back—who wouldn’t fall for his usual tricks or be content with the surface-level charm he projected to everyone else. She was the one person who had always, without fail, provoked him in a way no one else dared to. And right now, that was exactly what he needed. Not this dull conversation that always led to the woman he was talking to stating her intentions to have relations with him.

He wanted to confront her about her lateness—to get close enough to hurl every ounce of frustration he’d been holding back directly at her. He wanted to see her eyes flash with that challenge, to hear her snarky remarks, to feel that spark of tension between them as they went head-to-head. He wanted to hear everything she would throw his way, sounding as if she’d practiced it in the mirror before coming. Because, unlike the others in the room, she wouldn’t coo at him or run her fingers over his chest like he was some sort of showpiece. She wouldn’t treat him like a trophy, like an object to be admired or flirted with. She would try and throw mud on his face. She would meet him head-on, with her own brand of provocation, just like she always did. She was his only worthy advisory. 

And then he would get to watch the shock on her face when he broke her down. That was better than any other release anyone else at this party could give him. He had enough ammunition to throw at her anyway: The need to confront her for showing up late, for playing her games, for openly flirting with Impulse right in front of him. 

That Damian’s jaw tightened. Alessandra was his to provoke, and he wasn’t about to let Bart Allen—and whatever scheme he’s been put up to—interfere with that. 

Damian’s instincts kicked in the moment his brother’s friend showed up hours early, a six-pack of beer in hand like a peace offering and that infuriatingly smug grin plastered on his face. Damian’s gaze narrowed, watching him as the speedster darted through the door with all the subtlety of a tornado. There was something about the way Bart moved, something too… carefree for Damian’s liking. It was obvious he wasn’t here for the party. Not really. No one arrives that early unless they’re up to something.

“I don’t remember inviting you.” 

“You invited everyone everyone in Gotham, Boss.”

“You live in Alabama.” 

“Just got in this morning.” 

Jon ratted on Allen within the first hour. 

He could never survive Damian’s interrogations. Tim had given Allen explicit instructions for the night, a list of tasks—some mundane, some more… involved. One with a certain name that Tim had been bothering Damian about all week. And Bart? Bart had already begun ticking off his assignments with a speed that could only mean one thing: he’d been given another opportunity to join Tim and Kon as their third. Damian didn’t need to be a detective to piece that together. 

She was his to toy with, not Allen’s. Not his brothers’. If she was stupid enough—though he hoped she wasn’t—to fall for Allen’s charms and slip away somewhere with him, then Damian wouldn’t just lose the chance to plant rumors within the press. Allen was interfering with his mission. Moreover, he’d lose his escape. His one chance to break free of the endless, suffocating attention from these women who wouldn’t stop draping themselves over him like he was some kind of prize.

That was probably why Damian stood up, his eyes trained on the backs of both their heads as they exchanged words, and walked toward the group with that familiar, purposeful stride. His jaw set, his mind focused. Enough was enough.

He didn’t miss the way both Jon and Jay’s eyes lit up, seeing him cross the room either. 

“Yeah, when Damian was a kid, he was a real handful,” Bart was saying, clearly enjoying the spotlight. “He would always threaten reporters and Bruce would have to come in and play damage control. I remember one time he told a reporter he’d burn down their office building if she didn’t stop trying to talk to him! The next day they ran a story about Bruce Wayne’s son being a pyromaniac.” 

Alessandra burst out laughing, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, eyes wide with amusement. She wasn’t sure if it was the image of a young Damian– with his mousy little voice and eyebrows too big for his face– threatening arson or the fact that it sounded so genuinely like him that was so funny. “One time he told me he’d drown me in the Gotham River if I took the last chocolate ice cream at lunch.” 

“Oh, god, no! You don’t mess with his favorite dessert. He almost bit my hand off once for Alfred’s cookies.” 

Aless swear she felt the cold before she heard his voice, but she was so wrapped up in getting more and more stories about Damian– commiserating with fellow victims –that he didn’t acknowledge it until it was too late. 

“Allen,” Damian said, his voice as cold as the Arctic. The words were sharp, cutting through the lighthearted conversation like a blade, but it wasn’t the reprimand that caught Alessandra off guard. No, it was where Damian’s gaze was trained. Instead of aiming his usual piercing stare directly at Bart, the target of his ire, his eyes locked on her .

It was his usual cold, intense glare, but there was something about it tonight that made her stomach flip. She wasn’t sure if it was the weight of his attention or the way his gaze seemed to slice right through her, but it made her feel... caught. Like an animal in a trap.

She straightened, for just a split second, caught between the urge to stand her ground and the discomfort curling in her chest.

Ugh, this wasn’t fair.

Alessandra had wanted control tonight. She’d meticulously planned it all out in her mind—she would be the one to approach him first. Late. She’d engage him on her terms, push him off balance with questions that didn’t involve insults. She wanted to be the one who made him squirm, who showed him that there was a different game to be played between them.

In her head, it had all seemed so simple.

She would talk to him like he talked to her. Start by flirting with him—something other than biting words and veiled barbs. Maybe she’d even reach out—just a small, deliberate touch to his chest. She could almost imagine the tension in his muscles, the subtle shift in his posture. She’d pry, slowly, subtly, trying to figure out why he’d lied to her about his MBA.

All with her phone recording in her purse.

It was wishful thinking, she knew that. Hoping she could somewhat seduce him into spilling whatever secrets he was holding back. But Alessandra was nothing if not persistent. She had a way of getting people to talk, didn’t she? That was her job.

And yet, as she looked up at Damian’s glare, her chest tightened, and for the first time, she realized how ridiculous it was to even assume he’d let her in. It wasn’t about seduction, or games, or trying to get under his skin. He would never let anyone in. Not like that.

Damian’s eyes burned through her like he could read every thought racing through her head like he could see the way her plans were crumbling to dust under the weight of his stare. She could feel her own resolve falter, that bravado slipping away. She was just going to have to go back on the defensive. His stare pinned her down. There was no need to respond, no need to say anything. He’d already won the battle without even saying a word.

Later, she thought,  I’ll run a tactical offensive later. 

“Hey, Damian. Just talking to my new friend, Aless here. Said she knows you?” His green eyes slid over to Allen, that trademark mischief blatant on his face. Damian could only imagine what egregious stories he would be taking back to Tim.

“Unfortunately, we are acquainted.” His response only made Aless laugh, all eyes snapping to her as she did. As she regained her composure, she realized Damian’s gaze was laser-focused on her, dark eyes narrowed, his jaw tense. The laugh had hit a nerve, and Damian wanted to erase that sound from the air. 

“You’ve been here for all of five minutes and you’re already making friends, ” Damian’s voice sliced through the moment, colder than she’d expected. His eyes didn’t flicker from hers. Not a single movement. Just that laser-focus of his, like a predator watching its prey. “I didn’t expect anyone to enjoy your company.” 

Already, Damian could feel it. The electricity crackling between them, the sudden shift in the air. It was undeniably satisfying—the way her smile faltered and turned into a heated glare. It was better than any conversation or distraction the party had to offer, more stimulating than all the trivial flirtations and shallow chatter surrounding him. The noise of the party faded into the background, his focus narrowing entirely on her.

This, this was what he’d been craving all night. The challenge. The provocation. It was the only thing that made this suffocating event bearable. And he could tell she felt it too, that subtle shift—their game was on. 

“Maybe you should give it a shot sometime,” Aless snapped her tone sharper now, her irritation bubbling to the surface. "But from what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t know the first thing about meaningful interaction. You surround yourself with women who care more about your wallet or your name than who you actually are—probably because they’d run for the hills if they had to endure a real conversation with you. And why wouldn’t they? Damian Wayne’s reputation precedes him, even crossing the ocean—a revolving door of conquests with none sticking around. Guess it’s easier to toss them aside than actually connect with anyone. Must get pretty lonely up on that pedestal of yours."

Damian’s lips twitched ever so slightly. 

“Midnight,” he mused, his voice smooth, like honeyed steel. "You came late. I was almost disappointed when you walked in. It would have been delightful to call you a coward to your face."

“I do have other engagements besides coming to Bruce Wayne’s nepo baby’s party.” Nepo baby. That was another term on Damian’s list that he’d looked up previously. A celebrity or other famous person whose career is believed to have been helped by their family connections. 

Damian's smirk deepened, a flicker of triumph lighting his emerald eyes. Oh, she’d made this so easy for him. This would almost be orgasmic. "Nepo baby?" he echoed, his voice calm but carrying that signature edge of menace. "That’s rich coming from someone whose only claim to relevance is riding the coattails of her mother’s legacy."

Aless’ voice came out venemous. How dare he mention her mother. "My career—"

"Your career," Damian interrupted smoothly, stepping closer, leaning down to tower over her with his gaze unrelenting, "exists solely because the Gotham Gazette has a soft spot for tragedies. Let’s not pretend otherwise. The lawsuits, the constant PR disasters—you’d have been fired a dozen times over if your mother or father’s name wasn’t hanging over their heads like some dark cloud of pity."

Aless bristled, her spine snapping straight as though she’d been struck. Her voice dropped, quiet but laced with venom, each word cutting sharper than the last. “That’s low,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Even for the scum of Gotham’s earth like you.”

"Low?" Damian tilted his head, feigning innocence. "I thought we were being honest? You throw around labels like ' nepo baby ' as if it gives you some kind of moral high ground, but let’s face it, Alessandra—you and I are the very definition of it. You get to sit here, pretending to be this hard-hitting journalist when the truth is, you’re clinging to relevance because no one wants to be the villain who fires the poor girl with the comatose mother."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jon jump up, “ Damian! ” 

Jon, Jay, and Bart stood rooted to the spot, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief as the tension between Aless and Damian thickened like a storm cloud ready to burst. Jay’s mouth opened as if to say something to protect his friend, but no sound came out; his wide eyes darted between the two, panic creeping in. 

Bart, meanwhile, blinked rapidly, his golden eyes flicking between the verbal combatants. Wow, he thought, stunned. Tim was right. There’s something going on here. Yet even he, known for his quick wit, had nothing to say, entirely unprepared for the verbal napalm Damian had just unleashed. Something vaguely sexual, if I’m being honest…

Aless’ chest tightened, Damian’s words slicing through her like a blade. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt, the noise of the party fading to a dull hum in the back of her mind. Her breath hitched as memories of high school surged forward—his cold, cutting remarks back then weren’t much different. She could still hear his voice from years ago, low and laced with derision: "You think sympathy will get you far? Guess what, Alessandra, people pity your mother, not you." It had been during a debate competition of all things, and he’d said it so casually like he hadn’t just gutted her in front of an audience when her mother’s condition was still a secret to the world.

She felt that same cold rage creeping in now, her pulse roaring in her ears. He was right—she did throw around labels like " nepo baby ," but hearing him twist her situation into a weapon felt like a cheap, cruel reminder of how precarious her life had become. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms as she fought the instinct to lash out in a way she might regret.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, forcing her spine straight as though sheer willpower could keep her from crumbling under the weight of his words. Her chin tilted upward, defiance flashing in her eyes as she locked onto his piercing gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. Her tone was sharp enough to cut, every word aimed with deliberate precision.

“I’d rather cling to relevance than sink to the depths you have to feel important,” she said, hand gesturing to the room around them, her voice rising as her words gained momentum. “Do you even realize how pathetic it is? You parade around like someone untouchable–like being abrasive and cruel makes you stronger–but all it does is make everyone around you resent you. Your family tolerates you at best, Damian. Bruce looks at you and sees all the effort he wasted trying to mold you into someone decent. And don’t even get me started on the others. I can tell they all have something in common: they can barely stand being in the same room as you.”

Her words were venomous now, laced with a deep-seated anger that had been simmering for years. “You want to talk about relevance? At least people care enough to feel sorry for me. You? No one cares about you, Damian. They only care about you and your last name. You think you’re better than everyone else, but all that arrogance, all that superiority—it’s just masking the fact that you’re nothing but a lonely little boy trying to prove he’s worth something. The heir to nothing .” 

She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a razor-sharp whisper, every word calculated to sting. She didn’t even notice how her finger was now digging into his chest, jabbing him with every word. If they weren’t in public, she would’ve slapped him by now. Like she did before. “So go ahead, Damian. Throw your tantrums. You always have. Call me out for my mother, my job, whatever you think will hurt. But just know this—at least I’m not the Wayne everyone wishes wasn’t.”

Damian felt her words hit him harder than he’d wanted to from something that usually comes out of her mouth. For a moment, the world around him seemed to blur, Aless’ voice cutting straight through the walls he so carefully maintained. He tried to keep his composure, but the cracks were there, invisible to most but undeniable to him. Her jab landed right where it hurt most, though she didn’t know it—couldn’t know it.

The words rang in his ears, louder than the music, louder than the party’s chaos. 

At least I’m not the Wayne everyone wishes wasn’t.

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard something like it. His siblings were shocked—confused, even—when he said he wanted the mantle of Batman. The unspoken truth hung heavy between them, even if no one had said it outright: they didn’t think he should do it. Not Jason. Not Tim. Especially not Dick, whose disapproval had cut the deepest. Even his father, who had left the decision up to the sons, had an immense sadness drape over his face when Damian told him the results. And now Aless, who knew nothing of his recent choices, had still managed to pierce that same tender wound.

Damian’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t move back when she jabbed his chest, didn’t flinch even as her words dug deeper, dredging up memories of mistakes, failures, and all the times he’d been reminded of what he wasn’t. He had taken up the mantle of Batman to atone, to prove—to himself, to them, to everyone —that he was more than his father’s shadow or his mother’s legacy. But now her words felt like confirmation of every doubt he’d buried.

His voice, when it finally came, was low, cold, and controlled, but there was a faint tremor in it, a flicker of something raw beneath the surface. “ Get out of my house .” 

“ Gladly ,” she fired back, her tone sharp and unwavering, though her pulse was racing. Aless refused to let him see how much his words rattled her. However, as soon as she got into the elevator, the tears started to form. She spun on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes against the floor echoing in Damian’s mind. The party around them, while they had some onlookers, didn’t seem to notice just how much they wounded each other–blood splattering all over the floor. 

There hadn’t been a winner to this fight. 

Damian’s reaction, his voice trembling with restrained anger— or was it something else? —lingered in her mind. She wasn’t sure why it mattered. He deserved every word, didn’t he? He had crossed a line, and she’d only hit back harder. Still, something about the look in his eyes when she delivered her final blow refused to leave her alone. It wasn’t just anger she’d seen. It was something deeper, something raw. Vulnerable, even.

She shook the thought away. It wasn’t her problem.

Behind her, she caught the faint reprimand—Jon, Jay, and Bart no doubt scrambling to figure out what to do, their shocked expressions still fresh in her mind. Bart’s incredulous “ Damian, you’re a fucking asshole ,” stood out the most.

The cool Gotham night air hit her as she stepped outside, and Aless let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The tension in her shoulders stayed. She rubbed her arms for warmth, willing herself to let it go, to forget his words and the way they’d made her feel like she was still sixteen, standing in the ruins of her life while Damian Wayne reminded her how little he thought of her.

But this wasn’t high school anymore. She wasn’t the same girl, and she wasn’t going to let him make her feel small. As she sat on the corner, waiting for her car, she tried her best to wipe the tears away as they fell. God, when was the last time Damian Wayne had made her cry? Sixth period, Junior year? Back then, he’d always known—just like tonight. It wasn’t enough for him to win; he had to crush her in the process, even if it meant sacrificing himself too.

She clenched her fists in her lap, her nails digging into her palms as she stared down the street, blurred in her vision. It was infuriating how easily he could still pull this reaction from her, how quickly he could turn her into the vulnerable, angry teenager she thought she’d left behind.

“Dammit, Aless,” she muttered to herself, taking another shaky breath. “Why do you let him get to you?”

The headlights of a car approached in the distance, and she prayed it was her ride. She couldn’t sit here much longer, stewing in the wreckage of their fight. Every tear that fell felt like a victory for him, even if he wasn’t here to see it. She didn’t want him to have that, even in her own mind.

She straightened her posture as the car pulled up, wiping her face one last time. No. This wasn’t high school. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. He wasn’t going to make her feel like this. He wasn’t going to win. She wouldn’t let him. 

The article that came out the next day was scathing, more than usual. Jane was confused about the angle, but she just shrugged as they sent the final cut to publishing, “Gossip is gossip.” 

He’d brought her mother into it. She didn’t feel sorry for what she wrote. She didn’t feel any remorse for it. That’s why she published it with her full name.  

The Heir to Nothing: Damian Wayne’s Delusion of Relevance

‘Damian Wayne's Latest Public Moves Prove He's Still Living in the Shadow of His Father and Siblings’

–Alessandra Vreeland 

“After this is published, I’d like to switch off of Wayne, if that’s fine.” 

“Of course, we can put you on Oliver Queen with Rebs.” 

Damian’s grip tightened on the article, the paper he’d spotted at a newsstand on his way to W.E. crumpling slightly beneath his fingers. His jaw clenched as he read the headline again. It felt like a slap across his face. Adding insult to the injury she’d given him previously. His heart was pounding, an intense fire building in his chest as he skimmed through the article’s cruel observations about his behavior, the way it painted him as nothing more than a side character in his family’s story. He shoved it aside, but the words lingered, mocking him. 

This was not the press he’d intended to come out of his birthday. 

He could hear Jon’s voice from the night before, furious, yelling at him for how he’d been, how he’d reacted to everything—how he’d been a complete asshole to Alessandra. But it hadn’t really hit him then. He’d been too focused on his own bitterness and anger. 

Aless had known exactly what to say (she always did), and had found that raw spot that he always tried to pass over during his meditations. His entire life, he’d been chasing the approval of his family, trying to earn a place— any place —where he was seen as something more than just a replacement for someone. The article, her words—they exposed him in ways he couldn't hide from. It was that heir to nothing comment that stung the most. The Leauge was no longer his. W.E. had been rightfully given to Tim. If he failed at Batman, he had nothing . 

The thought of being a Wayne without being wanted —it twisted in him. He was born a cruel science experiment. His father tried so hard to connect with him. His siblings, were never quite as understanding of his situation as they should have been. And her words, stung because they were true in ways he couldn't deny.

Damian, as he currently stood, was nothing but a Wayne, wasn’t he? His whole identity had been constructed around living up to the legacy that no one else saw he would take, and Alessandra... she’d seen right through it all without even knowing. He prided himself on being unreadable, but to her… he was an open book. And that, more than anything, stung.

With a deep, frustrated exhale, he ran a hand through his hair. 

“ Dami? ” a voice rang out next to him. He turned, seeing the brunette coming out of his room, draped in nothing but an untied robe. In his anger, he picked the first woman who’d come up to proposition him after Alessandra left in a huff. Her presence now felt like an intrusion, a stark reminder of the mess he had made. He wanted to kick her out, just like he did to her. 

But he’d received a text from Wayne Industries PR a few minutes ago. The article had turned into a small fire that she said needed to be put out before ‘ this Vreeland girl’ could ruin him even more. Now everyone thought Damian Wayne was rude, mean, and pompous. He was trending for all the wrong reasons. The Board was tentative about letting him start, not wanting to have their new global philanthropic arm tied to someone allegedly known for being an asshole. 

It was who he was, though. Alessandra wrote it clear and precise, the talent of her writing shining as she tore into his character line by line. She had easily proved him wrong, showing that it wasn’t just her mother that was keeping her in her job. He would’ve been impressed with her prose if he wasn’t so angry with her. 

PR Woman #2: You have to fix this. Do something in the public eye to show that you’re not who this writer says you are. Something that reads like ‘Damian Wayne just had a bad night that night.’ Apologize to the writer too. 

As much as he craved solitude—longing to grab his katana and hack at Batcave dummies until his anger subsided—Damian knew he couldn’t afford to wallow in his fury like he had done as a child while others played damage control for him. The woman in his house, whose eyes seemed to be undressing him again, was an unwanted reminder of his rage the night before. Her body, marked with the bruises of his lack of control, made him sick. He hated that she was here, but for now, he had a plan… one that would involve her. If he could spin it right, if he played the game well enough, he might just be able to erase the damage Alessandra had done with her scathing article.

Jon’s voice from last night, one that he rarely heard filled with such anger, also forced him to add another part to his plan. Begrudgingly, he had to apologize to Alessandra. It burned him, the thought of lowering himself to that level, but he knew it was the only way to stop her from digging into him even more. If he could smooth things over with her, maybe she’d ease off. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d figure it out.

Turning to the woman - her name started with a G , that’s all he remembered - he gave her a smile. “Would you like breakfast, beloved ?”

Chapter Text

“It was dull.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it,” Tim replied with a half-smirk, eyes scanning the crowded conference room. “The only thing I miss about COVID is that we had to do all our Board meetings on Zoom . I rigged up an AI model of myself so I could just turn on my computer and leave. There were so many times I was in the Maldives, and they never knew.” He chuckled at his own ingenuity. “Oh, Jenkins, hey! Have you met Damian? He’s joining our Global Team soon.”

Damian stood still, his posture unreadable as Tim made the introduction, all while chatting away with a man who apparently worked in M&A. Jenkins took Damian’s hand with a firm handshake, giving him a brief but polite smile, and then promptly returned to Tim’s animated conversation. Damian barely registered the man’s name, nor did he care. He wasn’t on Damian’s team. He just nodded, offered a handshake, and stepped back to let Drake do what Drake did best—talk about something Damian didn’t care to listen to.

It was strange, being on the periphery of these conversations. His father’s—and now his and Tim’s—world was full of facades and pleasantries, the kind that didn’t interest him. He liked that about the League. He didn’t have to network with people. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the ease with which Drake moved through it all. 

Damian’s eyes shifted briefly to Tim—now casually chatting with Jenkins about some project he couldn’t be bothered to keep track of—and a thought crossed his mind, one that had been nagging at him ever since he’d arrived.

It almost made him envy Drake.

Moments before they walked into Wayne Enterprises today, Tim had simply been Tim .  The person who raided Damian’s fridge this morning without a second thought, or who would show up at the Batcave in nothing but gym shorts and a beat-up hoodie, shoes optional. He had that uncanny ability to juggle being one of Wayne Enterprises’ most trusted executives while still retaining his original personality, showing no signs of one eroding the other. 

Damian was currently having that problem.

It almost grated at him now—this... this performance . He had no real interest in any of it, least of all pretending to be part of this corporate world. Bruce had made it abundantly clear: if Damian wanted to become Batman, he needed to get involved with Wayne Enterprises, really involved. It was one of the prices of the legacy. The other one… 

Damian had spent the last month on dates with women who were so far removed from his intellectual world they might as well have been from another planet. He entertained them, played the part of the charming, affluent heir, all smiles and flattery, a perfect gentleman with the polished veneer of someone who could care less about anything beyond the next luxury item or vacation. He let them coo over his success, let them bask in the glow of his money and easy conversation. And then, depending on his mood—whether he was feeling generous, angry, or just too drained from the weight of it all—he might invite them back to his place.  

But his mind kept drifting back to his last conversation with Alessandra.

It was becoming exhausting. Though, it was working—his popularity was finally soaring again—but the whole thing felt like a hollow victory against Alessandra. The real Damian Wayne, his Robin, had very little outlet right now since he was told that everything had to be in place before he could put on the suit. These dates, these galas, work — it was all cutting into his patrol time, and he hadn’t been out for weeks. 

The Robin suit just hung in the Batcave collecting dust. 

Damian’s eyes cut over to Drake again, watching him laugh effortlessly with Jenkins, as if they were long-time friends. The knot of frustration in his chest tightened. How? How did Tim manage this?

He shook his head internally. I could never be like him, he thought, the realization stinging deeper than he cared to admit. The irony was almost suffocating— He’d never want to be me either.

The thought crossed his mind to ask Tim how he did it, how he could slip so effortlessly in and out of this facade without depleting any energy… Was it the caffeine? But the moment the idea settled, it felt like a weakness. Asking him? Damian grimaced. The very thought embarrassed him.

Damian spent the entire day trailing Tim, being introduced to everyone in sight, all for the sake of making his presence felt. A smile here. A laugh there. It was draining, and none of it felt natural. The only break he got was with Lucius Fox. The older man promising Damian his suit, and for once, he felt like he was in a space where his presence mattered for more than just optics.

“You know, I didn’t think I’d ever see the day Bruce passed the mantle on. It was bound to happen, but still, you never think...” Lucius paused, pulling the measuring tape back from around Damian’s chest, clearly focused on his task. “And I always thought I’d be making a suit for Dick Grayson.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The subtle surprise in Lucius’ tone wasn’t lost on him. Dick Grayson—the one who had always been the better son, the one who’d earned his place in Gotham and, apparently, in their hearts too. Damian felt the weight of it more acutely now than ever, especially as he was stepping into the role of Batman. Never had he felt more like he was living in Grayson’s shadow. Not when he was Robin, not even when he’d been forced to confront the other Robins. But now? As Batman? The comparison was inescapable. He’d never felt the need to emulate Grayson—unlike Todd or Drake as Robin—until now.

Since his “fight” with Alessandra, Jon had been uncharacteristically adamant about pushing Damian to show more "niceness." The world didn’t need another angry Wayne, Jon had insisted, which meant Damian had to swallow his pride and focus on being the exact opposite of what his instincts told him to be. 

To be more like Dick. 

Jon never said it, but all the “tips and tricks” he was offering to be nice were things that Dick had told him before. Thing he’d seen Dick do. 

Even, Damian knew Jon was right. It didn’t make it easier.

“Your dimensions are very similar to your father’s when I first made the suit for him.” 

“Is that so?” Damian said, keeping his tone even, despite the tension in his jaw. He could almost hear Jon’s voice in his ear, urging him to show interest, to be more open. Lucius and his son were helping him and would be helping him for a long time. This was not a relationship he wanted to sour. He hated it.

Lucius nodded, making a few final adjustments. “Yes. Your father was about your height when I made the original suit. The build is similar, but—” He paused, glancing up at Damian with a hint of curiosity. “You’re a just a bit leaner, more agile. Should be an easier fit. I’m sure your combat skills will make the suit feel like an extension of yourself.”

Damian didn’t respond. It wasn’t the suit that felt alien to him—it was the role. He couldn’t just slip into Bruce’s skin, no matter how much Lucius tried to make him feel like it was a natural progression. The truth was, Damian didn’t know how to be Bruce Wayne. Not in the way the world expected. He didn’t have the patience for diplomacy, the charm that could calm a room. He wasn’t Bruce —and the more he tried to act like he was, the more out of place it felt.

Damian shifted slightly, staring straight ahead, the weight of the suit feeling heavier than it should. He had no choice but to wear it. The world was watching, waiting for him to prove he could be what Bruce was. What Dick Grayson was.

He let out a sharp breath, forcing himself to focus on the present, on what Lucius was saying, rather than the growing storm of resentment and doubt clouding his thoughts.

“We’ll have to make some adjustments it seems.” Lucius continued, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside Damian. “The suit will need to be ready for more than just Gotham’s streets, I imagine. It’s not just a symbol—it’s a tool.”

Adjustments. 

Damian didn’t trust his voice enough to reply immediately, so he just nodded. Lucius had always been straightforward with him, always been the calm, collected force in the chaos of Wayne Enterprises. He respected that. But at this moment, in this space, it felt like everything was being suffocated under the weight of expectations.

If only he adjusts himself to be like Dick, like his father, then maybe this transition would be easier.

Lucius put down the measuring tape, stepping back to appraise his work. Red lines were all over the prototype on Damian’s body. “Alright, Damian. I’ve got all the measurements I need, but now... let’s talk about the suit itself. How do you want it to look?”

Damian blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He had expected to just slip into Bruce’s suit, make a few tactical adjustments, maybe update some technology—nothing more. The faster he could be out in the field the better. 

He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “I thought it would just be like... like Robin’s suit,” he said, trying to make sense of the thought that had just occurred to him. “A few changes for practicality, maybe, but nothing too drastic. I’d just inherit what Bruce wore, tweak it, make it fit my body. That way Gotham will be unable to see a difference.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, pausing as he set the measuring tape down. His expression was thoughtful, but not surprised. “You think I would just take what Bruce wore and adapt it to you?” He chuckled softly, glancing over at a nearby workbench where the remnants of old designs and prototype suits were scattered. “It’s a tempting idea. After all, I’ve made Bruce a hell of a suit. Why reinvent the wheel, right?”

Damian didn’t immediately respond, feeling the weight of his own uncertainty. The thought of having to design something from scratch... it seemed like a time-consuming task. Time he didn’t have. Time he didn’t want to have. The more he could be out in the field, building up his experience as Batman, the less time he needed to be entertaining women, stockholders, and other billionaires. His father had already done it. He had perfected it. What was there to improve?

Lucius, sensing the hesitation, took a step closer. “But, Damian,” he said gently, his voice softer than usual, “this isn’t about just wearing Bruce’s suit. You’re not playing the role of Bruce’s Batman, like Dick did. You are Batman. Damian Wayne’s Batman. And that means your suit needs to reflect who you are, not just who your father was. Your skill set it different. The way you wield weapons. How do you like to order things in your utility belt? I can’t just try and shove you into a Bruce-shaped hole when you two are different in so many ways.”

Damian’s heart skipped a beat, the weight of those words settling on him. “What do you mean?” he asked, unsure whether he was even ready to consider such a shift in perspective.

Lucius smiled, but it wasn’t patronizing—it was full of understanding. “You’re forging your own path. Your own legacy. You’ve earned that. So, your suit should reflect you . What does your Batman look like? What does he stand for? I’m not saying make the suit green, but, still, there are many things we can do to have it suited to your individual needs and wants.”

Damian’s throat tightened as he considered Lucius’ words. He’d never thought about it like that before. The whole time he’d been training to become Batman, he’d assumed he’d just step into the role . No adjustments. No changes. Just pick up where Bruce left off, wear the suit, and do the job. But Lucius was right. He wasn’t Bruce, and he wasn’t just filling in for Bruce.

For the first time, Damian realized he wasn’t bound to someone else’s expectations. He was shaping something for himself. Something that reflected his ideals, his experiences, and his identity. And that made him feel something he hadn’t in a long time. Not since he’d become Demon’s Head. Almost like, for a few months, when he stopped being Robin and felt like he’d made a choice just for himself. The only choice, really, he’d made for him in his life. 

“I... I never thought about it like that,” Damian murmured, almost to himself. His mind raced as he pictured the suit—something more than just a weapon, but an extension of who he was. He’d hated how his father would rig up his belt. The current Batsuit also had no room for a katana and the various other weaponry that Bruce refused to use. Damian needed a sword, blades, and a retractable staff. The list was easy to make. 

Lucius nodded, his voice steady. “You’re not stepping into someone else’s shoes, Damian. You’re creating your own path. And a suit isn’t just armor—it’s a reflection of who you are and what you stand for. I’ve never made a Batsuit for your father that incorporated a gun holster, because he stood against it. What about you?”

The weight of the conversation lifted off his shoulders, and for the first time since stepping into the role of Batman, Damian felt... lighter. Like he wasn’t just an imitation. He wasn’t just enthusiastically filling a void left by someone else. He was his own Batman .

“Alright,” Damian said, his voice more confident now, “let’s make it mine .”

Lucius gave him a knowing look, as though he’d been waiting for that answer all along. “We’ll start with the basics—the material, the functionality. But it’ll be designed around you. Your strengths. Your weaknesses. Your style.” He paused as if considering something. “Maybe a more flexible design? Something that reflects your agility, while still giving you the protection you need. We’ll have to take your combat techniques into account.”

Damian’s mind kicked into gear, immediately running through the tactical requirements. “Lightweight, but durable. It needs to move with me with no restrictions. The cape…” He faltered for a moment, thinking. “It doesn’t need to be as heavy as Bruce’s. I don’t need something that drags around or flaps in the wind. More like a tactical cloak—light, but enough to provide concealment when necessary. Are aesthetic alterations allowed?”

“Of course.” Lucius didn’t see the look that crossed Damian’s face often—especially not in recent years. It was a smirk, sharp and calculating, but one that had a boyish excitement to it. He remembered instantly, the last time he’d seen it was when Bruce cleared the boy to finally get his own motorcycle for Robin. It was a look of evil genius. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to the color red.”

The Batcave was silent save for the rhythmic thud of fists, the harsh sound of air rushing in and out through clenched teeth. Damian’s body moved with practiced precision, but his mind was elsewhere. He blocked and countered, weaving around Dick’s strikes with fluid grace, but he couldn’t fully focus. His movements lacked the usual intensity—the edge that usually defined his every action.

Dick grinned, clearly sensing the distraction. He dodged a low roundhouse kick from Damian, leaning back effortlessly. “You’re holding back today. What’s going on, Little D? You usually hit harder than that. Ya’ knocked me over the first time in a while when we spared last month.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. “I’m fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth, even though the words didn’t carry the usual conviction.

Dick didn’t buy it for a second. He stepped in with a sharp jab to Damian’s midsection, prompting Damian to immediately duck and roll to his feet. “I didn’t think it was possible for the Great Damian Wayne to have a bad day.” Dick’s grin widened, though there was a hint of concern beneath it.

“Lack of sleep.” Damian saw an opening, reaching out for Dick’s left arm to pull it sideways, but he was countered. 

“Really?” Dick raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Because tired doesn’t make you hold back like this. You’re usually trying to punch me through the floor. What’s actually going on?”

He quickly wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, trying to push the frustration down. “Nothing,” he muttered.

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders stiffening. He didn’t want to talk about it. He never wanted to talk about it. He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy, especially not Dick’s. Not when Dick was a part of his problem. Damian could imagine it now. Once he said Dick’s shadow was bothering him, his brother’s smile would drop and he’d probably even try to hug Damian. They were adults. There was no need for something so trivial to… But Dick had a way of knowing when something was off, and today was no different. The older Wayne sibling stepped forward, giving Damian a pointed look.

“C’mon, you can’t hide it from me . You’re pissed . What’s bugging you?”

Damian stiffened, his eyes hardening. “I told you it’s nothing.”

Dick tilted his head, his stance casual but his eyes sharp with understanding. “Uh-huh. Sure.” He knew better. He had spent years with Damian—long enough to know when the boy, now man, was masking his emotions behind a wall of stubbornness. “It’s about the suit, isn’t it?”

Damian’s jaw clenched at the mention of the Batsuit. “The suit is currently being modified by Fox. It should be finished by the end of this week and I’ll be able to begin my patroling as Batman.”

Dick let out a low sigh, stepping closer, keeping his voice light. “I remember the first time I had to step up after Bruce... well after he was gone.” He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as if recalling the weight of the memory. “It was a lot, D. You saw me struggle with it. And not just because I had to fight crime in Gotham without him. It was everything. The expectations. The weight of the Bat itself. You wear the cowl, and suddenly, you’re Batman . And everything that stands for... all that history, all that pressure. It’s not just about being a symbol. It’s about living up to a legacy . I couldn’t handle it. I know I can’t handle it. It’s… It’s a lot for one person.”

“Thank you for the unsolicited advice, Grayson. I do not have the same qualms about the role as you do. I’m fine… handling it on my own.” Damian reached over to grab the water bottle he’d thrown on the ground, not looking at Dick’s face. 

Dick crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the nearby pillar to catch his breath. “Is that so? ‘Cause last time I checked, Bruce thought the same thing. And look how that turned out for him.” His tone was gentle, but there was a thread of seriousness beneath it. “You’re a hell of a fighter, Damian. You’ve got the skills, the discipline, and the mind to be Batman. Hell, you might even be better than Bruce in that regard. But I think you’re forgetting something important.”

Irritation showed itself in Damian’s voice. “Again, Grayson. I don’t believe I asked for-” 

“No,” Dick agreed. “You didn’t, but I’m giving it to you because I’m the only one here, not Bruce who knows what it feels like to wear that mask and to carry that weight. And I know what happens when you don’t let anyone help you carry it. You burn out. We’ve all seen it happen to Bruce. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to keep everything inside until you explode. And I can see it happening with you, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Damian opened his mouth to retort, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to acknowledge the pressure of everything that was starting to stab at him, but Dick had a way of seeing through him. He always did. It was a curse. 

Dick’s gaze softened, his voice gentle. “Damian, I know you’re used to handling things on your own. Hell, I know it’s hard to trust people with this stuff. But that’s not going to work forever. And right now, you’re drowning under the weight of it all. What happened to Bruce—what happened to me —can happen to anyone.”

Damian looked away, his hands trembling slightly, though he would never admit it out loud. “I said I’m fine on my own.”

He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as he studied Damian. The boy was older now, more composed, but Dick could still see the weight in his eyes. That same weariness—the one from when Damian was just a child, a boy who’d seen too much too soon. A boy who watched his mother die in front of him and was left with nothing but a legacy to carry, whether he wanted it or not.

He took a step forward, his tone quiet but insistent. “I know you don’t think you need anyone. But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not about needing someone to solve your problems, Damian. It’s about having someone who can stand with you when you feel like you can’t stand on your own. Someone you can talk to when you’re... tired of pretending to be okay.”

Damian clenched his fists, his expression hardening as he tried to keep his composure. “I don’t need talking . I don’t need someone to tell me everything’s going to be fine.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed as he took another step forward. “No, you don’t. But you do need someone who gets it. Someone who’s not just looking at you through the lens of what they think you should be.” He paused, his voice softening. “For a while, I thought I could handle everything on my own too. But eventually, I realized I needed Babs. Not just as a partner, but as someone who could see past Nightwing. She understood the burden because she carries one too. And I needed someone who could handle it with me.”

Damian’s mouth tightened, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “What, are you telling me I should settle down like all of you seem to be doing? Get a little sidekick and start playing house?”

Dick looked at him for a long moment, sensing the vulnerability under Damian’s tough exterior. He stepped in, lowering his voice. “You can’t keep carrying the weight of everything alone . Not forever. You think you're supposed to be this perfect version of Batman, don’t you? So no one questions why you should take the mantle over everyone else. I can see it on your face, even when you think you’re hiding it. But you don’t need to be perfect, Damian. You don’t have to be Bruce. You don’t have to wear the same mask he wore. You need to find your own way of doing this. And to do that, you need someone who gets it.”

Damian’s stomach churned. He could feel the suffocating weight of all the things he had never said to anyone, all the things he kept buried deep inside. He had always felt that loneliness—the kind that gnawed at him when he was alone in the cave when he was alone in his thoughts, but he had never put words to it. Not even to himself.

Dick’s voice softened. “I know you have a hard time sharing feelings. You were taught that they made you vulnerable. Weak. But that’s not true. Have you ever told Jon any of this? How you’re feeling?”

Damian froze. Jon —his only friend, his ally, the one person who had always been there for him. But Damian hadn’t opened up to him. Not like this. Not about the things that really mattered. Jon had always assumed what Damian needed, always been there with a shoulder to lean on, but he’d never directly asked. He’d never really leaned either. 

“No,” Damian said flatly, his voice distant. “Jon... He assumes. He’s right most of the time, but... he doesn’t ask. Not really.”

Dick nodded, his expression soft but firm. “Maybe it’s time you let him in. Or find someone who you can talk to like that. Let out all your stress and anger instead of holding it in. You don’t have to do this alone. I know you think you’re supposed to be invincible, but nobody is. Not Bruce. Not you.”

Damian stared at Dick for a long moment, the weight of his words sinking into his chest. He could feel the crack in the wall, the one he had spent years building. It didn’t feel as sturdy as it used to. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop pretending.

“I don’t know how to do that,” Damian muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to ask for... help.”

Dick smiled softly, his expression understanding. “It’s not about asking for help, D. It’s about finding someone, some people, who can help carry the load. You don’t have to do everything on your own. And if you don’t find that? You’ll burn out. You’ll become like Bruce— alone . We all know how long it took him to accept his relationship with Selina.”

Damian’s chest tightened, and he nodded slowly. Maybe it was time to let someone in. The burden of the cowl alone would only lead to destruction, Damian could already see that. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, quieting the ‘Are you really going to admit defeat like this?’ in his brain before starting. “It’s exhausting,” he said, voice low, “This whole... persona I’m supposed to craft is what’s draining me. The smile. The parties. The women. The constant need to be seen. I know it’s needed. But I asked to me Batman, not this . I’m stuck pretending to be someone I’m not to protect the mantle. I tell myself the end is worth the means, but sometimes…”

Dick raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything immediately. He had always understood the weight of the mantle, the burden of Batman’s public persona, but he hadn’t realized just how much it was taking from Damian. The boy had always been a bundle of contradictions: an assassin’s discipline clashing with the unrelenting pressure of being Bruce Wayne’s son. But this? The constant effort to be something for the public eye? 

It was wearing Damian down faster than Dick had anticipated.

“Can’t say I haven’t been there,” Dick replied, his tone thoughtful now, no longer teasing. He took a slow step back, raising his hands in surrender, sensing that the moment had shifted. “I get it. The social part—being everywhere, talking to everyone, pretending to be the life of the party... it’s draining. Probably more for you than it was for me. And, yeah, it’s part of the job. We both know that.”

Damian exhaled, trying to push away the frustration that kept clawing at him. “I’m not playing this game for fun. I’m not doing it because I want to. I’m doing it because Bruce—because he made it part of the act. I have to pretend to be some rich playboy who throws parties and spends his time on models and social events just so people don’t think I’m a cold, evil, aloof heir. All because of Alessandra’s stupid article. It’s ridiculous.” His voice hardened, bitterness leaking through. “And I hate it. And I hate how easy it seems for all the rest of you to switch it on and off.”

Dick noticed his younger brother’s obvious discomfort and stepped closer, his voice quieter, more sincere. “You know, for a while, I had to do the same thing. I mean, we all did. The smiling, the handshakes, the fake connections... it wasn’t easy, Damian. But I’ll tell you something.” He gave a small, rueful smile. “I was terrible at it. I hated every second of it. I hated the masks we had to wear in public. Even when I was Nightwing… I needed someone . I had my friends and my team but I felt… empty. I was so alone regardless of who I was.”

Damian’s eyes flickered up, a skeptical eyebrow-raising. “What are you talking about? Everyone is your friend.”

Dick’s expression grew more serious. “When I was first starting out—after I left Gotham and became Nightwing—I spent a lot of time trying to be everyone’s friend. Everyone’s team leader. Everyone’s boyfriend. You weren’t around then, but the amount of relationships I got in… I thought I needed everyone around me to help shoulder the weight. The pressure, the isolation. But I wasn’t doing it because I wanted real relationships. I was just... filling the void. Because I was alone .” He paused for a moment, his gaze distant, as if remembering those early years. “I realized I needed someone who could see past it all. Someone who could talk to me—not just as Nightwing, the son of Batman, Boy Wonder, or their team leader, but as Dick .”

Damian was quiet, processing Dick’s words. “You’re saying you... found that person?”

Dick smiled, his eyes softening as if remembering the peace he had found. “Those people. Yeah. The ones who I had a real relationship with. Not just the ‘ I love Dick Grayson, he's such a great team leader and he’s so nice to me’ people. Wally. Donna. Babs. Babs is obviously different than the others. She was the one , you know. She’s been there for me through all of this. We talk about everything, even what I can’t say to Wally sometimes—about the fight, the loneliness, the burden of this life. Sometimes I carry her burdens, sometimes she carries mine. That’s how it works. You can’t be everything for everyone. You need someone you can lean on, someone you can trust. Someone who understands you .”

Damian was silent, the truth of Dick’s words settling in. “Again, it seems you’re suggesting-”

Dick shook his hand. “No, yeah. I’m suggesting that you invest in finding a close group of people who can be your inner circle. Jon is a start. What about Lizzie? Maybe she’s too young. Some of the newer Justice Leauge members could work? If, coincidentally , one of those people becomes your fiance, that’s a plus, I guess. You just need people who don’t just accept the persona, who don't only see you as Batman or the Wayne Enterprises’ heir. Usually, it comes from the hero community, but someone who sees you as you .”

Damian exhaled slowly, the words resonating more than he cared to admit. It was hard for him to imagine opening up to people in that way, let alone trusting someone with his deepest fears, his moments of weakness. Bruce had never taught him that. Talia actively revoked the notion. Isolation was a means of survival in their world, and Damian had come to believe it was the only way. Even with his advisors, like Amir, he kept a comfortable distance. But… yes, logically, he knew it wasn’t. 

Dick continued, his voice lowering, yet still warm. “Start with Jon. Just tell him how you’ve been feeling. I’m not saying he’ll have all the answers, but you’ve got to stop carrying everything by yourself. I know it’s hard. But being strong doesn’t mean never asking for help. It means knowing when to lean on someone.”

He nodded, the weight of the conversation settling heavily on his shoulders, but it was a weight he was starting to accept. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered, though his voice wasn’t as certain as it used to be. “It has been… nice to let go some of it in this moment.”

Dick’s gaze softened, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he watched Damian process the words. For a moment, it was like the weight of the world had lifted just a little from the boy’s shoulders. He wasn’t giving in entirely, but the fact that Damian was acknowledging it—admitting that letting go felt nice —meant everything to Dick. It was something he’d been working on with Damian for over a decade. 

“That’s a start,” Dick said, his tone easy, like he was trying to keep the moment from feeling too heavy. “And it’s okay to let go sometimes, D. You don’t have to be the perfect assassin, the perfect Batman, or whatever you think you need to be. It’s okay to... to be human.”

Damian rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it, not this time. “You should start taking your own advice, Grayson. Who was the one ready to jump to take the mantle when he actively hates it?”

Dick’s smile faltered for just a second, but he recovered quickly. He knew exactly what Damian was getting at—and the irony was far from lost on him. He crossed his arms over his chest, regarding Damian with a mix of affection and understanding.

He shifted his weight, leaning back slightly against the training room’s wall. “Sometimes, it takes a while to figure out what you want and not what everyone else thinks you should be. That’s why I ended up where I am now, with the Nightwing thing. It took a lot of mistakes—and a lot of time—to realize that it wasn’t about carrying Bruce’s mantle. It was about figuring out what was mine .”

Just like Lucius had told him. 

“Maybe you don’t have to wear the cowl at all,” Dick continued, his voice softening. “Maybe you’re meant to be something else entirely. You’re your own person, Damian. You don’t have to be Batman to prove you’re strong enough.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening slightly. Of course. Just like that, the moment was ruined. There it was again: Dick trying to convince him to walk away. To choose another path. Maybe you should take up knitting instead? Or become a professional party planner?

The words were sharp in his mind, and before he could stop them, they slipped from his mouth. “I’ve told you and Father a hundred times that I want to pursue the mantle.”

Dick chuckled softly, but there was no mockery in it. Just an understanding that he, himself, wasn’t ready to quits except. Dick was having a hard time seeing his Robin fly the coup. “I know, I know. Geez. No need to get so irritated. I just thought I’d try one more time.”

The reason he wanted to be Batman wasn’t because Bruce had been Batman. It wasn’t about legacy, about living up to some impossible standard or proving himself to the Bat Family, to Gotham, to the world. No. It was the mission itself.

Bruce’s vision.

It had taken Damian years to truly understand it—years of unlearning, of fighting against the League’s teachings, of stepping into and out of Robin’s shadow—before it finally clicked.

Protect Gotham. Save people. Stop the madness before it starts.

It wasn’t about the cowl, the gadgets, or the legend. It was about responsibility. A promise to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Gotham, with all its rot, corruption, and endless cycle of violence, needed someone willing to walk into the darkness without hesitation, without compromise.

Damian felt that fire now—the same fire he had once seen in Bruce’s eyes when he was a child, the one he finally understood.

That’s why he wanted this.

Not to fill a hole left behind. Not to be someone else’s version of Batman. But to carry it forward—for himself, for the city, for the people who needed someone willing to fight for them.

“I know what you’re trying to say, Dick,” Damian’s voice cut through the silence, and he surprised even himself with the certainty in it. “It’s not about the damn mantle. It’s about what it means to be Batman. Gotham... it’s a city full of people who need saving. And I’m not talking about the ones who can buy their way out of problems. I’m talking about the ones who have nothing left. The ones who get lost in the system or fall through the cracks. That’s what Bruce wanted. And I’m not doing this just to be some... symbol or legacy.”

Damian’s tone softened a little, his eyes never quite meeting Dick’s as he finished his thought, almost as if the words themselves were difficult to acknowledge out loud. “I want to be Batman because I believe in that. I believe in what Bruce wanted Gotham to be. It’s... it’s not just about taking the cowl for the sake of it. I want to protect this city. I want to make it better... the way he tried to.”

Dick stared at him for a long beat, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Damian thought maybe Dick would go back to lecturing him, trying to convince him once more that there was another way. But instead, Dick’s voice was quiet, steady, like he was seeing something he hadn’t before.

“Wow,” Dick said after a moment. “I didn’t think, in my whole life. I would never hear you say something like that. I just… I guess I underestimated the growth you’ve gone through, D.”

“I’m not trying to be him,” Damian muttered. “But I do want to do it his way. The way we were taught. Gotham needs someone to stand between the innocent and the chaos. I just...” He hesitated, the words almost tasting bitter coming out of his mouth. “I just don’t know how to do it without the damn expectations weighing me down.”

Dick clapped him on the shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips. “I think you’ll figure it out. Just remember—you don’t have to do it all at once. You’ve got time. And you’ve got people who’ll back you up. Like your big brother!” He pointed his thumb at himself, that trademark smile coming back.

“Of course. Todd is great at advice.”

“ Hey!”

“So, you know that heiress from last week’s spread? The one who had the thing with Damian Wayne? Get this—he didn’t just take her home after their night. He made her tea and breakfast. Tea. And. Breakfast.” Jane had claimed the corner chair, scrolling through her phone with a dramatic sigh. Piper and Amara were sharing a bag of gummy worms, and Rebs was doodling hearts in the margins of her notebook, completely unrelated to work. Aless, however, sat stiffly in her chair, head touching the table trying not to complain. 

She was on a five-minute time-out. 

Piper perked up, nearly spilling the gummy worms. “Tea and breakfast? What is he, someone’s dad? Did he tuck her in, too?”

“He might as well have!” Jane said, her grin widening. “And then he had one of his fancy cars drive her home. I’m telling you, it’s like fan fiction come to life.”

Aless groaned, rubbing her temples. "I genuinely don’t understand how anyone wants to have sex with Damian Wayne."

She thought she had mumbled it quietly enough.

She was wrong.

Amara raised an eyebrow, sharing a knowing look with Jenni. “Aless, darling, that’s just a you thing. Also, you have two more minutes of silent time. Don’t make me add one more.” Aless rolled her eyes.

Piper leaned forward, grinning like she’d just uncovered a secret. “If you want someone to make love to you, obsess over you, and declare you’re their one and only, you’re not gonna find that in Damian Wayne. But for the heiresses? A fun night with someone who isn’t a total Hartland is a win.”

“Hartland Relaty’s son,” Jenni chimed in after seeing the question mark on Aless’ face, popping a gummy worm in her mouth. “ The worst. Didn’t he try to name his dog after his ex-fiancée?”

“Right?!” Amara giggled. “Miss Paperclip Heiress probably dodged a bullet.”

“Miss Paperclip?” Rebs asked, eyes wide.

“Long story,” Piper said, waving it off. “Point is, Damian Wayne’s giving respectable playboy energy these days. It's so working for him and us. Our views are up ten-fold after you wrote that tell-all with the model, Jenni.”

Aless slammed her notebook shut, the sound startling everyone. “Damian Wayne is a dick. Just because he covers it up with PR stunts doesn’t mean what I wrote wasn’t true. You all heard the audio recording! He’s pompous, entitled, and cruel. And now? His fan club won’t leave me alone. I’ve gotten doxxing threats!”

The room went silent for half a beat before Jane broke it with a loud, exaggerated gasp. “Maybe it was just a bad night! Look, he dedicated millions of dollars to Gotham Zoo so they could acquire pandas after US-China relations got better. Does that seem like the work of someone who’s pompous and entitled? Add another minute to her quiet timer.” 

Aless just grumbled, setting her head back down on the table. 

In the month since Aless had published her scathing article about Damian Wayne, the universe itself seemed hell-bent on making her look like a complete idiot forever thinking she had the upper hand.

Damian, as if personally offended by her existence, had embarked on a silent mission to obliterate every single word she’d written—not by denying it, not by issuing statements, but by simply being an infuriatingly perfect contradiction. Every accusation she’d thrown at him? He countered effortlessly, just by existing .

She’d called him cold and indifferent? Suddenly, he was Gotham’s most charming billionaire, flashing just the right smiles and making just the right moves. She’d painted him as an entitled rich brat? Now, he was personally making tea for heiresses and treating them like royalty. And the press—oh, the press—was lapping it up. Every party, every lavish night out with some model or socialite, every suspiciously well-timed charity donation, only elevated his status. Damian Wayne was no longer just a billionaire—he was an enigma , a masterclass in PR, a walking counterpoint to every criticism she had thrown his way.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t even trying.

Damian wasn’t out here crafting an image. He was just being Damian Wayne —and somehow, that was enough to make her look petty for ever daring to challenge him.

Even after she got reassigned to the Queen’s column, he still haunted her. His name still dominated every meeting. The fangirls (and fanboys) still clogged up her inbox, ready to remind her just how wrong she had been. Even Jon, bless his heart, kept checking in to see if she was okay as if she hadn’t been dealing with Damian’s nonsense since childhood.

And then there were the stories. Jane went to his party last week. Came back gushing about how Damian had danced with some random heiress, looking after her like she was the most precious creature on Earth. The same man Aless had called detached, cruel, and indifferent? Now being hailed as Gotham’s most eligible dreamboat?

It was infuriating. It was impossible.

And, apparently, it was her new reality.

The only break she might have had was if his fan club finally left her alone—but, of course, they didn’t.

Every day, her inbox was flooded with messages from Damian Wayne’s personal army of admirers. Some called her a hater , others accused her of jealousy, and a few were convinced she was secretly in love with him ( which—no. Absolutely not ). They told her to leave Gotham’s golden boy alone. They dragged her article through the mud.

And the worst part?

Somewhere, she knew Damian was enjoying every second of it.

And her editor? They didn’t give a damn. All anyone cared about were the clicks, the views, the viral gossip. No one cared about substance. No one cared about meaningful journalism anymore.

Aless sat at her desk now, staring at her screen, and the words wouldn’t come. The next assignment was a fluff piece on Oliver Queen’s possible divorce, and she couldn’t find it in herself to care. The constant pressure to make something—anything—catchy and sensational was draining her. She missed the days when she wrote stories with teeth, with bite. When she exposed the flaws, the raw truths, not just the empty veneers of Gotham’s elite.

She wanted to write again.

But all she could think about was the conversation with the chief earlier that morning, as much as she hated to admit it. He had told her that the defamation case she was facing—the one that had been the catalyst for her sudden fall into the gossip column—was “complicated.” Complicated. That was the word he always used. It was a polite way of saying we don’t know how long this will take and we don’t want to risk our credibility in the process .

They weren’t telling her the whole truth, and she knew it. They were stalling, stringing her along. They had moved her to the gossip desk, and they were never going to let her return to the serious writing. She’d asked about a timeline, asked for clarity, but the answers were vague and uncertain. “ We’re handling it, ” Chief had said, but there had been a distinct lack of urgency in his voice. It was as if they were perfectly content with the situation as it was. 

A cold knot twisted in her gut. What if this wasn’t just about the lawsuit? What if this was the end of the road? What if they were using this as an excuse to keep her right where she was, never promoting her again, never trusting her with the harder, more substantial stories? What if they really just hired her because of her mother and now they’d found the best way to end her career quietly? 

She had already been moved once, shifted into the gossip column like a pawn they didn’t know what to do with. It felt like a slow death.

Aless ran a hand through her hair, pulling it into a messy ponytail, but it didn’t help clear her mind. She glanced at the clock—just a little after noon. The words she needed to write were stuck in her head, but they wouldn’t come out.

Her phone buzzed with another DM notification. She almost didn’t look at it, but it was like a reflex now. The message popped up—another fan of Damian Wayne, sending her a message about how wrong she’d been.

Aless sighed, rubbing her temples. She was so tired of this.

She glanced at her work inbox, the subject lines of emails staring back at her: “Gotham’s Best Dressed: Fashion Week Recap” , “Rich Heiresses Dating Gotham’s Elite: The New Power Couples, ” “ Damian Wayne’s Secret Charitable Work: Morals Over Public Praise ”. The same recycled garbage.

This isn’t what I wanted, she thought, staring at her computer screen. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t why I became a writer. 

She missed the challenge of uncovering real stories. The thrill of getting to the truth, the excitement of turning over stones and finding the ugly, uncomfortable bits of Gotham’s pristine surface. She wasn’t just writing anymore. She was keeping the hamster wheel spinning, writing the same vapid nonsense day in and day out.

It felt hollow.

Aless was drowning in the noise of it all, and it felt like no one was listening when she said she was ready for something more. Something meaningful. Something that could help her reclaim her career, even if it meant wading into the muck of scandal and secrets.

But maybe... maybe this was the moment to break out of the rut.

She could feel it in her gut. The desire to get back to real journalism. To cut through the fluff, through the shiny distractions. To write about something more meaningful than all of this. On her own. To send it off to other media outlets and get published elsewhere. To leave the Gazette. It was an idea that she started giving more and more thought every day. 

When she asked Jay about it, he seemed supportive.

“No, I think it’s a great idea,” he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes lighting up as he spoke. “The Gazette doesn’t cut it for what you want to write. If you find a completely new story, something Pulitzer-worthy, and send it off, I’m sure hundreds of media outlets will be fighting over you. Even the Gazette might make a play to keep you.”

Aless frowned, biting into her pasta, considering his words. If. Something new. Find something new. She could hear the faint buzz of her phone in her pocket, but she ignored it, trying to focus on what Jay was saying.

“Like,” Jay continued, pausing as if for dramatic effect, “you’ve been suffocating in that column for weeks. You can’t write what you really want to write there. You’re better than this. You’re an amazing writer, and they aren’t treating you like it. Go somewhere that does value you. Don’t just stay at Gotham because I’m here.”

Aless hadn’t realized how much she missed hearing that until now. She had always prided herself on her work. The sharp edges, the biting commentary, the truths others were too afraid to say. It was what had gotten her recognized in the first place, and what had made the Gazette take her seriously— once upon a time. 

“But what if…” She faltered, the doubt creeping in like a shadow. “What if they don’t care? What if…” Her voice wavered, and she hated it. She hated how lost she felt at this moment.

Jay shook his head, his expression hardening in the way he got when he was serious. “Someone else will recognize your worth. You’ve just got to show them you’re more than this. If you keep thinking what ‘ What if’ you’ll never take that first jump. Sit on it for a bit, try to find a topic to dig into, and write it at home. I’m sure you have a giant list of topics anyway.”

She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself or him anymore, but her voice was quiet when she spoke again. “I think… I think I can find something. Something that’s been hiding in plain sight. Something new. Something more than just my usual Gotham crime too.”

Jay chuckled softly, crossing his arms. “You have to take a step. Control your future. The story will come to you. They always do.” He shrugged. 

It was risky. To take all of her free time and shove it into a new story. One that might never see the light of day. But she needed something to shake off this sense of suffocation, to prove that she wasn’t just some tabloid journalist. She was a real reporter. 

“Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll do it. I’ll find the story.”

The only problem was she couldn’t leave Gotham. Not without her uncle's permission. 

Jay’s smile was easy like he had expected nothing less from her. “And if you need any help with investigating or anything. I’m with you, Aless. Whatever you need.” At that moment, Aless never wanted to ask him more about The Truth. Sh e was always curious why he hid behind an identity, or how he started the organization, or how heroes and humans all worked together… or how to join. It never seemed right though. It was just something she accidentally saw him doing in college, and she’d kept that secret from him ever since.

Maybe after she’d written the piece fully, she’d hand it to him. For The Truth. 

When Aless returned to her desk, the blank document still loomed in front of her, its emptiness mocking her. But somehow, she didn’t feel the weight of it anymore. In fact, she felt... lighter. She wasn’t stuck. They couldn’t keep her in this rut forever. Aless was ready to fight her way out, to prove she was more than the gossip column they’d trapped her in. And when she did, the Board would see just how wrong they’d been to keep her sidelined.

Then she was going to win that damn Pulitzer. 

She was just about to dive back into that Ideas document, to keep the momentum going, when her phone vibrated on the desk. It was a sudden interruption, a jarring one that yanked her back to reality. She glanced down at the screen, expecting it to be Jay with another supportive message or another scathing DM.

But it wasn’t.

The name on the screen wasn’t anyone she expected. The number was unfamiliar, but the message—it felt like a punch in the gut.

+17865462365: Hello. This is Damian Wayne. I would like to apologize over dinner. Do you have time this weekend?

Aless’s heart skipped a beat as she stared at the text, the shock of it almost too much to process. Apologize? Damian Wayne? Apologize? It took a few moments for her brain to catch up to what she was reading as if the words themselves were mocking her. Damian Wayne, her literal nemesis, was now offering her an apology.

She blinked hard, trying to shake off the sudden disbelief that gripped her. This was Damian Wayne we were talking about. The same guy who had made her life miserable in high school, taunting her relentlessly about her aspirations and calling her “just a wannabe writer.” The one who’d bullied her about her first-ever article, laughing it off as if it meant nothing, as if she meant nothing. The one who never once showed an ounce of remorse, even when she was left humiliated in front of the school, her life torn apart by his cruel words.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

The only reason he would apologize now was to—

Oh.

Aless’s stomach twisted as the realization hit her. This was all a calculated move. He wasn’t sorry . He was playing her. This was the final nail in the coffin. The grand PR stunt.

She could see it so clearly now: Damian Wayne, the heir to the Wayne fortune, had been painted as the villain in her article, the entitled, cruel rich boy with no depth. So, what better way to erase that image than by going after the one person who dared expose it? If he could get her —the reporter who’d written the scathing article about him—to forgive him, to see him as more than just the spoiled rich brat, then it would be a perfect PR win. 

He’d be able to wash his hands of the bad press, and maybe even come out of this looking like the misunderstood golden boy.

But Aless wasn’t that easily manipulated.

She snorted aloud, shaking her head.

Oh no, you don’t.

Damian Wayne had underestimated her again. She wasn’t going to fall for this—no matter how charming or persuasive he tried to be. This wasn’t about him apologizing; this was about fixing his image. Making her look like the one who’d misunderstood him.

Not happening.

With a steely resolve, Aless typed out a response, her fingers quick but deliberate. She wasn’t going to let him walk all over her, or anyone else, for that matter. She wasn’t going to let him get away with anything .

Aless: I’m available Saturday night. Dinner sounds fine. 

She hit send, her eyes narrowing with determination. If he thought he could pull some fast one on her, he was sorely mistaken. She would confront him about everything. All the lies, all the manipulation, and all the ways he had tried to twist the narrative. She wouldn’t let him off the hook just because he decided to make a last-minute attempt at damage control.

This would be his chance to prove he wasn’t the monster she’d written about.

But Aless had a feeling it wasn’t going to go the way he thought. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

And if he wanted to prove himself? Fine. Let’s see if he could walk the walk.

Her phone vibrated with a new message just as she leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen with the same intensity she always brought to her work. This is my turf, Damian. I’m not going to make it easy.

+17865462365: Perfect. I will have a car pick you up at 7PM. 

Aless was ready to get all her answers.

Chapter Text

When she gave him her address on Saturday morning, Aless assumed he’d be sending a car. With a driver. To take her to the restaurant she had to Google . What she didn’t expect was Damian Wayne— Damian Wayne —standing there, casually holding a bouquet of flowers like he wasn’t the same insufferable, entitled pain in the ass that he’d been to her two months ago. His dark green shirt clung to him in a way that was far too effortlessly stylish, and the Audi behind him only added to the absurdity of the moment. 

She couldn’t stop the sharp snort that escaped her lips. "Well, this is great. I just gave you my address. What’s the plan now? Gonna show up at my door with a knife, or is this your idea of a charming first date?" She crossed her arms, eyes narrowed as she sized him up.

Damian didn’t even flinch at her tone, his expression unreadable, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in something like amusement. "I don’t recall calling this a date," Damian said, his tone flat but purposeful, "but if that's how you want to label it, I have no issue with it." He extended the bouquet with a deliberate motion. "For you."

She stared at the flowers for a long beat, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. It was too predictable—just another part of his plan. Flowers to soften her up, charm to win her over, all of it designed to make her swoon and delete her article. She wasn’t some naïve heiress, and she wasn’t about to fall for it.

"Let me guess," she muttered, taking the bouquet with a small sigh, "this is part of your 'better public image' stunt? I’m not buying it.” Aless held the bouquet in one hand, turning it sideways to inspect it. He couldn’t have thought this would work. 

Damian shrugged, unfazed. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t like starting things off with an apology text." She turned towards the car, looking over his shoulder at her. 

Tonight, she was dressed in a simple black dress that hugged her figure in ways he hadn’t expected to note. It wasn’t flashy or attention-grabbing like the previous ones he’d seen her wear, but somehow, it made her look... different . The kind of difference that might have stopped another man in his tracks. 

Her hair, usually tied up in some hasty bun or ponytail, was down tonight, cascading around her shoulders. The light from the streetlamp reflected off the dark strands, making them shine in a way that reminded him of his mother’s hair after she’d just oiled it. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her like this—no, that wasn’t true. He had seen her in formal attire, but when she dressed up before, her hair had always been neatly pulled back, as if to make sure there was no softness to her at all. The kind of length that made his thoughts get a little... distracted.

She looks nice , he realized before he could stop himself. The thought caught him off guard, almost like it was something he’d never allowed himself to admit.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, the words slipped from his mouth. They weren’t part of the persona he’d carefully built. It wasn’t Dami Wayne , the billionaire playboy, talking to her. It was just him —something raw and genuine, a moment of weakness he hadn’t planned on, something that slipped out before he had a chance to calculate her reaction and tell himself to backpedal, to cover it up with a sarcastic quip or a defensive remark.

In that fleeting instant, he’d forgotten the mask. And, for a second, it felt like he was the one standing there, not the version of himself he’d created for the world. He berated himself heavily for it later. 

“You look beautiful tonight,” Damian said, the words simple but heavy with something that felt unusually genuine for him.

Aless didn’t blink. She didn’t look surprised, didn’t even seem flattered. Instead, she crossed her arms and gave him a knowing, almost amused look.

“Is that the move now, Wayne?” she asked, her voice cutting through the air like a sharp knife. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and she tilted her head, eyeing him with suspicion. What’s the catch?

Instantly, he snapped back into his practiced lines, the familiar mask sliding over his features like a second skin. He needed to stay calm around her. An apology wasn’t going to work if he insulted her again. 

“If I can’t tell a beautiful woman she looks stunning, then Gotham really has gone to hell,” he shot back quickly, his tone sharper than he meant, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice as if the words had already been rehearsed in front of a mirror too many times.

Aless raised an eyebrow, her expression unwavering, unimpressed. Of course, he’d say that. It was just another part of the script. “My, you’re just so charming, Mister Wayne ,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re really giving me a lot of material to swoon over.”

Her eyes didn’t soften, not for a second. She could see right through him. Every word, every gesture—she had seen it a hundred times before, had read about it in the tabloids, had witnessed it with other women who fell for his act. Women who didn’t know any better, who saw the expensive dinners, the suave smiles, the attention as some kind of prize.

But Aless wasn’t like them. Damian wasn’t actually going to treat her like that either. 

It’s all fake. It’s all for his image. She didn’t need to ask herself if he was being genuine. She knew he wasn’t.

Damian approached the sleek, black car, the sound of his polished shoes clicking against the pavement as he moved toward the passenger side. He reached for the door handle, ready to open it for Aless with that smooth gesture of chivalry that was second nature to him. But before he could even touch the handle, Aless held up a hand, her eyes sharp and unwavering.

“Hands off.”

Damian paused mid-motion, his fingers just inches from the door, confusion flickering across his face. "Excuse me?"

"I said," she repeated, her tone flat, "hands off."

Without waiting for him to process, she stepped forward, giving him a pointed look. With a swift movement, she grabbed the door handle herself and pulled it open.

Damian just stood there, completely thrown off guard. His brow furrowed, his mouth slightly ajar as he watched her get in without a second glance. He wanted to defend himself because this was absolutely ridiculous . He was raised to be a gentleman. Even if he hated her guts most of the time, Bruce would be appalled if he didn’t open the door for any woman first. Even if it was Harvey or Ivy. 

Okay, now Alessandra was starting to piss him off again. 

Fuck. Who the hell does she think she is? Stay calm. Stay calm. Don’t bring up that she hasn’t written for the Gazette in over a month. Don’t let her bait you into a fight—just breathe. You don’t have to say it. You won’t.

She slid into the seat, settling in, and then with a deliberate motion, she slammed the door shut— but not before giving him a final look through the window . “I can open a damn door, Damian. You don’t need to act like a fake gentleman for me. I know the truth.”

Damian blinked, momentarily frozen in place. He stood there, staring at the car, the metallic sound of the door shutting still ringing in his ears. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay. Calm.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, getting in the driver’s seat. On the way to the restaurant, she didn’t talk to him once. He inquired about the music - a shrug. He asked about the temperature - she just reached over and changed it herself without a word. Fine. We don’t have to talk now. 

He wasn’t above petty acts though. When she turned the radio station to something she seemed to like better, he muted it from the steering wheel. He didn’t miss the glare she sent her way. It made him smirk softly as he tapped his fingers.

When they got to the restaurant, she was thankful they were seated in a private area. Away from prying eyes and ears. If she was caught by a magazine in a photo with him, the girls would never let her live that down. They would put her back on the Damian Wayne watch, and it would truly be her last straw before she jumped off the Gotham Bridge. 

Actually , seeing the Damian was eyeing her across the table, this date might be enough to do it. When he handed the wine list to the waiter, after ordering something obscenely expensive that Aless knew was going to taste like ass, he turned and gave her one of those charming smiles that were plastered all over social media right now. She would see why it worked, but it didn’t affect her. She wasn’t going to let it. She just leaned back in her chair, folding her hands casually as she studied him across the table.

"So, Alessandra," he began smoothly, his voice a practiced mix of warmth and amusement, "how have things been with your... articles lately?" Small talk? He really wanted to engage in small talk with her? 

She paused, then glanced at him with an eyebrow raised, setting down her glass. Ugh, this wine was actually great. "Seriously, Damian? You think I’m going to buy that?"

He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching. This is going to be much harder than I thought. "Buy what?"

"The whole ‘rich, charming Wayne boy’ act," she said, her voice flat. "Stop faking around me. I know you’re not like this. You’re a complete asshole to me." Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, staring at him. "You don't get to be nice for one night and expect me to fall for it. And the flowers? Really? Let me go set them by my mother’s hospital bed since you seem to care so much."

Damian froze, the smile fading slightly. For a moment, he was unsure how to respond. His brain whirred in a split second. He’d been rehearsing this whole evening in his mind like it was a battle plan. He’d surprise her with the flowers. He’d try and have a conversation with her that wasn’t all jabs here and there. Then, he’d apologize. But Aless wasn’t buying it. And that... he really should’ve known that. The last time he’d tried to apologize to her, she literally punched him in the face.

Her eyes stayed locked on his, unwavering as if daring him to continue the charade.

"Just stop pretending, Damian," she pressed. "I know you. More than any of the heiresses you enjoy fucking so much." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "So just lay on the apology so we can get it over with. Maybe we won’t even have to order food.”

Alright, that’s it. This-

Damian took a deep breath, thinking about the conversation he had with Jon right before this. The methods he could use. He could feel his mind racing, but for once, the thoughts weren’t as cold and calculated as usual. Jon’s words echoed in his head— You don’t always have to wear the mask. It’s okay to be real with people. 

Damian cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. He wasn’t used to this— admitting anything. But there was something about the way Aless looked at him, something that made him... want to try. Really try . He didn’t need to try and convince her of a lie when she’d already seen through it. She already knows who he is. No, how he was. He needed to start correcting his behavior. 

"You’re right," he said, his tone almost... reluctant sounding to Aless. "It’s not me. The whole... playboy thing." He paused, his eyes dropping briefly to his hands, clenched just slightly in his lap. "I’ve been... trying to be my father. Trying to be who Gotham thinks I’m supposed to be."

Aless raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. Did that just… Did that just come out of his mouth? “What?”

Damian clenched his fists under the table, but his voice softened like he was forcing words out that didn’t come easily. "I would like to commence with the apology now.” 

This is awful. Why do I feel like this? Maybe because the last time I said sorry she hit me in the jaw. No, but I need to do this. This will help everything. Not just whatever hatred we have between each other, but for myself. To let go. To be better. To not be so enraged. 

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, as Aless tried to gauge whether to be skeptical, cautious, or— curious ? This wasn’t the Damian she knew. This wasn’t the arrogant, smug playboy who could wrap anyone around his finger with a well-timed smirk. No, this was... different. The usual confidence, the self-assuredness, had slipped away, leaving something that almost felt like vulnerability. And, if she was honest with herself, it unsettled her more than it should have.

Was this some sort of calculated move? Some twisted game of four-dimensional chess she didn’t understand? Because that was the Damian she knew. He always had an angle, always played at least five steps ahead, and everything— everything —was for some greater purpose.

But then he spoke again, and this time, the weight of his words made her stomach twist. It made her fill with guilt. 

"Alessandra. I’ve treated you harshly," he said, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper, yet there was no mistaking the sincerity beneath the cold, clipped tone. "Since we’ve been in school together. The things I’ve said to you. My birthday..." He paused for a second, his jaw tightening as though the words themselves were difficult to say.

"I insulted you, your career, your mother, and your family countless times," he continued, each word more deliberate than the last like he was carefully considering the weight of every syllable before it left his mouth. "I would like to formally apologize for all of that. I should never have said those things. I shouldn’t have been so cruel."

The words hung in the air, the silence between them deepening as Aless processed what he’d just said. This wasn’t the Damian who'd made snide comments behind her back or tossed insults like they were a casual conversation. This wasn’t the boy who liked to twist the knife when he felt threatened or insecure. This was... genuine , as much as she hated to admit it.

And still, her instincts told her to guard herself. To question him. To wait for the catch.

But as she sat there, watching him with narrowed eyes, she couldn’t help but feel the flicker of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that wasn’t just a façade. Something that felt... real. Even if she didn’t want it to.

Damian's posture was stiffer than usual, his eyes cast down slightly as if the weight of his apology was pulling him down. There was no bravado here, no playful arrogance. He was sitting here, completely exposed in a way that, for once, didn’t feel calculated.

And it was almost... jarring.

He took another breath, as though gathering his resolve, before speaking again, voice steady but far from its usual confident self. "I know I don’t have the right to expect anything from you after everything I’ve done. But I want you to know that I regret it. All of it. The way I’ve treated you, the things I’ve said—it wasn’t just wrong, it was unnecessary." He looked up at her then, his gaze direct but almost... vulnerable? She wasn’t sure if she could read him correctly, but there was something different about the way he looked at her now.

"I won’t make excuses for it by saying I was a child, because I wasn’t. I was arrogant, rude, and disrespectful. And I shouldn’t have been." There was a finality to his words, a clarity she rarely saw in him.

He paused again as if considering how to finish, before adding, in a quieter tone: "I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m just telling you... that I am sorry. And I’m not just saying that because it’s the right thing to say or because I want you to publish this in an article later. I mean it."

He watched as Aless sat there, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. It was rare to see Damian Wayne in such a raw state, without the armor of his usual bravado, without the mask. For the first time, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth. But the problem was, she wasn’t sure how to believe him.

Damian was now just mentally cringing at the words that had just left his mouth. Waiting for her answer. He couldn’t believe he had actually said that. This wasn’t what he had planned. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He just…it came out. 

He had come here to apologize, sure, but in his mind, it had been more about getting back on her good side—about repairing whatever damaged image of himself he’d created with her. What he hadn’t planned on was this... genuine apology slipping out. The words were almost foreign to him, like a stranger’s voice speaking through his own mouth. He didn’t do vulnerability. He didn’t do this whole " admitting you’re wrong " thing. Not with her because she would just throw it back in his face. He was ready for it too.

But there they were, those damn words, hanging in the air between them like a confession he wasn’t ready to make.

I should’ve stuck to the plan.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Damian Wayne didn’t apologize—at least, not in the way that felt... real. Real. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said something that sincere without a hidden agenda behind it. Was this what he’d been reduced to? Sitting there like a fool, confessing his wrongs without any immediate payoff? What was wrong with him?

But as soon as he thought that, his mind pulled him back to that night at the party when everything had spiraled out of control. When Alessandra had thrown his own legacy back in his face.

He had been furious at the time, defensive. His instincts had screamed at him to lash out, to strike back with something equally cutting. But as he replayed it now, after everything that had happened in the past few weeks—his thoughts about the suit, his legacy, his opening up to Jon—he started to realize something that made his stomach turn.

This is how I made her feel. During all those years.

The realization hit him like a gut punch when Jon had said it—suggested that he short-circuited at the party because he’d never experienced that kind of confrontation before. And it hit harder than he expected: This. This is how I made her feel.

The helplessness. The sense of being belittled. The isolation. All those moments when he’d thrown out insults when he’d been cruel to feed his own ego, his own insecurity. He thought back to every time he’d dismissed her and treated her like nothing more than an obstacle or a pawn in his game. At that moment, something clicked deep inside him, like a switch flicking on in his chest. He had felt it that night—something raw and unexpected. It wasn’t just the sting of her words; it wasn’t even the rush of anger or defensiveness that had surged through him at the time. No, it was the realization of how he had been treating her. How he’d treated everyone .

Harsh. Cold. Detached.

He saw it now—the pattern, the way he’d distanced himself from the very people who’d cared about him, the way he’d kept them all at arm’s length. And suddenly, it felt suffocating, like the walls he’d built around himself were closing in. It was too late to undo it, but he could feel it now—the weight of his actions, the damage he had caused, and the emptiness of it all.

And it was humbling —mortifying, even.

And Dammit. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it be someone else? Someone who didn’t know him the way she did? Someone who would accept the apology? Someone who didn’t see through the bullshit? He stood there, still awkwardly watching her, feeling a little exposed. A little too... human for his liking. This wasn’t how he was supposed to act. This wasn’t how Damian Wayne was supposed to act.

But there it was.

I’m sorry, he thought again as if the phrase was somehow trying to root itself in him. And he was sorry. Deep down, he was .

She was the first person in his life who’d actually forced him to face the truth—his own flaws, his own insecurities. She’d been the one who had gotten under his skin more than anyone else ever had. And, yes, it pissed him off, but at the same time, it was... necessary . This was all necessary in his quest to take the cowl. 

A part of him— the old part —wanted to step back, change the subject, maybe throw in some biting remark to cover it all up. But there was another part of him, a part that felt new and uncomfortable, that just wanted to stand there and let her process it. Let her do whatever she needed to do. Let her say whatever she wanted to say to him. 

Maybe, just maybe, he was growing. Maybe Jon was right. Maybe Dick was right. Maybe he was on the path to becoming something... better. And if that meant facing the consequences, feeling mortified and exposed (at a proportionate rate, he begged whatever deity was listening), then so be it. He could handle it.

Aless blinked, her heart skipping a beat. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard him correctly, or if he was just toying with her, but... that sounded real. For the first time, Damian Wayne actually seemed... human. Genuine.

"You’re actually apologizing?" she asked, almost in disbelief. “You? Damian Wayne?”

Damian's gaze flickered, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before it quickly hardened again. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be this... real. To admit, out loud, that he had failed —that his ego, his need to be seen as superior, had torn down someone who hadn’t deserved it. It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to do. It felt like an admission of weakness, and that was the last thing Damian Wayne wanted to be. Weak.

No, this wasn’t being weak. This was being honest. Respectable. Confronting the things he’d left to ruin. This is what it meant to be Batman. 

But the silence stretched, heavy between them, and as Aless watched him, her eyes not mocking or judgmental but expectant—waiting for something real, something authentic—he couldn’t just take it back. He couldn’t take her back to where they had been, with their petty insults and the cold wall he had built between them. Not anymore.

"Yes," he muttered, the words almost clipped, still unfamiliar. "I am actually apologizing. For all of it."

Her expression didn’t soften, but there was something there—Doubt. 

"You don't believe me," Damian continued, staring down at his clenched hands again. "I would not believe me entirely either." The confession was raw, something that made his skin burn. "I am not begging you to forgive me—not yet. But I... I want you to know that I do mean it."

Aless raised an eyebrow, still not willing to give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. But there was something shifting in her. Something subtle.

Damian sat back in his chair, trying to regain his composure, but the weight of what he’d just said—the truth of it—hung heavy on him. The mask was still there, but it was cracked. For once, the facade of the perfect Wayne heir, the untouchable playboy, wasn’t there to shield him. It was just him. And it felt... strange. It felt like a mistake. He had been prepared for her to reject him, to mock him for being so out of character, to remind him of every time he had hurt her in the past.

Instead, there was only silence.

Aless' mind was a whirlwind as she sat across from him, her eyes studying his every movement, trying to decipher the authenticity of his words. She had seen enough of Damian Wayne over the years to know that this wasn’t the kind of apology he usually gave. He was a master of manipulation, of carefully crafted masks, always keeping everyone at arm’s length, including her. The last time he’d said sorry to her she was so broken that she…So why now? Why, after everything, was he standing here—vulnerable, raw, and confessing things that felt... real? It just felt all too coincidental to what was happening around them.

The sudden shift in his demeanor, the almost painful honesty in his voice, threw her off balance. Part of her wanted to dismiss it as some calculated ploy, a fleeting moment of weakness he would quickly cover up. But another part—deep down, where she didn’t want to admit it— wanted to believe him. Wanted to heal that inner child. She wanted to let go of what he did to her… and what she said to him in turn. The Damian Wayne she had known didn’t apologize. The one sitting in front of her right now felt... different. How could it be the same person?

But that was the problem. She didn’t trust him. She knew better than to give into the soft, apologetic act. She almost… wanted him to hurt more. He had hurt her before. He had cut her down, belittled her, and mocked everything she had worked for. And now, after all of that, he was asking her to believe that he was sorry? That he regretted the things he had done? Could he really have changed? Or was this just another game, another layer of manipulation designed to get her to drop her guard so he could continue the same toxic dance? Aless found herself torn—suspicious, guarded, yet… wanting it so badly to be real. What if it was real? What if he really was trying to be better? But she couldn’t let herself believe in it—not yet. Not after everything. So instead, she remained silent, studying him as if trying to find the cracks in his armor, waiting for him to slip up, to reveal that all of this—every word, every gesture—was just another mask he had slipped on.

And then, slowly, Aless looked up at him again. His eyes, god, she’d never seen them like this. Pleading. "I’ll admit... that’s the last thing I expected." She leaned forward slightly, her arms still crossed. "But... I’m not sure that this —" she gestured to the flowers, to his earlier charm, to the whole charade of the evening—"is the way to go about it."

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"I don’t need the flowers," she continued. "I don’t need the expensive wine, the dinner, or the car, or any of the nonsense. I’ve seen that side of you before, and I know exactly what you’re doing."

He stiffened, his earlier thoughts of growth now slipping away as he shifted back into his old, defensive stance. She was right, however. It was all part of his image. His manicured plan to grab Gotham’s heart. He was doing the same thing he always did—throwing out an apology and hoping she’d buy it just because of the trappings that came with it. The flowers. The expensive restaurant. The perfect presentation. He’d done the same thing to appease a singer last week who thought they had something between them and felt slighted when he went home with a diplomat's daughter the next week. 

Aless was right to call him out. It was everything he hated about that personality too. 

"I’m still not sure what to make of you now, Damian," she said, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful than cutting. "It’s hard. Very hard to ever see you and your actions as separate from when we were in school. But I’ll admit... I didn’t expect this either. I didn’t expect you to come here and actually... be real."

Damian’s chest tightened, and he found himself staring at her in surprise. For a moment, the harshness between them faded into something new—a fragile, tentative truce.

"You were… right about me," he said softly, almost to himself. "I was an angry, spoiled child, too busy trying to prove I belonged in a world I never asked for. That I was better than it. When things got out of control, I didn't know how to handle it, so I took it out on whoever was closest—people like you, my siblings, anyone who dared to get in the way." He exhaled sharply, almost bitterly. "I still don’t understand why they don’t all resent me like you do."

Resent . Did she really resent him? There was a time that she would have answered ‘ yes ’ with no hesitation, but now when he said that to her - when he acknowledged the hatred- there was just guilt. 

"I believe I am starting to atone for those sins. And I’m starting to think I want to find out who I am," he added, eyes lifting to meet hers again.

Aless remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling in the space between them. She didn’t trust him—not completely—but there was something different in his eyes. Something that felt less like a performance and more like a man struggling to shed the weight of his own armor.

She shook her head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Well, for what it’s worth, you’re not the only one who’s trying to figure that out." She glanced at him from under her lashes, a touch of wariness still in her gaze, but also... something else.

Damian nodded, a soft exhale leaving his lips. Dick had told him to find someone to talk to about everything. To vent. To burden. He didn’t think that would mean her. Perhaps, however, it was easier to be judged by someone who hated you instead of someone who claimed to love you. There were no expectations or feelings for her to break. If she accepted him, he would be happily shocked, but if she rejected him, it would be as expected. “I… Can I ask you a question about the Gazette? ” 

“You can, but I might not answer.” 

“Why do you not leave? If they are trying to confine you into a box and constantly shove you into the shadows when your writing is worthy of front page news, why do you not escape?” Aless blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. She hadn’t expected him to turn the focus back on her, especially not after everything he had just said. She was shocked for many reasons. One, because it was something she asked herself every day. Two, because he had just admitted, whether it was intentional or not, that her writing was good. And he had never done that before. 

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, but she didn’t look away from him. His gaze was uncharacteristically intense as if he was waiting for an answer to something deeper than the question itself.

Why did she stay?

The easy answer was her uncle.

He controlled when she came to Gotham and when she left. It wasn’t up to her. Not really. Not when he held the financial strings to her entire life. Her apartment, her mother’s hospital bills, the very stability that kept her from spiraling into complete ruin—it all traced back to him. And as long as that was the case, she didn’t get to make decisions for herself.

The Gotham Gazette wasn’t a choice. It was a command.

But…The real answer felt like a weight in her chest, something she’d been trying to push down for months. It wasn’t just the Gazette’s blatant disregard for her work—it was the feeling that, no matter where she went, she was always going to be trapped in some kind of box. That she was going to fail any and everywhere. She could run from the news, but there would always be another form of confinement waiting for her. And, honestly, wasn’t there something almost comfortable in the struggle? It had become part of who she was, part of what she fought against. But hearing it from him, from someone who had built a life based on expectation and perception, suddenly made it feel a lot more real.

"You think my writing is worthy of front-page news?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. It was ridiculous, but she couldn’t quite stop herself from being surprised by the admission. Damian Wayne, of all people, acknowledging her talent? That felt... off. And yet, here he was, doing it in the same breath he’d been confessing his own flaws. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to read something—anything—that might give her an answer to why he had said that. It didn’t fit. Nothing about this night fit.

“Yes.” He admitted again. And perhaps the sincerity in his eyes, something she’d never seen before, was the reason she opened her mouth again. 

"Why do I stay?" she finally asked, her voice quieter than she intended. "I don't know. Maybe because it's easier than trying to find a way out. Because a job that's at least close to doing what I want is still a job." She paused, swallowing down the rest of her drink, letting the burn of it settle in her chest before she added, “Maybe because I don’t believe anyone will give me a chance to be anything more than just another reporter in the shadows.” She didn’t look at him as she said it. Instead, she let her gaze fall on the empty glass in front of her, the faint reflection of their faces shimmering on the polished surface. 

Aless couldn’t believe she was even saying this to him of all people. 

He cleared his throat, his eyes darting away from hers, unwilling to meet the steady gaze she held. He had already said more than he intended, but something about him had drawn it out of him. He never shared things like this. Not with anyone other than Dick and Jon. Especially not with her. But the words, uninvited, slipped past his guard anyway. “I... was in a situation before,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, a strange hesitation in the air between them. "It was, in a way, similar to yours." He paused, trying to swallow the bitter memory of leaving Gotham for the Leauge. 

"It wasn’t what I wanted," he continued, his tone uncharacteristically blunt. "However, it took me years to realize that. I thought it was my path, and I was mistaken. And then, it took me even longer to actually depart from it. Because... staying, even though it was miserable, meant I didn’t have to find out if I was truly capable of more. Or, rather, if I truly wasn’t capable. That is something I am still figuring out here in Gotham." His voice trailed off, the weight of the words sinking into the space between them. The confession felt like something foreign, like a vulnerability he wasn’t used to acknowledging. Damian’s jaw tightened slightly as he turned his gaze to the side, unwilling to meet her eyes just yet.

“A fear of failure.” She just hummed, and let those words settle in between them. Time passed, and the waiter delivered the food Damian had ordered for them, but they still didn’t speak. Were they both afraid of what would come out of their mouths next? Like the facade was about to crumble, and the other would laugh, pointing a finger in their face and mocking them for ever thinking they actually cared. That’s what would have happened before. That’s what he’d done to her at graduation when he caught her crying behind the school. That’s what she’d done when he told her his mother threw away his art pieces. 

Maybe they just weren’t those people anymore. 

Why was it so hard for both of them to realize that? 

“In our old house,” Aless started, and his gaze snapped up to her thankful that someone had broken their long silence. “My mother always had up these ridiculous signs. Some of them were your normal ‘ Live, Laugh, Love’. Others were inspirational quotes plastered in front of a mountain range.” She laughed at the memory, “My father and I used to make a joke that my mother could dress people for red carpets, but she could never dress her own house.” 

Fuck . The memory hit Damian too fast for him to stop it. To suppress it like he’d been doing since he saw her in that cafe. The faces of both of them—mother and father—who he’d just dragged into the ER, looking lifeless. Dead on arrival. And there was Alessandra, crouched over them, her scream tearing through the air, demanding they wake up, demanding him to fix it. Screaming at Robin for not saving them.  

A fear of failure. 

“Well, anyway. One of the signs that was straight out of my bedroom… I always thought it was so stupid, but on days I had a test or I knew I had to confront you about something, I would stare at it. Repeat the quote over and over in my head until I felt confident enough to start the day. And somehow it worked, but I would never let my mom catch me doing it… Do you know what it said?” He was afraid. For a rare moment, Damian was afraid of knowing what it said. Still, he answered her. 

“What?” It was a mere whisper as he screwed his eyes shut, trying to get the image of her screaming at him out of his mind. 

" What if I fall ?" Aless paused, " But what if you fly ?"

She exhaled softly, her fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the table. “And it had a baby bird—a robin, I think—perched on the edge of its nest, getting ready to jump. Its first flight. Its first time leaving the nest.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess this whole conversation just… reminded me of it.”

The rest of the night passed in a haze of barely-there conversation, two-sentence exchanges, and casual comments about the food, neither of them really listening. Damian had withdrawn into himself, his thoughts churning, lost in the shadows of his own mind. Aless was thankful for the silence—an unfamiliar but welcome relief between the two of them. She didn't push him to speak. He didn’t ask her any more questions.

They ate in a shaky peace, the quiet only broken by the occasional clink of silverware against plates. Damian still hadn’t looked her in the eye since she’d spoken last, his gaze locked on the swirling red in his glass. At times, Aless would look up at him but could see there was a storm still raging in his eyes. At times, he would look at her, watching her eyes track the movements of the singer on stage, and could see there was wildfire smoldering at the edges of her control. 

They weren’t sure what had shifted between them, but there was a subtle change in the air—a new tension, not unpleasant, but not easily understood either. 

When he returned her home, he got out of the car like a gentleman, holding the door open for her as if it were the simplest thing in the world. She let him this time. Yet, despite the gesture and its acceptance, their parting was marked by a suffocating silence. Words lingered between them, heavy and unspoken, neither of them daring to break it. They stood there for a moment, the night air thick with the weight of everything they hadn’t said. Finally, Damian gave her a nod, his face betraying a little, before slipping back into the car. And Aless, watching him leave, couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment—this goodbye—had somehow changed everything, even though nothing had been said.

Though, it felt like maybe—just maybe—they weren’t as far apart as they used to be.

At work, she didn’t comment about him again. 

To Jon, Damian never mentioned her again. 

For almost a year, they became ghosts in each other’s lives again.

Chapter Text

Part Two. Batman.

Maps chuckled under her breath, swiping through more of the tweets with a growing sense of amusement. She could almost hear the exaggerated tone of the latest post in her head: “Damian Wayne: king of the Gotham elite... until he broke my heart into a thousand pieces. 💔 #DamianWayneBreakup #EmotionallyUnavailable #Heartbreaker.” The more she read, the harder it was to suppress her grin.

"Wow, D. She’s really going in on you here. Saying you were emotionally unavailable and that you broke her heart without warning,” Maps teased, glancing over her shoulder at Damian, who was seated at the Batcomputer, looking annoyingly focused on something only he could comprehend. She could tell he was trying to ignore her. She knew Damian didn’t like all the drama, even if he had to play into it, so she would abstain for his sake. However, this one was too tempting. 

Maps, Jason, Steph, Tim, and even Cass - who tried to see good in everyone- had to create a support group because dealing with Damian’s now ex-girlfriend ( thank you! ) was deteriorating their mental states daily. She was beautiful, sure, that's why she was a model, but her personality was the worst. And anyone could tell she was just after the Wayne fortune. Damian had told them specifically that he was engaging in a relationship with her ‘ only to hide my first official month as Batman ’ but one month bled into two because he was too busy with the cowl to attend to other matters. And during month three , Damian found her cheating on him. They were all happy he ended it. Even he found relief in the fact that he didn’t need to pretend to like her anymore. 

Damian stiffened, his eyes narrowing at the screen in front of him, running through mission files. “I don’t need your commentary on this, Mizoguchi. We have a job to do.” His voice was tight, but there was a flicker of irritation. With her awful personality, he expected it, but it annoyed him to no end that she had the audacity to go online and lie . He took a deep breath and repeated a mantra in his head to calm himself:

It’s all a distraction. A mask. To keep them from figuring out who I really am. It’s all worth it. As long as they never make the connection. There’s been no press on the new Batman. It’s worth it. It’s working. 

Maps shrugged, but the teasing lilt didn’t leave her voice. “What’s the matter? You did break up with her out of nowhere—well, after catching her with someone else, but… details.”

“I hadn’t warned her because there had been nothing to warn. The relationship had always been a tool, a convenient distraction, nothing more. She was dumb to ever think otherwise. She had served her purpose. She’d given Gotham something to chew on while I slipped into the shadows as Batman, something to keep the vultures at bay while I trained, planned, and grew into this role.” He exhaled, trying to push down the annoyance building inside him, but it wasn’t working. His mind kept circling, replaying the confrontation from earlier—the way she’d looked at him with those big, hurt eyes, like he was the one who’d wronged her. She hadn’t deserved anything from him, not a single ounce of sincerity. He had never once led her to believe this was anything real. And yet... she had dragged everything out into the open for Gotham to feast on.

He should thank her for making it so easy for him, but now because of her childish outburst on social media, he was going to have to take the time to charm a few more women to get his positive rating back up quickly. Bad news like this was only good if it stayed and went . Having too much attention on him would freeze up his ability to maneuver as Batman and he didn’t need that now. Especially, since Ivy was plotting something. 

“Well,” Maps slipped of the edge of the computer and shrugged, “If you don’t care, I guess we don’t care. Didn’t like her anyways.”

Damian’s tone was sharp, his gaze fixed on the Batcomputer as he scanned through photos of Ivy’s latest victims. "If we could focus less on my personal life and more on Ivy, that would be appreciated," he said, irritation barely concealed beneath his calm exterior. His hands hovered over the keyboard, but his mind was clearly miles away from the mess he’d just left behind. Gotham had no time for distractions, and neither did he.

Maps raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift in Damian’s focus. She knew when he was deflecting—he was always good at it. "Yeah, yeah. Ivy’s the priority," she said, dragging her eyes off the screen to glance at him with a teasing smile. 

Damian’s fingers clicked rapidly across the keyboard, his mind narrowing down to the task at hand. He’d long ago learned that when things were tense, focusing on a problem was the easiest way to silence the noise in his head. And right now, that noise was coming from the distraction he had left in his personal life. But Ivy was different. Ivy always demanded his attention.

Maps slid back to her spot on the edge of the desk with a bowl of cereal, watching him work with a mix of curiosity and amusement. She’d seen this before—Damian’s way of retreating into his work when things got complicated. Bruce did it too. She didn’t mind. She was used to it. They always got results.

“She’s targeting all the right people, though,” Damian muttered, mostly to himself, as he scrolled through the latest victim’s file. Another corporate executive, mid-thirties, with ties to the higher echelons of Gotham's business world. All of Ivy’s recent targets had the same profile: wealthy, influential, male board member. The pattern was too clear now; too methodical. He paused, his brow furrowing.

“Her victims are... all stockholders in large oil companies…” he said slowly, more to himself than to Maps. He hadn’t thought about that. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard as the realization dawned on him.

Maps, who had been distracted by her phone, blinked up at him. “What?”

Damian’s thoughts were racing faster now. The familiar names on Ivy’s victims list—part of a list that had been set on his desk last week—had more in common than he’d realized. The first three were on the board of Hirstle Shores and the next two… they were all tied to Vreeland Oil .

Alessandra’s family company. A company he had become reluctantly entangled in when he was forced to represent Wayne Enterprises at their upcoming shareholder meeting. His mind flashed back to his earlier thoughts, the ones he tried to avoid—that godforsaken meeting Bruce insisted he attend. The one Tim had told him he didn’t need to go to.

It was only a stockholder meeting. No big deal.  

But now, everything felt connected. He couldn’t believe he had missed it before—how could he have been so blind?

Vreeland Oil was a significant player in Gotham’s corporate world, with ties that ran deep in the city’s power structure. And now he was beginning to see the picture more clearly: Ivy had been taking out the very people who controlled Gotham’s wealth and infrastructure. Specifically, the people who were polluting Gotham River. That made it clear— the meeting next week wasn’t just a gathering of Gotham’s elites. It was a potential target zone .

Damian clenched his fists, trying to suppress the wave of frustration building inside him. “That meeting,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "I have to go. If Ivy’s targeting them, then I’m not going to risk any of them getting picked off, especially with the Vreeland connection.”

Maps raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. She knew Damian was processing, and when he was like this, there was no point in rushing him.

But as the information settled in his mind, another, unexpected thought flickered through his brain— Alessandra .

The thought hit him sharply, like a jolt to his system. He hadn’t wanted to think about her. He hadn’t wanted to remember the delicate thorns of their past, or the silent tension between them after everything had fallen apart. The moment of weakness that made him inwardly cringe when he remembered it. But he couldn’t escape it. She was tied to all of this, whether he wanted her to be or not. Her family, her uncle— Vreeland Oil . 

Ivy was now targeting people like her uncle. 

His thoughts wandered back to the flowers. The months of silence between them, the endless weeks where he’d watched her from a nearby roof, unable to find the right words, too stubborn to acknowledge what he’d done. 

What had he done? Why hadn’t she responded? Why hadn’t she said anything? Why hadn’t she reached out, even once?

Damian’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about her. It wasn’t about Alessandra. It wasn’t about her past or the words left unsaid. She was a spec in the greater scheme of things. A distant spec. He had a job to do, a city to protect. That was his purpose now.

“Damian?” Maps’s voice brought him back to reality, sharp and unyielding. “What’s next?”

Damian didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still glued to the screen, but his thoughts were far away, tangled up in the confusion of things left unsaid.

“Let’s figure out how we track Ivy’s next move. I’ll get the list of names. We can have the computer run a comparison. See if there’s any more specifics for the members Ivy’s killed. I have a hypothesis that she might go for the CEO soon since the COO was killed last week,” he said quietly, the words sounding hollow even to him. 

“Alright. I’ll see you tonight for patrol.”

Damian gave a sharp nod, grateful for her persistence. He needed this—he needed to keep his mind focused, to keep moving forward. Still, as he refocused on the Batcomputer, the question lingered: What was Alessandra doing now? Had she noticed the killings too?  

Damian pushed the thought aside, turning back to the present. Ivy would come first. There would be time to figure out the rest later.

It wasn’t too late, right?

Why did he care? 

Today, they were mums. Orange, like the kind of fire that could burn through anything in its path; a stark contrast to the sterile, pale white of the ICU room. The petals were large and soft, gently curling inward as if protecting something fragile, yet they vibrated with a life that seemed entirely at odds with the surroundings. Sunlight poured through the window, casting a warm golden glow over the bouquet, making the flowers almost glow against the harshness of the room. 

This was number 35.

She wanted to throw them in the trash. The bright orange of the mums, the vividness of them—so full of life, so insistent—seemed like a cruel contrast to her mother’s condition. Her mother, pale and still, her breath shallow and faint, the machines keeping her alive more out of obligation than hope. But these flowers? They were still full of hope. Full of something Aless didn’t know if she was capable of feeling anymore.

Number 35. That’s how long this had been going on. And she still didn’t know what to make of it.

“These ones are beautiful, Aless. Where did you pick them out?” Kinsloving commented when she came in, her voice soft as she gently set the bouquet down on the bedside table.

Aless didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were still fixed on the flowers, the way the petals seemed to almost glow under the fluorescent lights, bright against the sterile, cold surroundings of the ICU. She reached out and brushed a hand across the velvety petals, avoiding looking at Kinsloving’s expectant face.

“The place on 45th. They’re so summer-y aren’t they?” Aless said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Her mother’s condition had deteriorated in the last month. Her heart rate was erratic, her breath shallow, and the usual flush of color in her cheeks had long since disappeared. In its place was a paleness that Aless could never quite get used to. The flowers felt too vibrant for the situation. They felt wrong, somehow. Too alive when everything else in the room felt like it was slipping away. 

Kinsloving smiled knowingly. “You picked them out well.”

Aless’s fingers lingered over the orange blooms, tracing one delicate petal with a detached sort of reverence. She would never tell Kinsolving the truth. She wouldn’t tell anyone. 

She hated them. Sometimes she loved them. Now, as they somehow found themselves in the newest room her mother had been put in…She didn’t want to admit how much the sight of them made her stomach churn, nor did she want to admit how the ritual had become as much a part of her routine as everything else. 35 weeks.

At first, she thought he would stop. That he would send a bouquet or two, and then his ego would kick in, and he’d realize how unnecessary it was. After all, they hadn't spoken since that night in September—the awkward, raw dinner where he’d said things that still made her stomach turn with their complexity. Where they parted without a single word. But the flowers kept coming. Every week. She’d been tempted, several times, to throw them away still. Every single one. She knew exactly who they were from, and she hated that she did.

But she didn’t.

If anything, she jokingly told him to do it and now…

The first few weeks, she tossed them into the trash with the same vigor she used to discard unwanted things. The small card, always labeled To Eleanor Cork-Vreeland got ripped into pieces. It felt easier to pretend they didn’t exist, to pretend he didn’t care—or at least pretend she didn’t care that he did. They weren’t speaking to each other anyway. 

Why? Was it embarrassment? Was it that they’d washed their hands of each other that night? 

Alessandra didn’t care. She really didn’t care. But by week ten, she stopped throwing them away. She couldn’t. Something about the quiet persistence of it—his unspoken apology or gesture of remorse, whatever it was—had wormed its way into her routine.

By week 15, Alessandra found herself glancing at the bouquet first thing every Tuesday morning. It hadn’t occurred to her until then, but the flowers were always refreshed on Tuesdays—not Mondays, when it would make more sense to replace them, but Tuesdays. The day she always visited her mother. The same day every week since high school. It was almost as if he knew—knew the rhythm of her life, knew her routine, and inserted himself into it without saying a word. And, for the first time, she wondered if that was his motive all along. 

Her eyes flicked to her phone, and sometimes she would open the text conversation with him—that rare moment when their words had mattered, when the silence between them had been filled with something raw. She’d stare at it for a long time, biting the edge of her lip, before putting the phone away without typing a single word.

Now, at week 35, she had gotten used to it. It was just another part of the flow of things. Another thing she couldn’t avoid—like her mother’s condition, like the monotonous ticking of the hospital clock, the constant beep of the machines. 

Week 35.

But this time was different.

This time, the flowers came into her mother’s new room in the ICU, the soft orange petals as vibrant as ever, and Alessandra couldn’t help but wonder, for the first time, if there was more to it than just the weekly act of ‘ sorry .’ She ran her fingers through the bouquet, not really seeing the flowers, but seeing the image of Damian in her mind, of his almost-awkward, unspoken attempts to be something—anything—but the person she thought he was. She knew he was still watching. He had to be. He had followed her—followed her life from the shadows, waiting for some sign, maybe, that she would reach out. Or maybe he had no intention of waiting. Maybe the flowers weren’t meant for her to respond to at all.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered, really. She wouldn’t reach out. 

“You’ve been buying them for a while,” Kinsloving said, sitting on the edge of the bed, placing a comforting hand on Alessandra’s shoulder. “What made you start?”

Alessandra closed her eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the silence settle in between them. “Yes,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Since late September. Every week. I just thought the room needed some change. Some color.”

Her mind drifted back to that dinner—the one that had started this strange, unspoken pattern between them. She remembered Damian’s words, his awkward admissions, his genuine apology. And the way she’d left him that night, the cold tension between them still hanging in the air. She thought it was change. A shift. Apparently she was wrong to assume the best in him. 

Nothing had changed. They hadn’t spoken since. He’d proven her right. An apology just for an apology’s sake. For his sake.

But the flowers had never stopped.

“You get to sit here, pretending to be this hard-hitting journalist when the truth is, you’re clinging to relevance because no one wants to be the villain who fires the poor girl with the comatose mother.”

“I’m sure your mother would love them. Orange is her favorite color. She would always wear this orange dress to her birthday parties… Is that why they’ve all been orange this month? For her birthday?” Kinsloving asked, as if the question had no weight, as if it was just idle curiosity. But it wasn’t. It was more. The old woman’s knowing gaze never left her, and Aless felt her insides twist uncomfortably.

How had he known that? 

“Yeah,” she said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Yeah, it is.”

The conversation lapsed again, the room filled with the mechanical hum of machines, the soft rustling of the flowers under Aless’ fingers. The air felt thick now, heavier than it had before. Damian Wayne was still there—still part of the world she couldn’t shake, even if she tried to avoid it. It wasn’t the flowers that made her realize this, though. It was the fact that he knew . He knew where her mother was. He knew her life—her mother’s life—down to an excruciating detail. And he hadn’t stopped, even if he’d stopped talking to her.

No. Damian Wayne hadn’t stopped. And she wished he did. And she wished he didn’t. 

She thought about reaching for her phone again. Maybe this time, she would text him. Maybe she would finally say the words that had been sitting heavy in her chest for months. Maybe she would ask him why. Maybe to stop.

But for some reason, as she sat there in the stillness of the ICU room, Aleess didn’t reach for her phone. She never did. Especially not on a day like this. Instead, she took a long breath, letting the scent of the flowers fill the space around her, the vibrant orange of them glowing in the half-light.

And then she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t feel at peace. About any of it. If things never went back to the way they were, even if Damian never said anything else to her again… why, for some reason, was she not okay with that. Why did it bother her so much he sent flowers instead of a text? Why did she care? 

No, I don’t care. I’m just curious. 

Maybe they would never speak again. Maybe, she would only ever know him through the flowers he sent her mother. The flowers he sent for her… she liked the sound of that. She hated the sound of that. 

Hailing a cab outside the hospital, Aless’ mind was a jumbled mess, the weight of everything pressing down on her as she stared blankly out the window, watching the city flicker by. This week, by far, had been one of the worst she’d had in a long while—and it was only Tuesday. The dreaded yearly summons from her uncle had arrived just as her mother’s condition had taken a sharp downturn. It felt almost deliberate, like her uncle had been watching, waiting for the precise moment to strike when she was at her most vulnerable, when she had no choice but to give him what he wanted. Vulnerable to him, to the man who had stolen everything that had ever mattered.

The room she quietly stepped into was all glass and marble, sleek and cold, the kind of place that made you feel insignificant the moment you stepped inside. It never felt like this when she visited as a child. Adult Aless didn’t belong here, not really. Not anymore. She sat at the far end of the room, hands folded neatly on the table, her back straight, her mind elsewhere. She had no interest in the wrangling over dividends, stock options, and projections. Vreeland Oil wasn’t hers anymore. Frankly, she was glad for that. But her uncle, in his usual fashion, reminded her every year that if she didn’t show up and pretend like they weren’t a dysfunctional family at best, he would withdraw the financial support keeping her mother alive. 

The only reason the Board voted him CEO was because of her. 

The only reason her mother was still alive and well taken care of was because of him. 

He exploited that. He held it over her when he demanded she redact her article about him. 

She hated him for it.

Her mother’s fragile health had dragged her into this world she didn’t want to be a part of, but she had to play the part if she wanted to keep her mother alive. So, she stayed quiet. Answered when spoken to. Brushed off all the I have a son your age comments with a polite smile.

She had already endured an hour of numbing shareholder banter—talks of quarterly projections, mergers that would “change the industry,” and offhand remarks about the next generation’s responsibility—before the conversation shifted. Some who came up to her wanted to know if she thought Gotham’s corporate elite were unfairly targeted in the media. Others tiptoed around the implications of her newest piece, “ The Gotham Connection: Police Donations and the Silent Hand Behind Them” , carefully phrasing their questions as curiosity rather than concern. 

She didn’t name names. Against her instincts, she’d agreed with the Chief—Gotham’s shadows needed to stay undisturbed. So, she wrote in shades of gray: anonymous donations routed through Gotham University, funding siphoned into the police department under layers of bureaucratic smokescreens. No hard names. No direct ties. Just enough to provoke questions, but not enough to make accusations.

Still, she could feel the skepticism laced into every inquiry.

She knew the names. The companies. The people in this very room who were involved. But the Chief had made it very clear—the Board was one story away from firing her. So, she played their game. For now.

It was temporary. That’s what she told herself. Just like this stockholder meeting, just like every carefully measured answer she gave. One day, when she had her Pulitzer-worthy story—when she could finally support herself and her mother without strings—she’d expose her uncle completely. Just like she had tried to before. The same attempt that got The Gazette sued.

Aless kept her responses brief and professional, forcing herself to remain composed under their scrutiny. A few lighthearted quips here and there, just enough to ease their obvious discomfort about what she was writing. In their eyes, she wasn’t a full-fledged journalist anymore—not after her fall from grace. A “recovering gossip columnist,” as her uncle so fondly put it. Not that it mattered. He didn’t care about her work, only that her presence here maintained the illusion of family unity.

So, she nodded when needed, offered the bare minimum of answers, and kept her gaze fixed on her phone as if her emails—or maybe the clock—might finally rescue her from this charade

“Alright, everyone,” Mr. Tellini, Vreeland’s new CFO, called from the podium, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation as people shuffled into their seats. New because the last CFO had been murdered just last week—found in his car with vines through his chest and a message carved into the leather of the driver’s seat. The official statement had been "a tragic robbery gone wrong." Alessandra didn’t believe in coincidences.

Tellini, however, didn’t seem fazed. He had been in this room for years, a fixture in her father’s world. A friend, once. And yet, here he stood, sliding seamlessly into the role, as if nothing had happened. As if the last man hadn’t been disposed of like a loose thread.

He was also the same man who had taken a bribe from her uncle, the one who had orchestrated her removal as a major shareholder after her father’s death. The memory of that cold, calculated move made her fingers tighten against the armrest. No one in this room was innocent. That was another reason she hated coming to these meetings.

“Let’s begin the annual shareholders meeting,” Tellini continued, tapping his papers together with an air of practiced indifference. As if this was routine. As if the corruption in this very room wasn’t an open secret. “Agnus, make sure to note the names of those absent today. I’m surprised that—” He paused, glancing toward the empty seats, his lips pressing into a thin line. “—that some of our esteemed colleagues couldn’t make—”

The door at the back of the room swung open with a quiet but deliberate creak, slicing clean through Tellini’s words like a blade. The room went still. Conversations stuttered into silence, the tension shifting, stretching tight like an invisible wire pulled taut.

Right next to Alessandra, where the dim light from the chandeliers barely reached, a figure stepped through.

Damian Wayne.

Her heart skipped a beat. The man who had haunted her thoughts and memories for months was standing there, impossibly real, an undeniable presence in a place he didn’t belong. He didn’t walk in like the other shareholders had, with their stiff postures and rehearsed smiles. He entered with measured indifference, as if stepping into a room full of power-hungry executives was no different from stepping onto a battlefield.

The contrast between him and the rest of the room couldn’t have been starker. While she and the others were dressed in business formality—crisp suits, jewel-toned dresses, neutral tones meant to command respect—Damian looked almost careless in his dark suit. Too casually cut for an event like this, too sharp in a way that didn’t match Gotham’s elite. The jacket, perfectly tailored, still held a looseness about it, a quiet defiance. His tie wasn’t knotted quite right, like he had yanked it into place at the last minute, half an afterthought. Even the way he carried himself—lean, measured, self-assured—felt like a silent rejection of the world around him.

And yet, despite that rejection, he commanded the room without effort.

Alessandra watched the way people shifted uncomfortably in their seats, how their eyes flicked toward him, waiting to see what he would do. He didn’t seem to notice or care, scanning the room with a level of practiced detachment, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Then, his gaze flicked toward her seat. Just for a second. Barely a glance. But it was enough.

A jolt ran through her chest, sharp and unexpected. It had been months . They hadn’t spoken since that night—the dinner, the fight, the moment everything between them cracked wide open before slamming shut again. And now, here he was, standing in this suffocating corporate world that he clearly despised, the very world he was slowly dismantling from the inside as Wayne Enterprises’ new CFO.

Aless willed herself to look away first. Her hands curled into fists under the table as she turned back to Tellini, a familiar, simmering anger creeping into her chest. She knew Wayne Enterprises had holdings in Vreeland Oil—her uncle had made that clear. But she hadn’t expected him to be the representative.

It was the first time since the takeover that Wayne Enterprises had sent someone from the family to these meetings. Not one of her uncle’s usual lapdogs. Not a faceless corporate liaison. 

Damian Wayne .

Last year, even when they owned more than twenty percent of the company, their seat remained empty. But now, suddenly, he was here. Aless was so lost in the swirl of her own thoughts—frustration, unease, something else she didn’t want to name—that she didn’t immediately notice the shift in the room. The quiet murmurs, the subtle glances being exchanged. The whispers about him . About his sudden rise.

It wasn’t until she heard the soft rustle of his footsteps—measured, quiet, deliberate—that she became fully aware of him moving toward the head of the table.

Damian’s presence seemed to steal the air from the room.

Her pulse quickened as his eyes flicked over her, just once, sharp and fleeting, before he slid into the seat next to her uncle.

Of course. Of all days to see him again, it had to be today . On a day when everything felt precarious, when she could barely keep herself from unraveling at the seams.

She couldn’t bring herself to look away, even as the weight of his presence pressed into the edges of her awareness. What was left between them? A fragile truce? A wreckage of past words and half-forgotten confessions? Maybe nothing at all.

The silence between them had stretched on for so long it had become its own entity—thick, heavy, suffocating. The flowers— those damn flowers —had been the only thing linking them for weeks. A quiet, wordless thread between them. Yet now, even that felt hollow. She wondered, briefly, if he ever thought about it, about those bouquets, about what they had meant—or if they were as meaningless to him as the air they breathed. As meaningless as the apology he had given her.

Her gaze flickered toward him once more, unable to resist.

And just like that, their eyes locked.

Brief. Almost imperceptible.

Like a spark neither of them had control over.

For a moment, everything else disappeared. The noise of the room dulled, the shuffling of papers and the low murmur of conversation fading into static.

And then, just as quickly, it was over.

The world around them snapped back into focus. The shareholders’ voices grew louder. The clink of pens against paper resumed.

But Alessandra couldn’t shake the feeling.

She barely registered Tellini droning on about the agenda, her mind still buzzing as Damian settled into his chair like he belonged there—like he wasn’t quietly loathing every second of it.

Because she knew him.

Damian hated these meetings. Hated the sterile, corporate world of Wayne Industries and its endless acquisitions. Hated being paraded around as the next heir, the face of a company he had no interest in running. But he had accepted the role. He had made himself necessary.

Because he needed to be here.

Not for the business.

But for her .

Here he was, sitting at the head of the table, trying not to scowl as Tellini introduced him formally to the shareholders, listing his accolades like they were anything but a carefully constructed front.

But as the meeting started, Damian’s mind had already begun to drift, his control slipping as he scanned the room again for her .

Alessandra. 

She sat on the opposite side of the table near the door, a placement that likely denoted exactly where she stood in this corporate hierarchy. Her posture was composed, but her eyes—glazed over, unfocused—told another story. She was staring at the PowerPoint in front of them, detached, uninterested. Like before. Like at the dinner. After they had both said too much.

Damian thought about it too much. More than he should. More than he had any right to. He thought about it every time he picked out a bouquet to send, debating whether he should sign his name this time or let the flowers speak for him. Every time his hand hovered over his phone, he considered texting her. Every time he read one of her articles and noted that she was back on the Features team. Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had been said.

His mind wandered to their last conversation, to the way she had held herself—rigid, masked, controlled. The way she had looked at him, it was like she was trying to carve out distance with her gaze alone. She was the same, and yet she wasn’t. But what surprised him most was the way his gaze lingered.

Damn it.

Why hadn’t she responded to the flowers? Was she really not going to accept his apology? He thought he had made it clear.

Damian’s eyes swept over her again, but this time, it wasn’t just curiosity. She looked different here. Not the confident, sharp-witted journalist who used her words like scalpels, but someone who had been forced into a world that didn’t fit her. There was something subdued about her presence, something dimmed. She sat there, straight-backed but distant, and for the first time, he realized— she looked stuck.

He understood the weight pressing down on her. He knew about the upheaval in her life, of course—her mother’s condition, her uncle’s stranglehold over her future. But seeing her here, in this environment, surrounded by people who likely saw her as a nuisance rather than an equal, made it hit harder. She hated this. It was written in the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled slightly in her lap, as if resisting the urge to ball into fists.

And yet, she was still here.

Damian’s thoughts tangled as he tried to piece it together. Why?

He had read between the lines of her last article, the one where she all but spelled out how her uncle had stolen the company from her after her father’s death. A betrayal so cold it might as well have been inevitable. But Alessandra had never been the type to sit back and take things. She had always been the one to set fire to what hurt her. So why was she still in this room, playing their game? What claim did she even have left? And for what reason?

Before he could think about it any further, his eyes flicked back toward her. Again. He couldn’t stop himself, even though everything in him told him not to look. He was supposed to be focusing on the meeting, on memorizing the names of the people he might one day have to protect—or expose—as Batman.

But then their gazes met.

And suddenly, none of that mattered.

This wasn’t the casual glance he had given her earlier. This was different. Something twisted in his chest, sharp and visceral, tightening in a way that made it hard to breathe for a split second. There was an understanding there, an unspoken recognition of something neither of them had the words for—but both felt keenly.

We have so much to talk about but so little to say.

For a moment, neither of them looked away. The rest of the room dulled into the background, voices fading, time stretching unnaturally. The silence between them said more than words ever could.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Damian forced himself to turn back, though the unease in his chest lingered like an echo.

Tellini’s voice droned on, something about quarterly earnings and projected dividends, but it barely registered. The corporate agenda blurred into meaningless noise. His mind kept circling back, pulling him toward a single thought:

Why hasn’t she said anything?

He had expected a response—anything, really. An acknowledgment. A curse. A text laced with sarcasm. Something. Instead, there had been nothing but silence.

Was she waiting for him ?

Or was he the only one still waiting?

Damian could feel the space between them. A chasm that had widened after that night, after they walked away from each other, both too proud to bridge the gap. And she hadn’t done anything to close the distance since.

So, Damian respected that.

Alessandra shifted slightly in her seat, barely even looking up as her uncle continued his speech, and for a fleeting moment, Damian wondered— was she thinking about him, too?

No. She was too proud for that.

She hated him too much.

The meeting dragged on, stretching endlessly under the harsh buzz of the fluorescent lights. Alessandra barely heard a word of it, her mind skimming over the dull hum of corporate jargon as she focused instead on the sharp pulse of her headache. She was everywhere but here.

My mother is in the ICU. My uncle is tightening his grip. And now this.

She felt like a caged animal, forced to stay still while the walls inched closer, the pressure mounting. And she knew the moment was coming. It always did. The part of the evening where her uncle would make her earn her keep.

Last year, it had been enduring a dinner party, seated beside her aunt at a table filled with major stockholders. The entire night had been a performance—one she had no choice but to play along with. A parade of backhanded compliments, of thinly veiled barbs disguised as well-meaning remarks. You’re lucky your uncle is taking such good care of you and your mother. It’s so admirable how you’re trying to keep yourself busy with journalism. You must be so grateful.

Every word had been a test, every glance an assessment, waiting to see if she would slip, if the mask would crack.

Tonight, she knew, would be no different.

As if on cue, his voice sliced through her thoughts.

"Alessandra."

Sharp. Impatient. He had been watching her. He always was. She didn’t need to meet his gaze to feel the weight of it, the expectation pressing down like a vice. The meeting had barely wrapped before he was already moving. Already pulling her into the next act of the performance.

"Come on. It’s time for you to talk to Mr. Wayne," he muttered, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Her stomach twisted.

Of course. Of course.

Her chest tightened, and for a moment, everything in her body screamed no. But she had no choice. She couldn’t afford to be defiant—not now, not with her mother’s condition worsening and her uncle’s grip tightening like a noose around her future. So, with a practiced, carefully measured smile, Alessandra stood.

"I can introduce myself," she said, her voice smooth but clipped as she pulled her arm free from his grip.

Her uncle chuckled under his breath, though there was no real amusement in it. "Don’t be difficult, Alessandra."

"Not difficult. Just capable."

He let out a sharp exhale through his nose, irritation flickering across his expression. "You’ve spent too much time playing reporter. This is a different game. One you are not winning."

"And talking to Damian Wayne is supposed to be my winning move?" she asked dryly, arching a brow.

Her uncle’s grip tightened just slightly on her wrist before he let go, his voice a quiet warning. "You’re going to be polite, you’re going to be agreeable, and you’re not going to embarrass me. This is more than a business relationship, and I expect you to act like it. Do you understand?"

Alessandra smiled sweetly, the way he hated. "Crystal clear."

The moment she locked eyes with Damian, though, her stomach dropped.

"Damian," her uncle greeted him, voice too loud, too rehearsed, as he grabbed her arm again and pulled her toward him. "I’d like you to meet my niece, Alessandra Vreeland."

Alessandra’s stomach tightened, but her face remained carefully impassive as she stepped forward. So this is how it’s going to be, then? She forced a smile—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes—and extended her hand toward Damian, pretending as though their history, the one that had entangled them far too tightly, had never existed.

Damian mirrored her expression, though the effort felt like it might crack his jaw. His grip was firm but impersonal, his gaze locked onto hers. They both played their roles flawlessly, keeping up the illusion for the sake of the room, for the sake of the game they were being forced to play.

And in a way, wasn’t this the first time they had truly met ?

Why haven’t you said anything? Why are we pretending we don’t know each other?

Before this, they had only met three times in their adult lives. Each encounter brief, their interactions confined to carefully drawn lines, never lasting more than a few hours. Strangers, technically. Two people orbiting the same city, the same social circles, drawn together only through a business transaction neither of them had agreed to.

But reality was different. The recognition between them was electric, suffocating. It crackled in the air between them, thick and unspoken, neither of them daring to acknowledge it.

Her uncle, oblivious to the tension he had just ignited, continued speaking as though this was all part of some grand design. “You’re the same age, both so young, both rising stars in Gotham, and I thought maybe you could be friends. Get along, maybe even collaborate. You know, young people in business, so much potential in this city.” He chuckled, a grating sound that made Alessandra’s fingers twitch with restraint. “I’m sure you two would have plenty to talk about.”

Damian barely heard him. His focus was locked entirely on Alessandra—the way she stood there, the slight downturn of her lips, the tension in her shoulders that she wasn’t even trying to mask. She was a live wire, barely contained.

The questions swirled in his mind, tangled up in the past, in all the things left unsaid. Why pretend? Why not acknowledge what lingered between them? Why not just say something ?

Alessandra was thinking the same thing. She had to be.

She had spent months in silence, reinforcing the distance between them. And yet here he was, standing in front of her as if he hadn’t sent her flowers every week for the past nine months. As if he hadn’t apologized in the only way he seemed to know how.

And what for?

She had half a mind to throw it all back in his face, to demand to know why he was still playing this game, why he was pretending when every nerve in her body was screaming at him.

Her uncle kept talking, but neither of them listened.

They were too busy staring at each other, questions swirling like an oncoming storm.

Why are you still here?

What about the flowers?

Why haven’t you said anything?

What did I say wrong last time?

What happens now?

But neither of them spoke.

And so they remained, side by side, yet worlds apart.

Her uncle clapped Damian on the shoulder with exaggerated cheerfulness, his smile widening as if he had just set something in motion, something grand and inevitable. “Alright, you two talk. Get to know each other, huh? I’m sure you’ll find plenty to discuss. I have to talk to Wiggins.”

The words weren’t a suggestion. They were a command. Sharp. Final. And completely inescapable. Before either of them could respond in protest, he was already turning away, his back retreating as he moved toward a group of other shareholders who were more than happy to bask in his attention. The room was buzzing again, the conversation picking up in his absence, but the space where Alessandra and Damian stood felt frozen, as if time had stopped entirely.

Alessandra could feel the weight of her uncle’s departure, and the tension that followed was immediate and suffocating. She glanced at Damian, feeling the silence press down on her chest. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her uncle had no idea—no idea how much control he thought he had over this situation, how much he thought he could manipulate. But in reality, this wasn’t just about business. This was personal. It was a game, and her uncle knew exactly how to play it. Get to know each other, he'd said, as if that could somehow bridge the wide gap her uncle had created between her and the Waynes.

Damian stood just a few feet away, his posture stiff. His gaze flickered briefly to her and then away, his expression carefully neutral. Alessandra's stomach flipped, a strange mix of frustration and confusion swirling in her chest. She had no idea how to start this conversation.  

You sent flowers to me every week, and you never said why once.

I sent flowers to you every week, and you never acknowledged them once. 

The silence stretched on, heavier now.

"So," she started, but her voice came out too softly, too awkward. She cleared her throat, trying again. "I... guess we’re supposed to get to know each other." Her attempt at a casual opener sounded weak even to her own ears. They’d actually never had a conversation like this before. A normal one. Filled with pleasantries. Networking questions.  

Damian shifted slightly, his gaze flicking over her face for just a second before looking away again. His jaw clenched. “Yes,” he muttered, though it didn’t feel like a real response. More like an acknowledgement of the situation they were both stuck in. “I believe so.”

They stood there for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say next. The distant hum of the room, the laughs, and the low murmur of conversations only added to the awkwardness. Aless could feel the weight of his silence pressing on her, just as much as she was sure he could feel hers. It wasn’t like the usual awkward silences between strangers—this one was loaded, heavy with things unsaid, with the ghost of a past they weren’t addressing.

“Alessandra,” Damian said finally, his voice almost too loud in the otherwise hushed space. “Are you still writing for the Gazette ?”

Aless’ eyes narrowed slightly. It reminded her about the question he had asked her. Why don’t you leave? Was he going to make fun of her now? After she told him everything that was holding her back? Or was he asking because he actually cared? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.

“Yeah,” she replied, her tone curt. “Still there. Published something recently.”

“I read it.” His hand, which had been resting on the back of his chair, clenched into a fist for a split second. He looked over at her again, this time with more intensity, like he was struggling to keep himself composed. “I saw the article about the anonymous, private donations to the police. Interesting piece.”

Aless blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to mention it, but she nodded stiffly. “It was... more about the implications than anything else. Didn’t name anyone; he didn’t want to cause trouble. Just pointed out a phenomenon happening in Gotham.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and Alessandra just stood there, waiting for him to say something else, something more. But nothing came.

Damian’s eyes lingered on her, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he was trying to decide whether to ask her something. His next words came out carefully, almost hesitantly. “Are you... still working on that investigative piece.”

Aless' eyes flicked to his, a mix of surprise and frustration flickering behind her gaze. Now, he was asking about a detail. Something they talked about at the dinner. Was this his acknowledgment that it actually happened? “No. That’s... I’ve written some pieces here and there, but none that I’ve been happy with.”

Damian nodded, but his expression was unreadable. “I am sure you’ll find something satisfactory to write on.”

The silence returned with even more force than before. Neither of them was sure where to go from here. The questions lingered, the things they both knew they should talk about—but neither was willing to be the one to open that door. Neither of them was ready to face whatever lay behind it.

Alessandra swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very aware of how close they were, of how much space had once existed between them, and how much was left now. And then, like some kind of unspoken agreement, they both took a step back, almost simultaneously, as if the proximity was suddenly unbearable.

“Anyway,” Alessandra said, her voice quiet and almost defeated. “It was nice... seeing you again. We have a… family dinner after this, so…”

Damian’s eyes flicked to her one last time. “Yes. It is nice to see you doing well.”

The words didn’t feel right. There was too much weight in them, too much left unsaid. They didn’t get to ask each other why. And as they both turned away, stepping back into the noise and bustle of the room, Aless couldn’t help but wonder what Damian was thinking—what he wanted to say. But it didn’t matter. It was too late now, wasn’t it?

Damian couldn’t help but clench his jaw. Alessandra might’ve been pretending, but so was he. He didn’t know what he expected from her—maybe some acknowledgment, maybe a piece of her that would make it easier to move on from whatever this was. But all he got was the same silence. The same distance. It infuriated him to some extent. Why do I even care about this?

It was too late, wasn’t it? Too late for what? Damian didn’t know.

Chapter Text

"Come to my office," he had said over the phone. "We need to talk." 

Her stomach churned as she made her way up the familiar marble staircases to his office, the tall windows casting long shadows on the walls as though the building itself knew something she didn’t. The city was beginning to settle into its evening routine, the streets outside alive with noise, but inside her uncle’s sanctum, the air was suffocatingly still.

She knocked twice, the sound almost too loud in the silence. Her uncle didn’t even bother to look up as she entered, instead continuing to review a set of documents laid out on his desk.

"Close the door," he said, his voice low and dismissive.

When Alessandra was younger, this office had been a completely different world. It had been filled with life, with love, with warmth. Her father, the former CEO of Vreeland Oil, had filled the walls with family photos—his proud smile always standing out next to her mother’s and her own, the two of them beaming in every frame. There were pictures of Alessandra as a child, her trophies proudly displayed on shelves, hand-drawn cards from school taped on the walls. It was a place where laughter had lived, where his voice had echoed as he spoke of ambition, family, and dreams for the future. 

Now, the air was thick with the scent of old leather, cigars, and money, the space almost unrecognizable. It was cold and impersonal, and everything that had once been warm had been wiped away, replaced with the sharp, sterile atmosphere that her uncle had cultivated since her father's death. The once vibrant office had become a monument to loss, and it felt like her father's presence had been completely erased—his legacy, his love for his family, and the life he had given her, all reduced to the hollow silence of his successor’s rule.

Her uncle had done everything in his power to erase her father’s legacy. Including holding her and her mother captive. How much Aless wanted to tell him she wasn’t coming and to leave her alone on the phone, but she knew if she did that, everything would be gone.

He didn’t waste time. As she sat down across from him, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes, sharp and calculating, met hers with a kind of predatory interest that made her blood run cold.

“You’ve been doing well at the Gazette , I’ll give you that. Even if you thought you could write about me without repercussions,” he began, his voice clipped, almost amused. “But I didn’t bring you here to discuss your career. There are more important things at hand. It’s time for you to play your biggest part in this family.” Aless’ lips pressed into a thin line, but she stayed quiet, waiting for the hammer to fall.

“You’ve seen the redistribution policy, I assume?” he continued, eyes narrowing as he scanned her face for any sign of emotion. “Because of the recent deaths, buy-ups are going to grant a larger chunk of Vreeland Oil to Wayne Enterprises. We cannot afford to lose this company to them.” He leaned forward, his hands slapping down onto the desk, a hard echo in the quiet room. “It would be a disaster, Alessandra.”

Her heart began to race, and she forced herself to keep her expression neutral. She had seen the numbers, read the reports. She was even there on Evening Desk duty when Wendel ran in shouting the news that the first shareholder’s body had been found in his home. Vines around his neck. She knew what was coming, and she hated it. She knew it from the moment he’d purposely introduced her to him at the shareholders meeting two weeks ago. She hated that he was trying to manipulate her into this—again.

“You need to focus on Damian Wayne,” her uncle continued, his voice laced with impatience. “He’s practically yours for the taking. He’s got no ties, no obligations, and he’s looking for distractions after his breakup. Strategically, you’re perfect for the role, Alessandra.” His gaze turned cold, the words almost slithering out of his mouth as if they were rehearsed. “If you play your cards right, we can ensure Wayne Enterprises doesn’t go unchecked with their incoming sway in Vreeland. We can keep this company in our hands.”

The universe had a sick way of telling her that she could never forget Damian Wayne.

Alessandra’s stomach turned as his words hung in the air, thick with the promise of manipulation. She knew exactly what he was asking of her— no, demanding. He wanted her to use herself as a pawn in his game, to seduce Damian Wayne, to turn his attention away from the business and towards her, to ensure the Wayne empire never fully claimed what should have been her birthright.

“Then, what do you know? If you succeed beyond my expectations, we’ll have an heir in both the Vreeland and Wayne lines. There is no way they would give the company over to any child of that gay adopted son over a child of Bruce Wayne’s only biological son.”

Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, the pressure building with each passing second. She had heard this all before. It was always about the business with him. Always about the power, the money, the control.

“Absolutely not,” she said, her voice steady despite the rising anger in her chest. “You can’t just control my life like this. I have done everything you wanted. I left Gotham when you told me to. I came back when you told me to. I stay here and follow your every directive because of the grasp you have on my mother. You have no right to—”

Her uncle’s expression hardened, the mask of politeness slipping just enough to reveal the jagged edge of his true nature. He interrupted her with a dismissive gesture as if her words were of little consequence.

“You want to keep playing the independent woman , Alessandra?” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “Fine. But I think you forget the reality of our situation.” His eyes locked onto hers, and there was something almost venomous in the way he spoke next. “If you don’t do this—if you don’t focus on Damian Wayne like I tell you to—then your rent will become the least of your problems. I could snap my fingers, and the money I’ve been sending for your Mother’s treatments? Gone. Every penny. You want to see what it’s like without me propping you up? You and your mother will be on the streets before you can blink… Eleanor might not even make it to the streets before she…”

Alessandra’s breath caught in her throat. Her uncle’s words were poison, and they struck deep, the sharpest wound of all. He wasn’t just threatening her—he was threatening her mother. Her mother, who had already suffered so much, whose life hung in the balance, was kept alive by the money he controlled.

“You’ve always hated her, haven’t you?” Aless’ voice cracked, but she pressed on, her anger burning through the tears she could feel stinging at the corners of her eyes. “You hate her because she’s the only person in this whole damn world who ever stood up to you. She tried to have you arrested. But you don’t care about her, do you? You never have.”

Her uncle’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile. “Hate is a strong word,” he said smoothly. “But I’ve never had much use for her. And if it takes a little... adjustment on your part to keep us in control, then so be it.” He stood up, pacing the length of his office with an air of finality. “I’m giving you a choice, Alessandra. Either you play your part, or I take everything away. Your money. Your future. Hell, I could probably take your job too! I can make you disappear so quickly that no one will remember your name. And I’ve got no problem doing it.”

Aless felt the full weight of his threat settle into the pit of her stomach, like a lead weight dragging her under. She knew it wasn’t an empty one. Her uncle had the power to do it. He had always had the power to control her, to twist her life into whatever shape he wanted.

And at that moment, Aless felt the walls of her world closing in. Her options were slipping away, one by one, and the only thing that seemed clear was that she would have to do exactly what he wanted. Or at least pretend that’s what she was doing. But no matter how much she hated it, how much she loathed herself for even considering it, the truth was undeniable: she needed his money. And she needed it now . Her mother’s treatment had just doubled in price. 

“Fine,” she said finally, her voice thick with the weight of defeat. “I’ll do it.”

Her uncle smiled then, the cruel, satisfied expression of someone who had just secured his victory. “Good girl. Now, let’s find a way for you to see him again. Soon. Yes? I have a meeting. Get out.” That last line made Aless snort, and she stood, wanting to be anywhere but here on her day off. She was tempted to text Jay, but he’d been turning into her emotional support friend way too early, and she knew he’d be with Jon.

Her fingers clenched around the cold metal handle of her uncle’s office door. 

Damian Wayne. Why is it always him?  

The thought haunted her as she opened the door just a fraction, enough to let the cool, artificial air of the hallway rush in. She could feel the weight of her uncle’s words still pressing against her, suffocating her with expectations, with demands. How was she supposed to handle this? How was she supposed to act around him after everything? The awkwardness between them was palpable, so thick it almost suffocated her whenever she thought about it.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips as she stepped out of the office. She hated him. She hated her uncle for putting her in this position, for manipulating her, for treating her like an object to be used and discarded when it no longer served his interests. She hated the idea of being forced to play this game—to get close to Damian, to use him, when everything inside her screamed not to. She had no desire to play his game. No desire to use anyone, to pretend for his benefit. It was all too much.

Damian —the way he looked at her during that meeting, the unspoken tension between them, the history they shared, the questions they had both avoided. How could she just walk up to him now and pretend it was nothing? Pretend it was just business?

Her hand rested on the door handle again, but she wasn’t ready to face the world outside, not yet. The corridor stretched before her, endless and sterile, just like everything else in this place. But just as her fingers tightened to pull the door fully open, a sudden blast of wind tore through the room. Glass shattered. The windows behind her uncle’s desk exploded outward with a deafening crash, sending shards of glass flying across the room, and the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of vines snapping and twisting.

Alessandra froze, instinctively throwing her arms up to shield her face, but the force of the blast was enough to knock her back. Her head hit the door hard, and a ringing in her ears followed. Her heart raced, her body instantly on alert. Before she could even process what was happening, through the windows came their assailant. A woman, green-skinned and impossibly calm despite the wreckage she had caused, stepped into the office. 

Poison Ivy.

Her uncle shouted in surprise, scrambling to push himself away from the large vines that were now wrapping around him. Aless tried to move, but the daze she was in wasn’t allowing her brain to talk to her body. It was just yelling DANGER! DANGER! but doing nothing about it. 

"What is this?! Get off me! You can't do this!" He struggled, but it was no use. Ivy’s vines tightened around his limbs, binding him to the chair like a helpless puppet.

"Quiet." Ivy’s voice was low, a musical purr laced with pure venom. “Your kind always likes to talk—always has an excuse for the destruction you cause." She barely spared a glance at Aless, her gaze focused solely on her uncle. "But you... You’ve been poisoning this city for years, haven’t you, Vreeland? Filling the air and water with your pollution. Tainting the earth with your greed. You think you can get away with it forever?”

Aless’ throat went dry, her mind racing. She had been trained to think quickly in situations like this, but Poison Ivy ? The woman who controlled plants with the flick of her wrist? How was she supposed to fight this? What was she even supposed to do? There was nothing holding her down besides herself. If Aless could just will herself to start crawling out the open door ( maybe she’d call for help), then she’d be free. 

The vines around her uncle’s body tightened further, and he winced, his breath coming in short gasps. All Aless could do right now was watch. "I’m a businessman, not a villain! I’ve—" But Ivy cut him off with a cold, sharp laugh.

“ Businessman , hm?” She cocked her head, studying him with disdain. “You're no better than the rot that runs through this city. But it's not just you I’m after, Vreeland. I’ll take down your whole Board. Your whole company with my babies.” Aless could only move her hands, trying to claw at the floor to pull herself anywhere but there. But reaching, moving, sent a wave of nausea through her, and she couldn’t stop the involuntary noise that exited her mouth. A shout of pain indicated to Ivy she’d been here the whole time.

Her eyes shifted toward Alessandra, narrowing.

Alessandra stiffened, her body tensing instinctively. Something in Ivy’s gaze made her feel like a trapped animal. Ivy’s lips curled into a dangerous smile, and the sound of more vines creeping through the shattered windows made Alessandra’s skin crawl. She was helpless as they slinked their way over to her. 

"And who is this?" Ivy asked, her voice almost syrupy in sweetness. Aless could feel a chill run down her spine, her pulse quickening. Ivy was watching her with a predatory gleam in her eyes, calculating.

Her mouth went dry, her body tensing as the vines began to creep closer, winding and curling like snakes on the hunt. She struggled, but it was futile. The air around her felt thick and oppressive, and the pounding of her heart drowned out everything else. She didn’t know how to fight this, how to escape the grip of Ivy’s monstrous plants, and panic set in, hot and suffocating.

Before she could even fully process the terror blooming inside her, one of the vines shot forward with terrifying speed, wrapping around her ankle like a vice. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a split second, everything seemed to freeze. The sharp, unyielding pressure of the vine was too much. She tried to pull her leg away, but it only tightened, the thorns scraping against her skin as it yanked her backward. The force knocked the breath out of her chest, sending a sharp, sickening pain through her abdomen. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her, her body thrown off balance as she was dragged, helpless, toward Ivy. The room spun as her mind reeled from the sudden loss of control. The vine, relentless and unforgiving, continued its pull, dragging her closer to Ivy, who stood in the center of the chaos, her eyes glowing with a wicked satisfaction.

Aless’s breath was coming in short, panicked gasps, and the nauseating feeling in her stomach only worsened. White splattered around her vision. She could feel the weight of Ivy’s gaze, cold and calculating, bearing down on her. The woman’s smile twisted with something dark and malicious, as if relishing in the moment.

“I asked a question!” Ivy’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and cruel.

She flinched, instinctively looking toward her uncle. But before she could focus on his face, a thick vine lashed out and struck him with a force that made the air snap. The sickening crack echoed through the office, and Alessandra watched as her uncle’s head snapped to the side, his glasses flying across the room in a wide arc. The vine had left a deep red mark across his face, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Aless was frozen.

It was a strange sensation, knowing she should care—knowing she should feel something—but her mind was too clouded with panic. She couldn’t even focus on the image of her uncle’s stunned, pain-stricken face. She could be next. The world was spinning.

“My niece!” With all her might, Alessandra started thrashing, panic overtaking her every movement. She kicked and twisted, trying to break free of the vines that coiled around her legs, her arms, her chest. But the harder she fought, the tighter they pulled, each movement only worsening the sting of the thorns that dug into her skin. They were relentless, constricting around her body, biting deep and dragging the blood to the surface. She could feel it, hot and searing against her skin.

Ivy’s smile deepened, curling like something out of a nightmare. “Well, well,” she purred, looking down at Alessandra, her voice dripping with venom. “Isn’t this convenient? A family affair.”

Her heart pounded in her ears, each beat a deafening thrum of terror. The vines seemed to grow stronger, as if they could sense her desperation. They surged higher, wrapping around her shoulders, her wrists, binding her completely. Every time she moved, the thorns pressed deeper into her, the sharp edges tearing at the fabric of her shirt and her skin.

“Ivy, stop! Please!” she gasped, but her voice came out weak, strained. She barely recognized it. The air felt thick with the scent of crushed leaves and earth, the atmosphere suffocating. Each breath was harder to take, and each one choked with the oppressive weight of Ivy's presence.

Ivy stood across the room, watching her with dark, gleaming eyes, her lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. She didn’t seem to care about Alessandra’s struggle—didn’t seem to care about her pain.

"Struggling won’t save you," Ivy purred, her voice cold and calm. “You’re just as corrupt as he is.” She nodded toward her uncle, who was still struggling in the corner, held by several more vines that kept him pinned. "You’re nothing more than another piece of this filthy corporate machine.”

Alessandra’s mind raced. She couldn’t let Ivy take her down with such ease. She wouldn’t . She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain from the thorns cutting deeper into her flesh. She didn’t care. She had to focus. Think.

It wasn’t until Ivy stepped closer, her booted foot landing heavily on the ground with an almost finality, that Alessandra could gather enough strength to snap back with a voice that was raw but unwavering. Every word hurt her head even more. “I’m not like him! I’m a—”

Her words were cut off as Ivy’s tendrils yanked tighter, her voice low and mocking. “Oh? You think you’re any different? You’ll just take his place, keep the empire running, corrupt it all over again. I should end you both now, together .” Ivy’s eyes flicked to her uncle, still bound helplessly in the corner. “The world will be better off without your toxic family. Joker took care of daddy and mommy, but not you.”

Alessandra’s chest tightened, bile rising in her throat. The last thing she needed was Ivy’s twisted judgment on her family. The last thing she needed to remember, now, was her parents. Her father’s death. At the hands of another Gotham villan. But she had no time to argue or cry or feel bad about it, she had to fight back with words. She needed to get out. She needed a plan.

“I-I’m a reporter! I wrote… ugh, a-about the dumping into the river! Ah!” Her scream broke through the room as a vine, the one around her ankle, twisted. Aless' heard the bone crack. She felt the searing pain instantly. 

“I have no time for this.” The vines tightened. She could barely breathe. And then, just as Aless thought she couldn’t bear it anymore, the air in the room seemed to shift— crackling , almost—as though something was about to happen. A door crashed open with a thunderous noise, the sound splintering through the room like a crack of lightning. The ground trembled beneath them, and the air was charged with energy.

It was too fast, too sudden for Aless in her state to fully comprehend what was happening at first. Then she saw it— him . A dark, towering figure stepped through the broken door, a silhouette stark against the chaos. A figure that seemed to swallow the light, a shadow amongst the madness.

Batman.

Her heart skipped. She had seen him only a few times in her life—when she used to chase them down alleyways in high school. But this... this was real. The darkness that enveloped him was undeniable. His very presence seemed to pull everything else into the background, to put all of Gotham on hold.

Ivy’s eyes snapped toward the figure, and a flicker of uncertainty flashed across her face. Her vines recoiled instinctively, hissing and snapping like angry serpents. But Batman wasn’t fazed.

“Let. Them. Go. Ivy,” Batman’s voice boomed, low and cold, commanding.

Alessandra’s heart thudded wildly in her chest as the air itself seemed to tighten. The tension between the two - hero and villain- was palpable, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Alessandra allowed herself to feel a fleeting hope.

“You think you can stop me?” Ivy hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. “You’re just another part of this city’s poison. You can’t stop me from saving Gotham!”

Batman didn’t respond to her taunt. Instead, he moved—faster than anything Alessandra had ever seen. He reached out with a fluid motion, his gloved hand seizing one of Ivy’s vines with terrifying precision. He twisted it, snapping it with a brutal crack.

Ivy screamed in frustration, her body jerking as she tried to regain control over her remaining tendrils. But Batman wasn’t done. He moved again, his cape sweeping through the air like the blade of a knife. Another vine lashed out, but Batman was already there, his hand gripping it, pulling it out of her control. Ivy was on the defensive now, stumbling backward.

Alessandra’s heart was still racing, and the pain in her ankle was sharp, but she managed to pull herself together enough to watch as Batman pressed forward. With each move, Ivy seemed to lose ground, the vines retreating under his relentless assault.

“Batman!” Ivy screeched, her face contorted in rage. “You can’t protect Gotham from its own decay! He is the villain in all of this.”

But Batman was unyielding. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

With a final, decisive move, Batman yanked Ivy toward him, throwing her off balance. He swiftly wrapped her vines around her, using the very weapon that Ivy had used to bind Alessandra. With a flick of his wrist, he neutralized her, the last of her power slipping away.

As Ivy slumped to the floor, defeated, Batman turned toward Alessandra. His eyes, cold and focused, met hers for a brief moment. Alessandra could barely keep her eyes open, the pain from her ankle and her head still searing through her body, but his gaze... it was intense. It was as if he was looking through her, seeing past the mess of everything and focusing on something much more important.

“Are you alright?” Batman’s voice was softer than before, but still firm, like steel. His gaze didn’t soften, but there was something there—something that almost felt like reassurance.

Alessandra nodded, barely able to get the words out. “I... I...” Her voice was weak, strained from the pain. The adrenaline had worn off. Tears filled her eyes. She decided not to lie to Gotham’s caped crusader. “ No .”

Batman didn’t flinch at her admission. His eyes never left her, as though he could read every word in her fractured response, the hesitation and the weight of her fear. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them with purposeful silence. The room felt oddly still now, as if the air itself had paused, holding its breath. He leaned down, taking out a knife from his belt, and started hacking at the vines that surrounded her. 

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice low, commanding, but underlined with something else—something that sounded like genuine concern. Alessandra’s vision swam, the blackness creeping at the edges of her sight. The pain in her ankle and the nausea in her stomach were almost too much to bear. It felt like the room was spinning, her mind thick with confusion.

“My uncle?” she managed to rasp. 

“Fine,” Batman grunted, “Calling the police.” Damian’s heart was hammering in his chest. He couldn’t let it show. He didn’t. The mask he wore had always been his shield, not just from Gotham’s criminal underbelly but from himself. From the emotions that threatened to rise up when he saw her—Alessandra—vulnerable, hurting. No , he told himself. He couldn’t afford to care.

But that didn’t stop his focus from zeroing in on her. The sharp breath that trembled through her lips with every vine he pulled away—he hated it. Every instinct screamed at him to help her , to lift her up and carry her to safety. 

The knowledge that she was this close to crumbling under the weight of her injuries gnawed at him. His gaze flicked to her ankle, the bone obviously broken, the deepening bruising spreading across her skin. The cuts from Ivy’s vines were small, but they marred her skin in a way that made his chest tighten. She wasn’t just hurt—she was vulnerable, exposed.

And it was his fault. He hadn’t moved fast enough. He should’ve known this was where Ivy was coming. And, Goddamn it, why was she in here? 

He forced his breath to stay steady, hands moving quickly but with practiced care, slicing through the last of the vines that held her. The entire time, his mind was screaming at him to do more , to say something , anything, to break through the quiet distance that had settled between them over the past months. But he said nothing. It was too risky. She might recognize me.

As his gloved hand hovered near her arm, the need to pull her into his arms overwhelmed him. The way she nearly collapsed into him, needing support just to stay upright—it was far too familiar. He’d seen it in his own body, the pain, the sheer exhaustion that comes from holding everything inside, even when the world seemed to be crushing you.

When his fingers brushed against her arm to steady her as he helped her stand, he immediately regretted it. The warmth of her skin, the soft, unguarded way she felt, the way her breath hitched under his touch—everything about her screamed vulnerability. He couldn’t let it affect him. He had to pull away, had to keep his distance.

And yet, he didn’t.

Damian tried to focus on the task at hand—getting her to safety. His hands were steady, his mind sharp. But something about the way Alessandra was clinging to consciousness, her body trembling in his arms, tugged at something deep inside him. It wasn’t supposed to matter.

She was just the girl he’d always been at odds with, the one who had a knack for challenging him, digging at his pride with sharp words and pointed barbs. They had never been friends, never more than reluctant allies, a truce formed out of embarrassment and mutual understanding. There had been no relationship between them—nothing beyond the tenuous agreement to coexist, to let each other have their space in Gotham that never overlapped.

But now, seeing her hurt, bruised, and vulnerable in his arms—it felt like something had shifted. It reminded him of the night he found her and her parents in the alleyway. 

Seeing her broken, battered by Ivy’s wrath, the rebellious edge gone from her posture as she collapsed against him—it was like something snapped in his mind. She was hurt . The need to protect her, to make sure she was okay, took him by surprise.

As he walked through the shattered office, carefully supporting her, a flash of memory: the shareholder’s meeting, the awkwardness between them, the words left unsaid. At the time, he hadn’t cared. Told himself it didn’t matter. But now, with her so fragile in his arms, he realized how deeply it had affected him.

He wanted to fix it, to take her pain away, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t even understand why he wanted to. It was just there , a deep, unwanted pull in his chest that he couldn’t shake off.

For a split second, he considered saying something. Anything to ease her obvious pain, to offer reassurance. But no words came. He wasn’t that person. Batman didn’t have time for that. Damian Wayne didn’t need to comfort people.

And yet, all he could think was: Why does it feel like I’m the one who failed her?

Her words, barely a whisper, were faint against the sound of his own heartbeat. “I... I’m definitely not fine,” she said, and his chest constricted.

No, you’re not. The words tore through his mind, raw and unspoken. 

He straightened, his mind already shifting back into the tactical, the focused, the unemotional. It was the only way he could maintain control. The only way he could protect her from his own self from wherever these overwhelming feelings were.

“I am taking you out of here,” he said, his voice firm, offering her nothing. Not an ounce of softness, not even a hint of the vulnerability that threatened to break through. He didn’t give her a choice, but the urgency in his tone was clear enough. He could feel her body against his, her breathing shallow and labored, her wounds raw.

“Batman…” she whispered, her voice shaking, but her words caught in her throat. She was still unsure of everything, the chaotic blur of events crashing against each other in her mind. The man who had just saved her, who had shown up out of nowhere, seemed as much a mystery as the monster who had nearly killed her. She could feel herself fading fast. He saw it too, which made the situation feel more precarious.

She could’ve been anyone. Anyone at all.

But she wasn’t. She was her .

And somehow, that fact made everything a thousand times harder.

With a practiced fluidity, he shot a grapple gun to the nearest rooftop, pulling her into his arms. He needed to get her somewhere fast. A hospital. The Batcave. Somewhere . That’s why he was doing this. The ambulance would take forever. The police would ask her questions before caring for her. It wasn’t good enough. 

“I won’t let you fall,” he muttered low under his breath, almost too soft to hear, but a promise nonetheless. Alessandra wouldn’t ever know he said the words, though. Wouldn’t know the fight in his chest as he swung above the city of Gotham. She’d already passed out due to her injuries. That was a relief for Damian. 

But in the hospital, when Aless’s mind swirled as the edges of her consciousness slowly started to return, the heavy fog lifting inch by inch, she realized something. She tried to move, but her body felt sluggish, too sore and disoriented to react as she wished. The antiseptic scent of the hospital was strong, and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside her was the only sound that anchored her to the present.

Her eyes flickered open, and at first, everything was a blur—bright lights, sterile white walls. She turned her head slowly, trying to make sense of her surroundings. A hospital room. The sight was almost a relief. At least she was alive.

Her heart skipped a beat, but as the panic slowly ebbed, another thought cut through the confusion— the man who had saved her . Batman. He was still fresh in her mind, lingering there like a question she couldn’t answer. She remembered it. The last thing she thought before she passed out was to stare at him up and down. 

That wasn’t Batman.

That was the first thing that hit her with crystal clarity, despite the haze of pain and exhaustion clouding her thoughts. No. No, it couldn’t have been. It wasn’t him. She had been in close proximity to Batman before—knew his movements, his tone, his presence. But that man... the one who had swooped down and carried her away? He was nothing like the Batman she had read about, the one who haunted the streets of Gotham, the one she had obsessively followed in high school.

No, that man was someone else. She wasn’t sure who exactly, but it wasn’t Batman. His movements had been too fluid, too controlled—almost mechanical in their precision. Batman was fast, yes, but this... this was something different. There was no recklessness in his actions, no urgency in his voice when he spoke to her.

And that touch. God, that touch. The way he held her—so effortlessly, yet there was something oddly... familiar about it. Like he knew exactly how to support her, how to steady her when she was losing consciousness, how to keep her from slipping away. He had touched her with a strange care, but it wasn’t the kind of care she’d expected from Gotham's caped crusader. It was too intimate, too personal in the way it anchored her.

Alessandra frowned, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, trying to recall the details of that encounter. The red? The different grey? The shadows of the suit were too dark, the figure too fluid in his movement. His voice? Nothing like Batman’s . It hadn’t had the same cold authority. It didn’t feel like Batman. It didn’t have the weight of that dark presence that had haunted Gotham for years. No, this was... something else. Something that didn’t quite fit.

She shifted her position, wincing as pain shot through her leg, the tender throb in her ankle still fresh. She could feel the bandages around it. There was no doubt that Ivy had done a number on her, but it wasn’t the physical injuries that were lingering in her mind. It was the identity of the person who had saved her.

Alessandra stared at the ceiling of the sterile hospital room, the faint hum of machinery around her doing little to quiet the storm of thoughts in her head. She couldn’t get the image of the man—the rescuer—out of her mind. That shadow, the way he moved, the feel of him holding her so carefully, too carefully. Her chest tightened at the thought. This wasn’t Batman.

The voice in her mind repeated it, a mantra she couldn’t seem to shake. 

This wasn’t Batman.

And yet, everything about the situation screamed that it had to be. He was there. He saved her. He neutralized Ivy. But the details, the small, nagging details, kept clawing at her. The tone of his voice—there was no grim, gravelly authority. There was something almost too calm about him, too methodical. Not the raging protector who fought Gotham’s darkness, but someone who knew what he was doing. Someone with control. Too much control.

What the hell happened to Batman, then?

Had he been replaced? Was this someone else entirely? Someone pretending to be him? No, she thought. She knew Batman. She’d studied him—watched every moment of his fights, his patrols. She’d been obsessed with Gotham’s dark knight during high school, but the man she had seen wasn’t Batman. He was someone else. Someone with similar skills, but not the same.

A deep breath shuddered through her, a rush of frustration mingled with the pain from her injuries. As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t going to get any answers just lying here. She needed to know. She needed to figure out what had happened, who that man had been.

The idea started forming, almost without her permission.

I’m going to investigate.

It was the only thing that made sense. She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing, waiting for answers that would never come. She had to dig, had to search. She had to know who had saved her, and—more importantly—why.

But how would she even begin? She had resources, even if they were limited compared to what Gotham’s protector might have. She could find the clues, the breadcrumbs, and follow them to the truth. She wasn’t going to let this go.

She would start small. She would track down every lead she could find. Start with Gotham’s police reports, find any mention of Batman, any mention of a new vigilante. Surely someone had seen something. Someone had to know something.

But first, she needed to be alone.

The door creaked open again, and Alessandra tensed, half-expecting the man from earlier to come walking in with that steely gaze of his. But it wasn’t him. It was a nurse, someone with a gentle smile, asking how she was doing, how she was feeling. Alessandra waved her off, barely acknowledging the small talk. She wasn’t interested in being coddled. She didn’t care about the bandages or painkillers. She had bigger questions, bigger things to focus on.

The nurse left, and Alessandra was finally alone. She didn’t have the energy to get out of bed just yet, but her mind was already working in overdrive. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sterile white light, and let herself sink into the task at hand. She needed to figure this out.

She’d been through enough. Gotham’s heroes, its villains, they were all complicated. But this? This was personal. This wasn’t just another story. She could feel it in her bones. The city was changing, and whoever had taken on Batman’s mantle was at the center of it. Alessandra had never felt more sure of anything in her life.

She was going to find out who that man was. And when she did, she wasn’t going to stop until she had all the answers.

The soft hum of the hospital faded into the background as she let herself rest for just a moment. It wouldn’t be long before she was back on her feet. There was no more room for uncertainty. She had a mission now. And nothing was going to get in her way.

I’m going to find out the truth.

Chapter Text

She thought hard about throwing these ones out. They were purple. Her favorite color. It made her resentful that he knew that. So much so that she thought about changing her favorite color there and then. The ones in her mother’s room- which she checked before being discharged herself- were still orange, but this week, he’d picked daisies. For both of them. He’d never sent daisies before. When she Googled their meaning, she almost threw her phone against the wall.

Daisies symbolize innocence and purity, representing a fresh start and hope for a quick recovery. Sending a bouquet of daisies says, "I hope you feel better soon." 

Damian Wayne was nothing if not intentional. And persistent. She had to give him that. 

When Aless was finally discharged from the hospital—fractured ankle, concussion, and all—she had one singular goal in mind: get home, get into her apartment, and take a damn bath. After days in the sterile, white walls of the hospital, the thought of a warm bath was more of a luxury than a necessity. She was done with all of it.

Jay, being the overprotective friend he was, had driven way too fast back to her apartment, urging her to rest as much as possible in the passenger seat. Once they arrived, they grabbed dinner together—her with a small bowl of soup—and then, because she was too stubborn to ask for help, Jon had carefully hoisted her into her bathtub, fully clothed, to avoid her having to struggle with balancing on her broken ankle.

After they had left, she finally settled into the tub, the steaming water easing the tension coiled in her muscles. She let herself sink in, her limbs heavy, the heat working through the exhaustion clinging to her bones. Just as she was about to fully unwind, the doorbell rang, its sharp, grating tone slicing through the fragile calm she had fought so hard to find.

She groaned, letting her head fall back against the porcelain edge. Ignore it. Whoever it was could wait.

Then it rang again.

She clenched her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut. They’ll go away.

A third time. Longer. More insistent.

“Oh, come on,” she muttered, dragging a damp hand over her face. Of course. Of course.

With an aggravated sigh, she braced herself against the tub’s edge, carefully maneuvering out of the water. Every motion felt slow, tedious. Her ankle was stiff, swollen, and her head still buzzed faintly from the remnants of the concussion. She threw on a robe, adjusting it as she reached for her crutches, carefully balancing on her good leg before hobbling toward the door. By the time she reached it, she was cursing under her breath, sweat trickling down the back of her neck. She yanked the door open with more force than necessary.

A delivery man stood there, holding a box. He barely spared her condition a glance before offering her a clipboard.

“Package for Ms. Alessandra Vreeland,” he said, tone flat, unimpressed.

Alessandra exhaled sharply, gripping the pen harder than necessary. This better be worth it.

“Yeah, that’s me.” She signed quickly, the last thing she wanted being another drawn-out interaction.

The delivery man handed over the small box, nodded, and left without another word, leaving her standing there. She was about to shut the door and get back to her bath when her eyes locked on the purple blooms. It made her sit down and stare at them, which is where she was now. In a robe, skin still a little wet, staring at the flowers and trying to decipher their meaning. 

He knew today was the day she was getting out of the hospital. Of course, he knew when she was getting out, didn’t he? He knew her address. She’d given it to him. The thought was almost enough to make her want to toss the flowers into the trash. Almost.

This was the first time he’d sent flowers to her directly. The card had her name written on it in his perfect handwriting: To Alessandra Vreeland. Somehow, she was about to convince herself that this meant something. That wasn’t just similar to the flowers he’d been sending her mother for a year. It was too coincidental to be an off-hand gesture of niceness. This was more like him shoving them directly to her and saying ‘just take the bait already’. 

Then, she thought of the conversation with her uncle. It was right before they were attacked. Apparently that asshole got away with only minor injuries. He’d come to her hospital room two days after the attack to check if she still understood what he needed her to do. Her gaze had been blurred with painkillers, her head thumping with the aftershocks of her concussion, but she still remembered his words like a slap to the face.

"You still understand what I’m paying for here, right, Alessandra?” he started, “The bed you’re sitting in. The one that your mother is still down the hall in? Those aren’t free, Alessandra. You can forget the price of everything you’ve got. How I’ve given you everything. Now you have to pay it back. And that includes Damian Wayne.” 

Aless' blood boiled. She hated being used like this. But her uncle had made it clear: Damian Wayne or else . That was the price she was to pay. She would play her part— he expected that, after all. She dropped her gaze to the flowers again, the purple petals somehow mocking her, the card with his perfect handwriting an unspoken taunt. 

To Alessandra Vreeland .

What if…

She had spent almost an entire year trying to forget him. Trying to forget that night. But it seemed like the universe had other plans. If Damian wasn’t going to disappear, if he was so desperate to apologize, then why not use it to her advantage?  He had already used her , her career, her name to boost his own popularity. He had ghosted her after his so-called apology. He had left her to deal with the fallout while his little fans harassed her online, spinning their own narratives. He hadn’t spoken to her for a year. And now, here she was, hurt, exhausted, and stuck in this mess.

So why not use that to her advantage?

It was a risk, sure. But at this point? It was one she was willing to take.

Would he laugh in her face?

No… No, he hadn’t last time.

But— what if?

Fuck it.

Instead of answering Jon’s latest text— If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask! —she scrolled past it, her thumb hesitating. She kept scrolling. Past work conversations. Past messages from Jay. Past unread notifications from people she barely talked to anymore.

And then, she reached it.

The one thread she had never quite been able to delete.

Would texting first be a sign of weakness? Would it mean he had won?

And win what, exactly?

But what if that’s what he wanted —what he had been waiting for all along? For her to come crawling back, so he could flash that smug, knowing smirk and say, I knew you would.

Ugh. Why was she still thinking like this?

She needed to sit down with him. Hash everything out. And then ask her favor.

And if he was truly sorry—he would do it.

She typed quickly, her fingers moving before she could overthink it.

Aless: you once told me you dont like starting things off with an apology text

Aless: i dont like starting things off with apology flowers

Aless: deliver them in person

She barely had time to put her phone down before it buzzed.

Already?

It was barely past 8 PM on a Friday. Surely, he had plans. Surely, he was out doing something. Or with someone. The realization that he had answered almost immediately sent a strange jolt through her—something she wasn’t ready to name.

Asshole! DO NOT TEXT!: I will be there in ten.

In ten?!

Alessandra’s heart skipped a beat as she stared at the screen, disbelief and panic crashing over her. Ten minutes? What the hell was she supposed to do in ten minutes ? Especially in this state.

Her eyes darted around the apartment, taking in the complete disaster zone she had been happily ignoring. Laundry piled in the corner, the remnants of half-eaten soup on the counter, bags still unpacked from the hospital. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

And then there was the small issue of her complete lack of clothing. She could just ignore the door when he arrived. Let him stand outside like an idiot until he gave up.

“Oh, come on ,” she muttered, dragging a damp hand down her face. Cursing under her breath, she hobbled toward her bedroom, leaning heavily on her crutches. The bath was forgotten, her plans for a peaceful night obliterated by Damian Wayne’s inability to function like a normal person.

She didn’t even bother with jeans—those would take too long with her ankle. Instead, she grabbed an oversized shirt that barely skimmed mid-thigh and threw on a pair of shorts, running a hand through her wet hair to make it somewhat presentable.

She glanced at her phone, debating whether to text him back. Why the rush? or y ou’re seriously coming in ten? But that felt like a mistake. There was no way she giving him an opening to be smug about it. By the time she hobbled back into the living room, glancing at the flowers on the counter, something inside her twisted. This wasn’t how she wanted this to go.

The guilt of using him, mixed with the lingering resentment of being manipulated by both him and her uncle , made her stomach churn. What am I even expecting from this? An apology? A favor? Some new, carefully worded strategy to deal with her uncle?

Her phone buzzed again, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Asshole! DO NOT TEXT!: I am outside.

Asshole! DO NOT TEXT!: Keeping in mind your condition, I will come up.

She groaned. “Doesn’t even ask for the apartment number. Unbelievable.”

Pausing, she gripped the edge of the counter, steadying herself. He really was going to follow through. Ten minutes. No delay. The audacity. Trying to slow her breathing, Aless lowered herself onto the couch, staring at the flowers once more before tossing them into a nearby vase.

The doorbell rang.

She froze.

For a second, she just sat there, staring at the door like it might disappear if she ignored it hard enough. Then, with a deep breath, she grabbed her crutches and pulled herself to her feet.

No more second-guessing. Today is the day this ends.

She moved toward the door, exhaling slowly, setting her expression into something unreadable before turning the knob. And there he was. Damian Wayne. Standing in her doorway. Holding another bouquet of flowers.

He looked… annoyingly good.

The dim hallway light caught the sharp lines of his suit—semi-formal but effortlessly put together. The cut of it was clean, sleek, and tailored to fit his frame in a way that seemed both deliberate and effortless. Did he always dress like this? Did he have plans before coming here?

Her pulse kicked up before she could shove the thought away.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Damian’s gaze swept over her in a single, assessing glance. He took in the crutches, the still-healing bruises, the way she was favoring one side. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he just stood there, his presence heavy, unreadable.

She swallowed hard, gripping the doorframe a little tighter.

His eyes flickered over her once more, lingering just a second too long on her bare legs before snapping back to her face.

Then, finally—

“Damian,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You actually came in ten minutes. With… flowers?”

“I said I would,” he finally replied, his tone low and clipped. “I like to be punctual when someone is waiting on me.”

“How did you get them so fast?” He saw her curious look at the bouquet in his hand, but he felt the answer would give away too much. No, he didn’t just cancel a date last minute all because she texted him for the first time in a year... 

“The florist.”  

She stepped aside, feeling a wave of awkwardness settle over her. “Uh, come in then.”

Damian moved past her with deliberate ease until he stopped in the middle of her apartment and stared at everything. He didn’t know where to go. Where to sit. His eyes immediately took in the details of her apartment. He spotted the flowers on her kitchen table, the ones he’d sent as Jon texted him when they were on the road back. It was everything he had expected from her—a space that felt personal without being overly decorated, like a blend of practicality and understated style. The walls were lined with bookshelves, but unlike cluttered, chaotic shelves like Todd's, hers were organized—neatly arranged, mostly non-fiction, with a few well-placed novels and a small section dedicated to a few comics.

The space felt lived in, but there was something a little sterile about it, too. The floors were hardwood, mostly bare except for a rug here and there. The furniture, mostly minimalist, was comfortable but not extravagant. There were remnants of her recovery everywhere: a crumpled blanket draped across the couch, a spare pair of crutches leaning against the wall near the door. Dishes from a meal she had likely just finished. 

But it was the personal touches that caught his attention—the framed photos on the mantle of her with people he didn’t recognize, but from the way they were placed, they were clearly significant. There were some with Jay. Some with her mother and father. And on the coffee table, just barely hidden beneath the edge of a magazine, was an old journal with a worn leather cover—her handwriting, he was certain, even from a distance.

The apartment wasn’t extravagant, but it was hers. And seeing it up close, Damian couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction in knowing this was her space, that she let him see it, and that she was still holding it together even when everything else felt off balance.

He blinked, realizing he'd been standing in the entryway a little too long.

“Nice place,” he finally said, his voice a little gruffer than he intended, though he hoped she didn’t catch the rare note of appreciation that laced it. She didn’t. She felt embarrassed, comparing his apartment to hers inside her head. She was overthinking it, but Aless felt like he probably judged how small it was. How cluttered it seemed. 

 She closed the door behind him and stood, her heart still racing. What was she supposed to say now? She had planned on confronting him, but the tension in the air made her hesitate.

Aless had to make it clear that this wasn’t just a casual visit. There was a lot more on the line than whatever this "apology" was supposed to be.

“Well, you’re here,” Aless said, breaking the silence with a shrug, “so… what now?” That wasn’t very “making it clear”, Aless! 

Damian didn’t look at her immediately, his gaze scanning the room for a second before his eyes finally locked with hers. “I thought I made myself clear,” he said, his voice steady but sharp. "You got the flowers. Every week. You know what I was trying to do. And yet you didn’t respond, so I thought that was your answer."

Damian’s words hung in the air, a sharp edge to them that seemed to slice through the tension between them. Like he was hurt. Alessandra's breath caught for a moment, and her gaze shifted instinctively to the purple flowers sitting on the counter. The ones that had arrived only hours before, after she’d already made up her mind about the way things stood between them. Her eyes darted back to him, trying to piece together his tone. What was he really saying?

"You thought that was my answer?" she repeated, a mix of disbelief and frustration slipping into her voice. "Damian, those flowers were the least you could do after… everything that happened. I thought… With no text or no ‘Hey, did you get the flowers?’ that you were just doing it as an appeasement. Like you were washing your hands of the situation by sending automated gifts or something. And they weren’t to me; they were to my mom. " She motioned vaguely at the room, as though it could encompass the year of awkward silence, the miscommunication, and the night that had somehow spiraled into this .

Damian stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He couldn’t quite place the anger in her voice or the way she was looking at him, but the doubt crept in. The words from their last encounter echoed in his mind, the way she'd looked at him that night, like he'd been a stranger after she’d gotten out of his car. And the shareholder's meeting—he hadn’t missed how she’d barely spoken to him unless forced, how she'd avoided even a glance. That was enough to make him believe she didn't want anything to do with him. He thought sending the flowers—again, after everything—would give her space to process, to know he was trying to atone .

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk,” Damian finally said, the words coming out rougher than he intended. He looked at her now, fully, the tension between them palpable. “Similar to when I saw you at the shareholder's meeting. You barely acknowledged me. I figured…” He exhaled, frustration creeping in despite himself. “I figured you wanted nothing more than for me to leave you alone. After everything I said to you, I deserved it. So I gave you that.”

He was also busy taking on the mantle. Being Batman. Faking relationships. Even throughout that, he still thought about contacting her every week, but knew he’d never be accepted. If she didn’t talk to him then, it was clearly a signal that she didn’t want to now. Obviously, he’d thought wrong. They both did. 

Aless’ eyes widened. She thought he was just fine with it. That it’s what he wanted. That was what stung the most. She had spent all that time convincing herself he was embarrassed or angry and that he had no intention of acknowledging the dinner where everything had tipped into the emotional scale. Where he told her things about himself, and vise versa, that she was sure no one else heard. That it was her fault. In a way, it still was, but they shared that blame. 

“You—” She stopped herself, trying to calm the pulse of anger rising in her chest. “You think I didn’t want to talk to you? You think I ignored you on purpose?” She shook her head, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I didn’t know what to do , Damian. You just sent me flowers. And not even once did you reach out, not once did you try to clear up what happened. You couldn’t even give me a call or—hell, another apology. You just… ghosted me after all of that. I thought you’d… You had me thinking it wasn’t genuine. That is was still a show.”

Her voice was rising now, the frustration from a year of unresolved tension finally spilling out. 

Damian’s eyes flickered toward the floor for a second before he met her gaze again. He was angry. She still thought that was all fake? Of course. That’s why he thought she didn’t contact her. Either she wanted to be done with him because they said it all or because she still hated him. He knew it was the latter because they barely started to say anything. The vulnerability in her eyes, the way her words seemed to pierce straight through him, caught him off guard. “I thought you didn’t want to hear it again,” he muttered. “I thought you were done with me. With all of it.”

The words stung in ways he hadn’t anticipated. But he couldn’t ignore the truth in her tone either. He had sent flowers. He had tried, in his own way, to fix things — but had he really done enough? Did she think it was enough? He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t reached out. His pride had gotten in the way, making him believe that giving her space would make up for his years of sins.

Aless let out a frustrated laugh, her hands resting on her hips. "You really thought I'd just be okay with just flowers ? After all the shit we’ve been through? Said to each other? After everything, you thought I’d just… forget it? Maybe you did think I didn’t care—" She cut herself off, the frustration starting to crack into something else. Something rawer. She took a breath, the sharp edge in her voice softening. “I thought you didn't care, either. That I told you about my job. My mom. And you walked away from that thinking I was just fucked up."

Damian swallowed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he spoke, his voice low. “I never wanted you to think that. I thought you thought that about me. I—” He stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence. Everything about this was more complicated than he’d expected. The biggest thing, the one he could never tell her, was that he still felt so guilty about letting her father die, that he’d let Alessandra do anything to him to atone for it. 

He was losing control quickly if he was thinking like that. 

Aless shook her head, shifting her weight so that the crutch wasn’t digging in so bad, rubbing her face in frustration. “Damian, I’m not saying I wanted to be ignored. But you can’t just send flowers like that - again, to my mom - and expect me to get your subliminal messaging. You think I wanted to forget the dinner? You think I wanted to pretend it didn’t happen when that was the first time in a while I’d been able to tell anyone my true thoughts? Of course, it was a bit uncomfortable because I was telling it to you, but at the end of the dinner I didn’t care! You… I thought I was so stupid later for letting you convince me that you changed. ” She paused, biting her lip. “You’re the one who couldn’t even face me after that night. You let me walk away without a goodbye. How was I supposed to think you changed when you showed me after that you hadn’t?” 

The words hit harder than she intended. Damian’s posture stiffened, the words hanging between them like a heavy fog. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, but he wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. What was he supposed to say to that? He didn’t know what he was trying to fix anymore. Maybe he wasn’t trying to fix anything; Maybe he just wanted her to understand. But could he make her understand? Would she even listen now?

“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to talk about high school. About your job. About your parents. About everything. I thought that… If you let me tell you about how I was feeling then, maybe you’d let me do it again. It felt good. And you know how hard it is for me to confess that. But…I just thought you wouldn’t want me to. I don’t know what you want from me, Alessandra. And I obviously don’t know how to fix this.”

Her chest tightened at his words. He’d wanted to talk to her? The thought was almost enough to shatter the wall she’d built up, but her own frustration kept her from letting go completely.

“I don’t want your apology anymore, Damian,” she said quietly, almost regretfully. “I want to know why! ” 

The words hung in the air. And in that space between them, everything they hadn’t said before—the confusion, the misunderstandings, the hurt—felt like it was about to spill out, shattering the fragile silent truce they’d both been avoiding for so long. It was a stupid truce to begin with. They should have never been silent. 

Damian watched as tears welled in her eyes, the glimmer of vulnerability that flickered in her gaze catching him off guard. Alessandra was always so composed, always so sharp, even when she was angry or frustrated. But now, there was something raw, something tender beneath the surface that made him feel as if the ground had shifted beneath him.

She blinked rapidly, trying to hold it together, but a single tear escaped, slipping down her cheek. She wiped it away almost immediately, as if trying to erase the sign of weakness before he could notice. But he did notice. And he couldn’t ignore the way it made his chest tighten.

"Alessandra," Damian started, but he stopped, unsure of what to say. 

“Sorry, it’s just been a crazy few weeks.” He just stood there, watching her blink the tears away. Then Damian stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He simply stood there, watching her. His expression softened, the lines of his face relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever.

"I’m sorry," he said again, the words coming out more gently this time. Alessandra looked at him, her eyes still damp, her face flushed. But there was something in her gaze now—a flicker of hope, maybe, or the beginning of something new. She didn’t say anything, but her breath seemed to steady.

"Can you help me sit down? The crutches…” Damian didn’t need to be told twice. Without a second thought, he moved to her side, gently placing a hand on her shoulder to guide her back toward the couch. His fingers brushed against her skin, a brief moment of contact that sent a jolt through him. The proximity felt too close, yet too distant at the same time. But he didn’t pull away.

He helped her settle on the couch, his eyes tracing the bandages around her ankle, the way she winced slightly as she adjusted herself. He sat tentatively on the other side of the couch, waiting for her to speak again. The look in her eyes changed. She was determined now. She let out a shaky breath as she sat back against the cushions, leaning her head against the armrest. 

Let’s just start then, shall we? she thought. 

“Thanks,” she muttered, glancing up at him. “Alright. Let’s dive in, yeah? If we’re going to stop hating each other and start being friends, we have to go to the beginning. Why did you hate me so much in high school?” 

Damian’s stomach tightened at the question, his expression momentarily faltering. He hadn’t expected her to dive straight into it, but of course, that was Alessandra for you. No sugar-coating. No pretending. Just straight to the point.

If we’re going to stop hating each other and start being friends. 

Friends. 

He repeated that word over and over in his head. There was never a world where he thought Alessandra would consider being his friend. That meant he would have three people whom he could consider friends. 

Is this what Dick meant? About having a close circle? Would Aless be in that circle? 

No. She couldn’t be. She could never know about his identity. 

Why had he hated her in high school? The memories felt like distant shadows, twisted by time and his own complicated feelings. He’d been a mess back then—still trying to find his place, still trying to figure out how to be Damian Wayne and Robin without feeling like a constant disappointment to his father, Alfred’s memory, his family, and himself. But the hatred part? That was a bit harder to admit.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out right away. Instead, he shifted, standing a little straighter, his fingers clenching into fists at his sides before he let them fall into his pockets. “I didn’t hate you,” he finally said, his voice low, almost defensive. “But I did use you as a verbal punching bag. It was a release. Fighting with you. But then it started to get out of control during our junior year.” When I stopped being Robin. After your father died. After Alfred’s death, it caught up to me. 

Alessandra’s eyes narrowed as she listened to him, the words sending a slight shiver of disbelief through her. He didn’t hate me ? It was almost laughable to hear him say that, given how he treated her back then—how he actively fought with her, how he was condescending in every single conversation they had. It had been something deeper, more biting.

Junior Year. That was the year her father died. When her mother went into a coma. When her uncle kicked them out of the family home.  

She let out a dry laugh, though it lacked humor. “We were the same back then and didn’t even know it,” she said, her voice sharp, though the edge of it softened as she continued. “I was angry at the world for what happened to my parents.” Her gaze flickered to her bandaged ankle, her mind swirling as she recalled how they treated each other in the halls, in the classroom, during every interaction. “I tried, you know. I tried to be normal around you. But we would just project our anger onto each other and… Yeah, it was definitely a release.”

He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I wasn’t…” He exhaled sharply, looking down at his hands before looking back at her, this time with a little more intensity. “I wasn’t in control of it, Alessandra. I was angry, but I had yet to learn how to channel it, how to let it out in a way that didn’t make everything worse. So, I did what I knew best—fight. You just happened to be the one closest. It was the fate of our last names, I supposed.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to process what he had said. “You know, we were both angry idiots back then. Too busy fighting our own battles to even see what was really going on with the other person.” She looked at him, her expression more vulnerable now than she had intended. “But we both played the game. I didn’t make it easy for you either, did I?”

Damian glanced at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. The way she spoke, so candidly, without the sharpness he had expected, made him feel a little lighter. He had thought for so long that she hated him, that their interactions had been nothing but mutual disdain. But now, seeing her like this—seeing how much she had cared back then, despite everything—it made him question everything he’d believed about their past.

“No, you didn’t,” he replied quietly, his voice betraying a hint of a smile. “I don’t think either of us made it easy. But... we’re here now, aren’t we?” He looked at her, his expression more open than it had been in years.

Alessandra nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle between them. “Yeah, we’re here. Finally. Only took seven years.”

For a moment, there was a silence between them—one that was different from the silence they’d shared earlier. This one wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just... still.

She leaned back into the cushions again, letting out a long breath. “I guess... I never realized you were so... complicated. I always thought you were just some arrogant, perfect little rich kid who was an asshole for no reason.” She glanced at him through her lashes. “But I get it now. You were trying to survive, too.”

Damian’s gaze softened. “I wasn’t trying to be perfect. I was trying to be something... else. But, yes. Survival. That’s a good way to put it.” He took a step closer, sitting down next to her, careful not to crowd her space. “I don’t think I ever let anyone get close enough to see it.”

She turned her head toward him, eyes searching his face. “What about now? Are you letting people get close?”

Damian paused, then looked down at his hands for a second before meeting her gaze. “Not many. But... I’m trying.”

It felt like the tension between them had lifted a little. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was holding a mask up for anyone, including her. The words were coming out too easily now. It felt almost... natural.

The raw honesty in his voice surprised her. It wasn’t what she had expected from him. She thought it was a one-off thing. But now, sitting here with him, she could see that maybe, just maybe, they could be different. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know what it would look like, but for the first time, she felt a spark of hope.

“Maybe that’s all we need to do,” she said softly. “Just try . We don’t have to fix everything in one conversation.”

Damian nodded, a faint, wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes. I think that is the plan. One step at a time.”

He wanted to ask more. To know what she thought of the last year, what she thought of his silence. He wanted to know how she really felt about the apology he delivered. But he knew better than to push. He could feel the fragility of the moment, and he wasn’t about to ruin it. He just stayed silent again.

“Tell me something,” she said instead, shifting the focus slightly. “What was your biggest fuck-up after high school?” There was a teasing tone now, one that felt almost comfortable, even after everything they’d been through. She’d done it purposely, seeing how deep they’d just gone.

Damian smirked at the sudden change in direction. “Are you really asking me that?” He raised an eyebrow, his fingers tapping against the couch arm. “I did not understand my own limits or wants,” he said after a beat. “Trying to be everything to everyone, and in the process, losing the one thing that actually mattered. Forcing myself to think that I was content with where I was.”

Alessandra nodded slowly, her eyes softening. “Is that… The situation you told me about. At dinner.”

Damian shifted. “Yes."

She met his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no wall between them. No anger, no resentment. Just... two people who had been through their own battles, only to end up on opposite sides of a conflict neither of them had chosen.

And for some reason, that felt like a start. An actual real one. Not like the silent truce before. 

“What was yours?” He asked tentatively, like he didn’t deserve an answer. She just smirked. 

“So, I was working on this piece about a shady real estate developer—big stuff. I was at this club downtown, trying to get the lowdown from an insider. The plan was to talk to a contact who had worked closely with this developer and knew all about their shady dealings. I had all my questions ready, recorder set, you know, the usual prep. Like I did to you.”

Damian's eyebrow quirked up, an amused glint in his eye, but he didn't interrupt. He had no idea where this was going. He was about to make a comment about how his was serious and hers didn’t sound like it was going to be, but he didn’t because she was smiling again. 

“So I’m at the bar, waiting for him to show up, and I’m feeling all cool and professional, like I’ve got this in the bag. I had a glass of wine to loosen up, but nothing too crazy, just to seem casual. And then, my contact walks in—perfect timing, right?”

She let out a small laugh at the memory, feeling herself ease into the moment. Damian was listening intently now, leaning forward just a little.

“Everything’s going fine at first—until we start talking. I start asking my questions, and I’m totally in the zone, super focused. But then... my stupid shoe broke. The heel. Just snaps right off, mid-interview. And what do I do?” She shook her head, almost incredulous. “I bend down to try and fix it, but I end up tripping over my own feet and falling flat on my face. Right there. In front of him . And to make it worse, I couldn’t even recover from it. I just sat there, on the floor, like a complete idiot."

Damian’s lips quirked, just a little.

“I mean, I tried to salvage it,” she continued, "but as I’m sitting there, trying to look professional, I reach up to grab my wine glass to take a sip... and I knock it over. The wine spills everywhere, right onto my notes, all over my phone. So now I’m sitting on the floor with one broken shoe, wine-soaked notes, and the most awkward expression of ‘this is my life right now’—and the worst part? The guy? He just starts laughing."

She paused, a wry smile creeping across her face. “And then I started laughing too, because what else could I do? I wasn’t going to make the situation worse. I was already down there, wine-soaked and humiliated.”

Damian’s lips twitched into a grin, unable to suppress it now. “You couldn’t have done anything worse than that?”

Alessandra threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Of course I could’ve. But I had the brilliant idea to keep the interview going. So, I tried to hold the recorder while balancing on one leg— you know, like a graceful swan —but in my efforts to stay upright, I accidentally knocked my bag over , and everything spilled out, including a handful of pens that just scattered across the floor."

Damian chuckled, this time genuinely. “That’s... impressive. I’ve never seen anyone manage to make an interview so... memorable.”

Alessandra’s grin widened. “Yeah, well, that’s what I do. Make a lasting impression.”

It was a slight exaggeration, of course, but she wasn’t about to let him think she was too proud to laugh at herself.

“And the kicker? The developer's assistant walked in right after all of this and looked at me like I was a trainwreck. Needless to say, I didn’t get the inside scoop that night.”

Damian's grin deepened, and for a moment, Alessandra just watched him—really watched him—as he smiled. There was something unexpectedly disarming about seeing him so amused. He looked quite handsome without his normal broody look. 

“Perhaps I wasn’t incorrect when I said you were the clumsiest person I knew in high school,” he said, his voice still low, but there was no hiding the humor there now.

“Hey, I might not have gotten the story,” she said with a shrug, “but at least I made an impression.”

“May you offer a serious one like I did?” 

“I mean, I guess letting in people who weren’t really good for me? Had a few awful exes a while back. Made for great content on the comedy column for the student newspaper, though.”

Damian laughed again, more freely this time, the sound a bit like music to Aless’ ears. It was the first time she’d heard it, and the fact that it was because of her ridiculousness? Well, it made everything feel just a little more... bearable.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather a quiet, shared realization. They both sat there, still processing the last few minutes. Damian was leaning back, his hands folded in his lap, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to dissipate. Aless, for the first time in as long as she could remember, wasn’t anxiously scanning the room for the next thing she could say, the next snarky retort she could throw at him. Instead, there was a rare sense of calm that had settled between them.

Her gaze flickered over to him, and it was like everything clicked in place. Here she was, sitting in her tiny apartment with someone she’d thought she hated for so long. Someone who, for years, had been nothing more than a constant source of irritation, anger, and confusion in her life. And now? Now, she was sitting across from him, laughing like it was the most normal thing in the world. No insults, no defenses. Just... a conversation.

It wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the immediate urge to fight with him or keep up the walls. Maybe that’s what they were both doing here—just letting it be, letting go of the past.

Damian, too, was quiet, his fingers resting on the arm of the couch as his eyes lingered on her for a moment too long. She was still the same Alessandra, but somehow different. Less guarded, maybe. More... real. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected from himself. He had expected to walk in, apologize, get it over with, and leave. But now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.

They were sitting there, neither of them speaking, but both thinking the same thing.

Damian was the first to break the silence, his voice low but thoughtful. “When I first received your message, I thought this interaction would go down a very different path.”

Alessandra raised an eyebrow, sensing where this was going but not quite sure how to respond. “Different? You mean worse ?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I believed there was no solution to our personality clash. Regardless of an apology, you would still hate me.” He trailed off, glancing at her, the expression in his eyes unreadable for a moment. “Now, it’s…” 

Her heart skipped a beat. That wasn’t something she had expected him to say. She’d known him for years, but they were always at odds. To hear him actually admit this, as if this moment of calm was a relief rather than an inconvenience, made her chest tighten in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, leaning back a little. “I didn’t expect this either.” She sighed, a hint of humor in her voice. “We’re sitting here, not insulting each other, not throwing jabs. It’s... kinda weird.”

“Maybe we should stop waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Damian said quietly, his eyes flicking to hers. His gaze softened ever so slightly, but just enough to make her feel like he was trying to extend a small olive branch. 

Friends ? Could they be that? She wasn’t sure yet. But then again, she hadn’t thought they could even be in the same room without going for each other’s throats. And here they were, actually talking. Actually sharing a laugh.

“Friends?” she asked, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the slight vulnerability in her voice. She couldn’t believe she was saying this. Couldn’t believe that she was, in some strange way, thinking it. 

Damian hesitated, but Dick’s words kept coming to his mind. Did he expect Alessandra to be one person he felt like he could talk to? No. Did he expect to become friends with her? No. “I would be amenable.” 

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Always so formal sounding.” 

But then, as the reality of the situation hit her, Alessandra felt a pang in her chest. She’d been playing this delicate game of balancing everything for so long, always managing to stay one step ahead. But now, with Damian here, actually talking to her like this, she realized she couldn’t keep up the act anymore.

Her uncle’s words echoed in her head. Damian Wayne. The things he’d said, the pressure he had put on her, telling her to lock down Damian, to get close to him for his family's sake. And now, as she sat here, she felt like the weight of her uncle's plan was starting to press down on her again.

She glanced at Damian, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. Would he think that this sudden friendship was all because of that? Did didn’t like that thought. 

“Damian, there’s something I have to te-” His phone sounded, cutting her off. It was a peculiar ringtone. One that sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place. Aless froze for a second, the words she had been about to speak now lodged in her throat. Damian, however, seemed unfazed by the sudden interruption. She watched him, feeling the moment slip away as his expression shifted from calm to focused, a slight tension tightening his jaw. The hum of the conversation on the other end of the line was faint, but it was enough to make her realize this wasn’t just any regular phone call. His tone was different—sharp, curt—and there was an edge to it that made her instinctively sit up straighter.

"I can be there in fifteen. I’m on the opposite end of the city right now," he said, his voice low and precise. There was something about the way he spoke that made Alessandra pause, like he was used to giving orders, to responding with urgency, but without explaining why.

She shifted in her seat, wondering if she should just say it now. Spill everything—the tension, the uncertainty, the weight of her uncle’s plans. But instead, she just watched him, unsure whether to interrupt again. Damian’s focus seemed entirely on the phone call.

A sharp, almost impatient sigh left him. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Alessandra, already feeling the sting of her words unsaid, hesitated. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, she didn’t want him to leave just yet. They were finally having an honest conversation. The first one in years. She could almost see the door opening to a new understanding, to a future where things were clearer between them, and then— he was about to walk out again.

It wasn’t like he… he didn’t owe her that. They were just friends. He had something to do. That was all. She was looking too much into it. Her mind raced, unsure how to process the shift in energy. She almost called out to him, but before she could, he turned his attention back to her, his phone already half-lowered.

“I need to go,” Damian said, his voice quieter now, but there was still an edge to it. He sounded... reluctant, she realized. “There's a... situation I need to handle.” His gaze lingered on her for a second longer than necessary, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something else. Something more.

Alessandra nodded slowly, the pit in her stomach deepening. “Right. Of course. You’re... you’re busy.” She stood up too, leaning on the crutch, her mind still tangled with everything she had been about to say. But even though she tried to dismiss it, the feeling that had been gnawing at her—a strange, unexplainable sense of loss—lingered.

Damian tucked his phone back into his pocket and stood up as well. His hand hovered in the air for a moment as if unsure of what to do with it. “Don’t assume I’m walking out because I don’t want to hear what you were going to say,” he muttered, his tone clipped, a flicker of frustration creeping in. “It is not that simple.” He glanced at her for a split second, his eyes hard, then softened—just enough for her to notice, before his usual mask snapped back into place. “So, don’t… again,” he added, his voice low, like a command wrapped in something unspoken.

Alessandra bit her lip, feeling her chest tighten. She had wanted to tell him everything—about her uncle, the pressure, the guilt. The plan she made involved him. But now, she had to hold it in. And that was... frustrating. Frustrating because they were finally speaking honestly, and yet she couldn’t get it out in time. She could feel the weight of it all.

“I’m not assuming anything,” she said quietly, trying to sound casual. “I just... I get it. Business never stops. Be safe going.” 

Damian’s gaze softened for a moment longer than she expected, and for a split second, she saw a flicker of something—something like vulnerability, maybe—or just weariness from the weight of whatever it was he was running off to do. But then it was gone, replaced by the same cool mask he always wore.

“I will,” he said, voice firm again. He took a few steps toward the door but then stopped, glancing back over his shoulder at her. “Alessandra,” he began, his voice a little more serious, “We’ll talk. You have my word.”

Alessandra felt the faintest flush creep to her cheeks at the sincerity in his voice. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or frustrated, but she nodded slowly. “Okay. Soon,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You take care of... whatever it is.”

Damian hesitated again. He was standing in the doorway now, his hand on the handle, but there was something unspoken in the way he looked at her. Then, with a quick glance, he gave her a slight nod before stepping out into the hallway. The door closed softly behind him.

Alessandra stood there for a moment, a mix of conflicting emotions swirling within her. Her heart was still racing, but now, the silence felt heavier. She had almost told him everything. She had almost reached out, but the timing was off. Always off.

She sighed and walked over to the couch, sinking back down into it, her mind still processing. The plan... her uncle’s plan... and Damian, standing on the edge of it all. She knew she couldn’t ignore it for much longer. Whatever came next, she would have to deal with it.

But as the minutes ticked by, Alessandra found herself hoping—against everything she had been taught—that maybe, just maybe, things were starting to change.

Chapter Text

Damian knew Jon knew not to hit the ‘ Red Alert ’ button unless it was something catastrophic. World-shattering. World-ending, even. Both of their fathers, when they’d each become leaders of their respective teen teams, had brought them into the Watchtower and drilled them on the weight of that decision. It was a simple rule, but one that carried more gravity than any of them truly realized until the moment came. The button had only been used once before against Darkside. 

It was a rule they both respected, but it was one that, if ignored, meant the sky was falling. No one could just casually hit that button. You didn’t call for backup unless the situation was beyond saving on your own. And neither Damian nor Jon were ever eager to sound the alarm.

So when the comms system of the Batcave buzzed with an urgent ping that wasn’t part of the usual nightly reports, Damian’s stomach twisted. Jon had gone quiet on the other end of the line. This wasn’t some minor disturbance. This was serious.

Relegating patrol lines to Todd and Maps, Damian suited up in record time, the familiar weight of the cowl slipping over his head like a second skin. As he pulled on his gloves and tightened his utility belt, the rush of adrenaline that normally came with these moments didn’t settle in. Instead, a sinking feeling pressed down on his chest, like a stone lodged in his ribs.

It was doubt.

Anxiety.

As he used the z-tube, the transition from Gotham to the Watchtower was smooth, but his mind stayed clouded. When he landed in the empty corridor, the familiar chill of the place greeted him. The silence felt too thick. And then he saw Jon, standing there in his Supersuit, staring at a blank screen.

Jon didn’t turn right away. He was staring at a console, fingers tapping rapidly, as if trying to delay whatever conversation was coming. He already knew that Damian had seen the alert, so there was no reason to pretend.

Damian’s boots clicked across the cold floor as he approached, his voice as sharp as ever. “Superman. The Red Alert button.”

Jon’s head snapped up, the look of hesitation quickly replaced by a tightness in his jaw. “Batman, you need to understand—this isn’t just some random alert. We’ve got a situation. A serious one.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, seeing the hesitation in his friend’s demeanor. “That is the entire point of the button. If you hit it, it means the situation cannot be handled in-house. You do not call for backup unless the world’s ending.”

Jon swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the console before he locked his gaze with Damian again. “It might as well be…” His words came out clipped, and Damian’s posture stiffened. What the hell could be this important?

Jon ran a hand through his hair, a sure sign that he was more rattled than usual. “Look, the thing is, this has nothing to do with the usual threats. It’s not just some gang war or criminal takeover.”

Damian’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion flashing in his eyes. “Then what is so catastrophic that you had to pull me away from my duty to Gotham?”

Jon finally exhaled, the tension in his shoulders giving way as he turned toward Damian. “Aless. She’s writing a piece about Batman.”

Damian must not have understood Jon because his face didn’t change. It was still filled with annoyance over Jon’s misuse of the button. “And you deemed that world-ending?”  

Jon continued, his eyes flicking to the monitor before focusing back on Damian. “She’s planning to follow all of Batman’s movements. She noticed something. When she was saved by you, during the Ivy situation, she realized that this new Batman isn’t Bruce’s Batman. She noticed the difference. And now she’s adamant about uncovering the truth and showing it to Gotham.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. Of course, she did. No one- literally no one- had realized that Batman had changed. Eyes were off of the caped crusader. He was getting work done quickly and efficiently, so he didn’t have to spend much time outside. Damian thought he was doing a perfect job. Of course, it was her. “How did you come across this information?”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “Gossamer found out. He was with her when she… well, asked to view patrol routes with her. He thinks she also alluded to using The Truth’s research power to help her as well. She isn’t even supposed to know about The Truth! This means that she could be putting Gossamer at risk too, and I will not-” He paused, taking a breath, catching Damian’s glare. “She told Jay she wanted to start investigating in two weeks, but she needed help because of her ankle.”

He didn’t know what to do with this information, the mix of anger and frustration burning in his gut. This wasn’t just some random investigation or some piece of reporting. Alessandra was brutal in her observations of Gotham. She didn’t just report facts—she dissected them, peeled back every layer, looked for the cracks in the story that others would ignore. And if she was doing that with Gotham’s newest Batman, then the problem was bigger than just an inconvenient story.

She would be giving him the same treatment, breaking down every move, every detail, until there was nothing left but the truth. The truth about Gotham’s protector. 

Just as she did when he was Robin… It made him uneasy, thinking about how close she’d gotten to doing that to him before. And this was when they hated each other… When she couldn’t stand being in a room with him longer than a class period. 

Now…she was close. Too close. He had let her in when they’d talked last week, when they’d shared something that wasn’t just small talk. He’d let his guard down, cracked the mask for the first time in a long while. She had seen the person behind the cowl, even if she didn’t know it. But that was a dangerous thing. Too dangerous.

His thoughts twisted in knots as he tried to grasp onto a single, solid thread. Is that it?

She couldn’t have known it was him, right? That was impossible. No one could know. He’d been so careful.

But as the seconds ticked by, the gnawing feeling in his stomach only grew. The way she’d looked at him last week—there had been something in her eyes. A knowing, or at least, the possibility of it. And where their conversation cut off. His eyes had filled with uncertainty. Fear. That’s why he was clear they would continue whatever she had to say later. It seemed important for her to tell him. 

I have something to tell you, Damian. 

Was this it? That she’d uncovered his identity? That she thought he was the new Batman?

Is that why she was adamant about being friends?

He couldn’t ignore the possibility. Couldn’t ignore the idea that maybe, just maybe, Alessandra was onto him in a way no one else had ever been. And if she was, how much had she already figured out? How long before she found the missing piece that would make everything fall into place?

A reporter’s instincts were razor-sharp. Hers were even sharper. If she was truly digging, if she was determined enough to connect the dots, then it wasn’t just a matter of if she’d figure it out. It was when . And when that happened, everything he’d built, everything he’d fought for, could come crumbling down.

Damian’s jaw tightened. He was so close to controlling this city—his city. He couldn’t let it slip away now, not because of some rookie mistake. Not because of her . No matter if they were friends or not. 

His voice was colder when he spoke again. “ I need a plan. Something solid. Something to keep her away from Batman. Is Gossamer willing to aid?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, sensing the tension rising in the room. "I’m not worried about Batman. I’m worried about Damian ." He paused, his voice dropping a bit. "If she gets any closer to you, she could start piecing things together. You’ve already let her in—she’s been with you, talking to you, seeing your face without the mask. And you know how observant she is. She could recognize your voice, your mannerisms... even something like your height, for God’s sake. She's good , Batman."

Jon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And don’t forget, she’s writing this piece. It’s not like a little persuasion or distraction is going to make her stop. She’s in it to get the story, to get out of the Gazette . Gossamer said that she thought this could be her Pulitzer. This isn’t just a casual piece for her. Gotham can’t afford to lose Batman right now— especially with everything coming down the pipeline: Ivy, the Joker… the League of Assassins."

Damian’s jaw tightened, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. His mind raced. Is that what this is? Was she getting too close? He didn’t know what to do with the information Jon had given him. Everything felt like it was spiraling out of control in a direction he couldn’t control, and the closer Alessandra got, the more it seemed like he was the one losing his grip on this. All signs pointed to ignoring her again. Keeping her far away from him. 

No.

He couldn't. He couldn't just drop her. Again. He couldn’t abandon her like that, not after he had promised they would talk again. After their conversation. The way he had opened up to her. She had trusted him…and now she was this close to discovering something that could destroy everything he had worked for. Something he had kept so tightly controlled for so long. But damn it, why couldn’t he just leave her? 

Jon’s words pierced through his spiraling thoughts. “I know it might not be easy, Damian, but you might just need to ghost her. Get her out of the picture. I told Gossamer I might have to stay away from her too since I don’t wear a mask or anything like you do. It’s for the best.” 

Damian's eyes flicked to Jon. The suggestion hit him like a punch to the gut. “I promised her I wouldn’t. I promised I wouldn’t just drop her. I told you about the conversation we had.”

Jon scoffed. “You’re putting a promise over your identity? Over Gotham? Batman, if this happened a month ago, you would’ve been able to stay away from her. You were actively avoiding her.”

Damian didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t. The truth was, he didn’t want to push her away, not when it had taken so long to get to the point where they could say two words to each other. Something had shifted between them recently—something that wasn’t just about her being a reporter and him being Damian Wayne. He had let her in. She’d let him in. Not completely, but enough to feel something different, something unexpected. Something real . Friendship. 

Something that Damian rarely let himself have. 

Jon, however, could see it. Even if Damian wouldn’t admit it. Jon was his best friend, and he knew Damian well enough to understand that this wasn’t just about protecting his identity anymore. It was more. Too much more.

Jon bit back his frustration, his own thoughts spinning. Damian’s relationship with her—it’s not just about getting her to forgive him because of high school, is it? But he wouldn’t say that out loud. Damian wouldn’t ever admit it, not even to himself. Jon had seen it before—his best friend had always been about the mission, about Gotham, about keeping it all together in the name of justice. But now, with Alessandra, Damian was stuck between two worlds. And Jon knew exactly what that felt like.

Jon finally exhaled, trying to gather his thoughts. "Look, I get it. You don’t want to lose one of the few friends you’ve just gained. But this can’t go on. She's too close. And Gotham can’t afford a slip-up like this. You two just started repairing your relationship. Can you really stand here and say you confidently trust she won’t publish that article?"

Damian stood there, his mind swirling with the weight of Jon’s words. It was impossible to ignore the truth—Alessandra was dangerously close to figuring everything out. If she did... It wouldn’t just ruin Batman—it would ruin everything. In figuring out Damian was Batman, she would figure out about his siblings. His team members. 

Jon could see the conflict in Damian’s eyes, but he also knew Damian wasn’t going to make a decision like this on his own. “We need a plan. Something solid to keep her away from Batman and you. She can’t keep digging. I don’t care how you two are now—it’s too risky.”

Damian’s mind snapped into action. He needed to protect Gotham. He needed to protect his identity. And he needed to protect Alessandra from herself.

“Is Gossamer willing to help? Yes or no.” Damian asked, his voice clipped but steady. He had no time for hesitation. If this was going to be handled, it had to be done right.

Jon nodded. “He can help. He already knows the situation. He doesn’t want to put Aless in danger either. But you’ve got to be clear about this, Batman. She’s going to keep coming for answers. She’s not going to stop until she gets them. The only thing that stopped her from getting to Robin was college. Now, she thinks this story could be her ticket out of the Gazette . A piece on Batman? The Caped Crusader that has always towed the line between Gotham’s acceptance and rejection? This could make her career.”

Damian’s eyes darkened. “I know.” He couldn’t help the sense of frustration bubbling up inside him. 

She always knew how to get under his skin. Now, she was just doing it differently.

Jon continued, his tone more serious now. “We can’t stop her from investigating, but we may be able to lead her in the wrong direction. With Gossamer’s help. You’ve got to be strategic, or else she’ll have the story before you even realize it.”

Damian wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was already spinning with possibilities—ways to mislead Alessandra, ways to cover his tracks, ways to keep her from connecting the dots. But there was something else gnawing at him now, something he hadn’t expected.

Jon’s words repeated in his head: She’s too close. 

She’s too close. You need to let her go. You need to drop her. Why is this so hard for you to do? She’s an insignificant spec in your life. You weren’t even talking to her a week ago. She is nothing to you. Nothing more important than Gotham. Than your family. Let. Her. Go. 

Jon’s voice brought him back to the moment. “Batman, we have to make a decision now. She’s beginning her patrol rounds tomorrow with Gossamer. To map out places that she would be able to interact with Batman.”

Damian straightened his posture, pushing all his doubts and feelings aside. “Yes. We’ll have Gossamer lead her astray. I remember her playbook from when she was tracking Robin. We can work with that. As for Damian Wayne… I will… I will figure something out to keep her at an arm's distance.”

But Jon, still watching him closely, could see the storm brewing behind his best friend’s eyes. He never thought he’d see this side of Damian, but it was there, hovering just beneath the surface. That part of Damian—the one that still had a heart—was starting to surface in ways that Jon didn’t know how to deal with. Damian had been trained to avoid connections, to keep everything locked down. But A was different . She wasn’t just some person he was supposed to ignore. She was someone who had burrowed her way into his life, and that was something Jon didn’t know how to protect himself from.

“Damian, you… you care for her, don’t you?” 

“She is a person I feel connected to due to our shared past mistakes.” 

“That isn’t what I asked.” 

“Yes, she is a friend, Jon.” 

The tension in the room thickened as the two of them sat down to talk strategy, but Jon knew one thing: Damian’s heart was in the way. And no matter how hard Jon tried to explain the importance of the mission, of Gotham, of keeping his identity safe, Damian had already let something else in. Something that wasn’t just about being Batman.

Jon couldn’t help but think to himself, Damian’s relationship with Aless isn’t just about guilt anymore, is it? It’s becoming something else…

But Jon knew better than to press. His best friend would never admit it. Not to him. Not to anyone. But Jon was starting to wonder just how far Damian was willing to go for something—or someone—that wasn’t part of his mission. And for the first time in years, Jon couldn’t predict what Damian would do next.

And that made him uneasy.

“You look like a douchebag in those sunglasses.” 

“They’re Dior. ”

“They’re disturbingly large, that’s what they are.” 

“I thought once we became friends, these childish lines would end.” 

“Not all of them. I invited you to coffee, not a fashion show.” 

The dimly lit corner café was quiet, a small haven nestled between the city’s taller buildings. The kind of place you could escape to when you needed a moment of peace amidst the chaos. Damian sat across from Aless, his posture stiff, his hands folded in front of him on the table. She thought about calling him out for the three-piece suit he was wearing and how he stuck out like a sore thumb in this cafe, but she thought against it. If anyone saw them and cared, it would work out for her plan anyway. 

“How is your healing coming?” He set the sunglasses down, and she noticed a small bruise right under his cheek. Maybe that’s why he was wearing them. Well, now she felt bad. 

“I started physical therapy a week ago. And I’m walking with just the boot on.” 

“That is… progress.” When Alessandra texted Damian about meeting for coffee, he all but jumped at the opportunity. For two weeks, he had been standing in the shadows of Gotham, watching her—observing her every move as she, driven by her relentless journalistic instinct, tried to hunt him down. She'd dragged Jay along, unsure of the depths of her own pursuit, and together they roamed Crime Alley, determined to uncover if there was a new Batman.

It was almost… amusing to him, the way she maneuvered through the streets with that fierce determination, never quite getting any closer to the truth. That was thanks to Jay’s deception (which the man told Jon was “ a weight on his conscience ”). She thought she was hunting him, but in reality, it was Damian who was hunting her. Watching her every step as she maneuvered through the city like a puzzle he was trying to solve, only to constantly find himself one step ahead.

When she had come to Crime Alley a few nights ago, her eyes had been sharp, focused, searching the shadows, trying to pinpoint him. Instead, she had stumbled upon Spoiler, Black Bat, and Red Robin, three of his allies, and her frustration at the lack of Batman’s appearance had been palpable.

Damian had been content with keeping this distance. It was easy—far too easy, actually. He had already learned her tactics back in high school and knew now how to evade her. She was meticulous and patient, but never truly able to read between the lines, always focused on the next lead, the next step, without considering the bigger picture. He knew how she worked, how her mind ticked. Every move she made, he could predict it. He could predict her next step before she even realized she had taken it.

And then after two weeks, there she was, texting him to meet for coffee.

When the text came through—simple, straightforward, yet carrying an underlying tension—Damian had been unable to ignore it like Batman could. 

Damian knew this meeting wasn’t going to be about idle chatter or casual conversation. Alessandra had an agenda. It was going to be related to what she had wanted to tell him the last time they met. While he was more confident that she didn’t know Damian Wayne was Batman, he was still cautious coming into this meeting. It was a public setting. A cafe filled with people. A perfect place to confront him. She was trained. She was meticulous. She always was. 

Sitting across from her now, Damian could see the hesitation in Alessandra's eyes, the subtle way her fingers tapped nervously on the cup, betraying her calm exterior. He could feel the weight of her uncertainty in the air between them, as if she were measuring each word before it left her mouth. For a moment, Aless wondered if she had made a mistake as she watched him sit down, if sitting across from him like this—vulnerable, laying her cards on the table—was a dumb idea after all. But deep down, she knew it was the only shot she had left. And he would try to help her, even if he didn’t accept her ridiculous plan. As much as she wanted to second-guess herself, Aless knew she couldn’t walk away from this now.

“This was sent to me a few days ago by my uncle.” Aless set a stack of papers down on the table, which he picked up to skim through. Medical bills. Both for her mother and Alessandra. The cost, he added up quickly in his head, would be nothing for Damian to cover. That’s the first thing his mind jumped to. It was the first thing out of his mouth, cutting off Alessandra from explaining any further. 

“It’s a threat to-” 

“I can pay them.” She blinked. Maybe ten times. Before throwing her head back and laughing. Damian focused on the length of her throat. He’d seemed to read the situation wrong. Aless found it endearing. 

“Damian, I didn’t ask you here for your money.” Oh. She didn’t? He would’ve given it to her no questions asked. 

“You handed me a pile of medical bills. What was I to assume?” He watched as she rolled her eyes at him, which only irritated him slightly. 

“You weren’t supposed to assume anything, you were supposed to listen.” His eyes flicked between the paper and the slight frustration on her face. He didn’t speak. Just let her continue.

“So, you can see they’re medical bills,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with frustration. “In addition to these, he sent me an old tuition bill from Gotham Academy. One from Metropolis. My rent ledger while I was in school.”

While she spoke, his eyes looked over the bills again. He was able to read the bolded numbers and the scrawled handwriting over them, the unmistakable tone of a man who enjoyed wielding control. He caught the flicker of anxiety in Alessandra’s eyes, but the sharp edge of her voice was undeniable. He didn’t need to ask to understand the weight of it.

He leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but with a quiet intensity. “I can pay for all of those easily. And then you’ll be out of his control.” He reached into his jacket and started to pull out his wallet, but Aless stopped him, holding her hand out. 

God, he’s being so nice about this. That’s new. Not unexpected but…

Aless thought he must not have understood due to her humor about it the first time. This wasn’t about money for her uncle. This was about her inability to beat him legally. Her inability to get what was rightfully hers back. This was about all of her things still inside the family home. All of her mother’s belongings that he was holding. All of the things her father left her that he was simply hiding from her. If it was just about her life and her money, Aless would’ve been out of his control two years ago. 

"Damian, I said no." Her voice was firm, too sharp for comfort. "That’s not what I want."

She exhaled, steadying herself before meeting his gaze. "My uncle sent me this to remind me that I need to play by his rules. He’s holding my family’s past and future over my head, and he knows I won’t back down from a challenge. He’s waiting for me to slip too far. And the second I fail, he’ll take it as his excuse to pull everything—my mother’s medical care, my parents’ and my belongings still locked in the family home. He’ll make a spectacle of disowning me.” Her jaw tightened, her fingers curling into fists before she forced herself to relax.

"I need to convince him, Damian. That I’m trying. That I’m playing the part. That I’m working toward something he wants . Just until I have enough footing—until I can get my career to a place where I can finally publish the truth about him without risking everything." Her voice lowered, heavy with frustration. " Right now , I don’t have the social, legal, or political capital to do it. Not yet. But if I play my cards right, I will."

Aless swallowed, the weight of her words settling between them. "I just need time… and an ally."

She shifted in her seat, the edge of her coffee cup now a constant distraction in her hand. Aless practiced what she was going to say over and over, but somehow, in the small café, under his stare, all the words seemed to fall flat, unworthy of the gravity of the situation. She was asking Damian for something absurd—an arrangement that was equal parts strategy and personal risk—but she had no other options. It wasn’t like she had anyone else to turn to, and definitely not anyone who could help her without throwing her under the bus in the process.

Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. “I have an idea. A plan,” she started, feeling like she was speaking through a veil of hesitation. “It’s ridiculous, and I’m not expecting you to say yes immediately, but…” She paused, collecting herself. “First, right before the Ivy attack, he called me to come into his office.”

Damian’s brow furrowed, but he remained silent, leaning forward slightly, the gears in his mind turning. That moment—the one that had thrown everything into disarray. Why had she been there? Why had she been in her uncle’s office at that exact time? He’d been trying to figure that out for weeks. The pieces clicked into place with a sharpness that almost made Damian flinch. If she hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t been in that meeting, she wouldn’t have seen him as Batman. She wouldn’t have caught whatever detail or noticed his mannerisms to come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the same Batman. That it wasn’t Bruce.

She would have never come close to the truth.

Her voice cut through the tangle of his thoughts, grounding him in the present. “I didn’t want to, but he insisted,” she admitted, the frustration evident in the tightness of her jaw. “It’s been years since I’ve had anything to do with him. I left Gotham at eighteen because he needed me out of the way—because as long as I was gone, he could tighten his grip on the company without the risk of anyone pushing for me to take over. I stayed away, got my Master’s, did everything he told me to do, because I thought if I played along, I could come back on my own terms.” She let out a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. “And now… after the deaths of key shareholders and the redistribution policies they’re pushing through, he’s feeling pressure. He needs more control. And apparently, I’m a part of that plan.”

Her voice dipped lower, like she hated even saying it out loud. “God, he laid it out like a damn business deal. ”

Damian’s eyes darkened. “He’s forcing you to do something?” he echoed, his voice low, calculating. Please let it be something Batman can take care of. Something easy. Quick. Something so that I can rid Gotham of Daniel Vreeland. So I can get him out of her life.

Aless nodded, her gaze dropping to the table, her fingers tightening around her cup as she searched for the right words. Just say it. “Wayne Enterprises’ shares of Vreeland Oil are close enough to 51 percent for my uncle to start worrying about removal. No one actually likes him as CEO—everyone knows he stole the company from my father, but they don’t have the power to do anything… if he stays. That’s why he keeps me around, parading me as proof of his generosity , so people believe he’s taking care of his poor orphaned niece. So they don’t have any other ammunition.” Her lips curled into something sharp, bitter. “But now that WE is gaining more control, he’s scared. He knows if the board sides with you, they could vote him out. So he wants me to... target you.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change. “Target me?” he echoed, his voice clipped.

Aless let out a slow breath. “Yes. He thinks that if I get close to you, I can secure your... attention. ” The word tasted awful on her tongue. She lifted her gaze, forcing herself to meet his. “He wants me to—” She hesitated, her jaw clenching. “Well, he used the word seduce. ”

A muscle ticked in Damian’s jaw.

“He thinks if I play the part, if I make it so there’s something between us, Wayne Enterprises will hesitate to push him out. He’s banking on the idea that you wouldn’t move against family. ” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “It’s like something out of a bad corporate soap opera—forcing the heiress to tie herself to the rival company to secure power. And he doesn’t care what it costs me.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. So that’s why he introduced her to me at the shareholders’ meeting. The realization hit him like a blade sliding between his ribs—sharp, deliberate. Vreeland had been playing the long game, maneuvering his pieces carefully, trying to place his pawn in just the right position. And what angered Damian most was that the pawn in question was her.

Alessandra, the woman who had spent her last two years in high school trying to Robin, the woman who had once gone to war with him in print, was reduced to nothing more than a bargaining chip in her uncle’s power play. It was insulting. Infuriating. But more than that, it didn’t make sense.

Hatred to seduction—that was a leap even she couldn’t have pulled off without him, Damian, noticing. She wasn’t the type to slip into a role like that seamlessly. He would’ve seen through it immediately, would’ve pulled her aside, demanded answers. Hell, he might have even checked for mind control. How would she have even done it?

His mind flickered, unbidden, back to his birthday party. The one where Alessandra had made such a spectacle, where she had worn that dress, where she had deliberately placed herself in his orbit, demanding his attention. Would she have done something like that again? The thought made his jaw tighten.

A slow, inexplicable curiosity curled in his chest. Would she have played the part? Would she have leaned into the role, used his attraction against him? Would she have walked into a room full of Gotham’s elite, wearing something that turned heads, sauntered up to him with that sharp, knowing smirk, and pretended —pretended that she wanted him, pretended that she was drawn to him in the same way he had always been unwilling to admit he was drawn to her?

Damian could almost see it, like an old memory playing out in front of him. Alessandra, draped in something dangerously elegant, every movement calculated, every glance deliberate. The way she might’ve leaned in, let her fingers trail absently across his chest, her breath warm against his ear, whispering something with just enough weight to leave him unbalanced. Would it have worked?

His fingers stilled against the table.

What bothered him more than anything, though, was that the thought didn’t bother him.

Why didn’t it feel awful?

As he sat across from her now, Damian could see the flicker of uncertainty in Alessandra’s gaze, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she lifted her coffee cup. It was subtle, something most people wouldn’t notice—but he wasn’t most people. He had trained his entire life to read the smallest shifts in body language, the tells that betrayed what someone was really feeling beneath the surface. And right now, Alessandra was nervous. He’d never seen her like this around him. 

She took a deep breath, gripping the cup as though it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Damian stayed silent, letting her gather herself, his stare unwavering, his presence pressing down on her like a weight. 

What if he says no?

"So, keeping in mind that I can’t say no to him—not right now, anyway," she started, her voice careful, measured. Her eyes flicked briefly to the papers on the table, as if they might offer her some kind of reinforcement. "I thought… maybe, if we pretend, it might convince him I’m doing what he wants. And maybe you’d be able to get some good press out of it, too. I’ve seen the things your ex posted. The Gossip Column will be writing about it tomorrow. I checked in with Jane."

She glanced up at him, testing his reaction, searching for some indication of what he was thinking. But Damian’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze locked onto her with quiet intensity. The silence stretched. Too long. She hesitated, then backtracked, her voice dipping into something more uncertain. 

"It’s stupid, right? I know it sounds crazy, but—"

Damian’s mind was already turning, a storm of calculations and possibilities swirling in his head. He could see it—the way she hated even suggesting this, the way it grated against her pride. And yet, beneath the reluctance, he could see the desperation, the weight of her circumstances pressing down on her. This wasn’t just a game to her. It wasn’t some casual manipulation or an easy way out. It was a last resort.

And that was what made it make sense.

For her, this was about survival. About taking back control of her life, even if it meant playing along with her uncle’s demands. But for him?

For him, this was an opportunity.

It was the perfect excuse to keep her close. To control the narrative. To make sure she didn’t dig too deep, didn’t get too close to uncovering the truth about Batman. He knew her frustration was growing. He’d been watching her spiral, taking more risks in her tracking, pushing harder for answers. If he didn’t redirect that energy, if he didn’t find a way to contain her, she was going to get reckless.

If she was busy with this —with him—she wouldn’t be chasing shadows in alleyways, trying to force an encounter with Batman. And if he played this right, he could manipulate the situation in his favor. Keep her distracted. Keep her from seeing the bigger picture.

He leaned back slightly, his fingers drumming once against the table before going still.

"So you want me to pretend to be in a relationship with you?" His voice was flat, deadpan, but there was something unreadable in his tone. Something calculating.

His expression never wavered.

Alessandra stared at the table, her face warming. When he put it like that, the entire thing sounded absurd. Out loud, it was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have asked. She should have just powered through, kept her head down until she published the piece on Batman, and used that momentum to get herself—and her mother—out from under her uncle’s thumb.

“Yeah,” she muttered, feeling the weight of her own words settle around her. “That’s the idea. You can say no, though. No worries.”

He let her words hang in the air for a second.

Damian didn’t respond right away. He let her words settle in the space between them, studying her like she was something to be carefully examined, a puzzle to be solved.

But in his mind, the solution was already forming.

This was a perfect opportunity.

If she didn’t know he was Batman, then this could work in his favor. She wouldn’t see the deception coming. She wouldn’t know that he was using this to control her, to dictate how she spent her time, who she spoke to, and what she focused on. She was too close to the truth, her instincts too sharp. But if he gave her something else to focus on—if he gave himself as a distraction—then maybe she wouldn’t notice the walls closing in around her.

“I am… agreeable,” Damian said, his voice cool and unwavering.

It took her a second to process the words before they truly registered.

Agreeable?

She had expected resistance. Maybe a smirk, a sharp remark, a flat-out rejection. Not this. Not calm, methodical acceptance. Not him, sitting there, considering her proposal like it was just another business deal, like it made perfect sense. The unreadable look in his eyes made something tighten in her stomach.

Damian leaned back, his fingers steepling in front of him, his expression neutral. “You understand what this entails?” he asked, his voice cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “This wouldn’t just be about your uncle. It would require full commitment.”

A full enough commitment to keep you away from the cowl.

Aless swallowed hard, nodding. She wasn’t naive—she knew what she was suggesting. This couldn’t be half-measured. If they were going to do this, it had to be believable. Not just to her uncle, but to everyone—Wayne Enterprises, the press, the social circles they would inevitably find themselves in. Her heart pounded, unsure if it was from nerves, from the weight of what she was asking, or from the way Damian was looking at her—steady, assessing, like he was waiting for her to realize something she hadn’t yet.

“Yes,” she said, almost to herself. A reminder. A confirmation. “It will be real enough. Just enough to fool them. Just enough to protect my mother. Just until I publish this piece I’m working on. I think it’s the type of topic to garner capital. Or at least to start.” 

Damian’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. Just until I publish this piece I’m working on. No, he thought, you won’t. Not if I have anything to do with it. For a brief second, something like guilt crossed his mind, but he shoved it down.

“You may want to reconsider how much of yourself you’re willing to invest in this, Alessandra,” he said, his voice even but with a rare edge of something softer beneath it. “People get caught in these games. And it’s not always easy to walk away.” 

Aless felt a chill run through her. He wasn’t wrong. But she had spent years walking away from things—her family’s company, her career ambitions, the truth about her father’s death. She had spent years being careful. And where had that gotten her? Right here. Back in Gotham. Back in his orbit.

“I don’t have a choice,” she said, meeting his gaze with firm resolve. “Not right now.”

Damian studied her carefully, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gave a slow, measured nod.

“Fine,” he said. “We do this for a few months. However long it takes. And then, after?”

She had thought about that too. She had to.

“Then we can have some public, mutual ending. ‘Right person, wrong time’ or something like that,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll have Gossip write a piece about how wonderful you were, and you can publicly support my article when it comes out. Take over Vreeland if you want.”

Damian huffed out something that might have been amusement. “How generous of you.”

Aless rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re welcome.”

But even as they settled on their terms, even as the agreement between them became real, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just made a deal with something far bigger than she could comprehend. And as Damian watched her, his sharp mind already strategizing, already planning the moves ahead, he knew one thing for certain—she thought she was playing the game.

But she had no idea he had already set the board.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Alessandra tried to focus on the next steps, but her mind kept circling back to Damian’s words. People get caught in these games. The way he had said it—so lightly, so matter-of-fact—yet laced with something deeper, something that felt like a warning. Not just for her, but for both of them.

But she was already in too deep. Her uncle had left her no other options, and whatever this was with Damian, it had to work. There was no room for doubt, no time for second-guessing.

“Then it’s settled.” Alessandra’s voice came out steadier than she had expected. She reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, and flipped one of the bills over. The paper was slightly crumpled from where she had gripped it too tightly earlier, frustration seeping into her movements. But that didn’t stop her from pressing the tip of the pen against it and beginning to write.

Damian’s gaze flickered to the motion, curiosity sparking in his sharp green eyes. He watched as the letters formed—fast, thin, swirly, just barely legible. It was messy yet precise in its own way. Somehow, it fit her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice edged with mild suspicion.

Alessandra didn’t look up, her pen still moving. “It wouldn’t be a business transaction without a contract,” she said simply.

Damian leaned forward slightly, one brow lifting as he observed her scribbling. Amusement flickered in his expression despite himself. A contract? He shouldn’t have been surprised. She was thorough and meticulous. It was one of the things that had always set her apart.

“Really?” His voice was dry, but there was an unmistakable glint of intrigue behind his stare. “A contract?”

Alessandra didn’t stop writing, but she did glance up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. “What? You don’t think this is serious?” Her pen moved swiftly, each stroke deliberate, as she outlined whatever terms were already forming in her head. The sheer confidence of it made Damian want to laugh.

“This may not be a traditional arrangement,” she continued, “but it’s still a deal. And I’d prefer to have everything clear from the start.”

Damian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He should have expected this. Of course, she wouldn’t just agree to something like this without putting it in writing. Of course, she had to set the terms herself.

His lips quirked slightly, just a hint of a smirk. “Alright, then. Set your terms.” Damian just leaned back to study her as she finished writing out everything. He wouldn’t bother to read it. He was the one who had ulterior motives in this deal. The thought soured the situation only slightly for him. 

It’s what needs to be done… Jon isn’t going to like this. 

"Do I get a copy?" he asked dryly, though his tone carried a trace of something almost affectionate, as if this entire exchange amused him more than it should have. He’d always been used to the way she operated, but he hadn’t expected it to come in the form of paperwork .

Alessandra smirked as she finished her note. She folded the bill and slid it across the table to him. When he opened it up, her signature was already in place. “You can keep the original. Don’t steal my medical information, though,” she replied, her voice light but with an undertone of steel. “And don’t think for a second that I’m not serious about this. We both have something to lose here. This needs to work. So, we make sure we’re on the same page.”

A part of him found it almost amusing. Alessandra was, in some ways, a mirror of his own calculating nature. He could respect that, even if he didn’t trust it entirely.

“You’ve thought this through.”

“Of course I have,” she said with a laugh, her eyes briefly softening as she tucked the paper away in her purse. "I’m nothing if not thorough. Didn’t you already know that? Now sign.”

Damian took another sip of his coffee before unceremoniously plucking the pen from Alessandra’s fingers and signing his name at the bottom of their hastily written agreement. His movements were steady, deliberate, but there was an unspoken weight in them—an awareness that this was far from just ink on paper. There was still a wariness in him, a part of his mind that knew better than to assume this would go smoothly. Fake relationships never did, not even with two people as careful as they were. But for now, Alessandra had made her choice, and Damian had made his. It was a means to an end.

Whether this would unravel into disaster or serve its purpose remained to be seen.

He set the pen down, exhaling slowly, when Alessandra suddenly leaned in, her expression far too amused for his liking.

“And one more thing,” she said, mischief dancing in her eyes. “What pet name do you prefer?”

Damian froze mid-motion, his coffee cup hovering just inches from his lips.

The question blindsided him like a well-placed strike, and for a second—an uncharacteristically long second—his brain completely stalled. Pet name? Pet name?

The very idea sent something deeply mortifying through his system. He could already hear the ridiculous possibilities spinning through her head. Baby. Babe. Sweetheart. Honey. Love. A muscle in his jaw ticked. No. Absolutely not.

But before he could collect himself enough to respond, his grip faltered.

The cup tilted. And in a mortifying betrayal of his own reflexes, coffee sloshed right over the rim and splattered down the front of his crisp white button-up.

Damian let out a sharp, involuntary curse as the dark liquid bled into the fabric. In an instant, he lunged for a napkin, swiping at the stain with a level of frustration typically reserved for Gotham’s worst criminals.

Across from him, Alessandra lost it .

Laughter burst from her in full force, bright and utterly unrestrained, echoing through the quiet café. It wasn’t the kind of polite chuckle someone might offer at another’s misfortune—it was real . It rang with genuine amusement, full-bodied and shameless. It was the kind of laughter that felt like a rare glimpse into something unguarded —a moment of true, unfiltered joy.

And that —that was what made Damian’s hands still for just a second.

Because when was the last time he’d heard her laugh like that?

He forced his focus back on the task at hand, aggressively dabbing at his now-ruined shirt, but he could feel her laughter wrapping around him like a vice. It didn’t help that he could see her trying to compose herself, barely succeeding, her shoulders shaking, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

Damian shot her a flat look, his expression carefully schooled, though the warmth creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. "This is your fault," he muttered, his voice dry but edged with exasperation. "I should send you the dry cleaning bill."

“Oh, please,” Alessandra waved him off, still chuckling, “as if you don’t have five identical shirts at home.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Alessandra grinned, tilting her head. “The point is, you spilled your own coffee because you got flustered over a pet name .”

His shoulders stiffened. The amusement in her voice, the teasing glint in her eye—he hated it. Not because it wasn’t deserved, but because she was right . And she knew it. Before he could snap back with something dry and cutting, she leaned back in her chair, watching him in a way that made him acutely aware of the moment.

It wasn’t just amusement anymore. It was something else. Something he couldn’t quite name.

For the first time in a long time, Damian felt like he was being observed . Not just looked at, not just scrutinized in the way people often did when they wanted something from him, but seen . And he wasn’t sure he liked it. Even behind his sunglasses, he knew Alessandra was looking at him— really looking. And the realization did something sharp to his chest.

But Aless wasn’t trying to look at him like that. She was… well, admiring. Perhaps. 

Aless had always known Damian Wayne was good-looking. That was an objective fact . The kind of thing you acknowledged in passing, tucked away in the part of your brain reserved for useless trivia. Yes, he’s handsome. No, I don’t care. Moving on. But now, watching him try to scrub coffee out of his expensive dress shirt, looking just the slightest bit flustered, something about him felt… different .

She saw it in the sharpness of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the way his hands— capable hands —moved with an efficiency that was second nature. He was always composed, always so put together , but this? This was something new. A crack in the carefully constructed image.

And she stared .

Damn it .

Had she always thought he was attractive? Maybe. But this was the first time she was allowing herself to notice . And the realization sent an uncomfortable warmth creeping up the back of her neck. 

Meanwhile, Damian was doing his best to ignore the way her gaze lingered.

Because the truth was—he had noticed it, too.

He just wasn’t ready to admit it.

When he bent over slightly to grab more napkins, his movements still precise despite his clear frustration, she found herself watching . His hair, the way it fell just slightly over his forehead when he wasn’t paying attention. The broadness of his shoulders. The way his fingers— so often curled into fists —moved with a certain elegance even in something as mundane as cleaning up a spill.

And that was the problem.

Now that she had noticed, it was impossible to un -notice.

He’s about to be my fake boyfriend. FAKE. F-A-K-E. Stop thinking like that. He’s still that snotty little kid I tripped in the lunch line.

But still, she glanced at him again. And just like before, the thought didn’t sound as ridiculous as it should have. Aless cleared her throat, shaking herself out of it, forcing her expression back into something more neutral.

“Well,” she said, voice a little too casual, “let’s try that again. What pet name do you prefer?”

Damian shot her a look, his brow arching as he wiped at his shirt again. “You’re serious ?”

“It’s important information,” she smirked, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table, still teasing. But inside, a little voice whispered that this— this playful, unexpectedly real interaction—might not be as much of a performance as either of them had imagined.

Damian exhaled slowly, giving her a long, measured look. It was ridiculous , this conversation. Completely unnecessary.

And yet, he could see the anticipation in her eyes, the way she was clearly waiting for an answer.

He should’ve ignored it. He should’ve shut it down entirely.

But instead, he actually thought about it .

And that was his first mistake.

His mind flicked through the possibilities, none of them sitting right. His ex had been particularly fond of my love , which he hated . Love? He’d never loved her. He’d already forgotten her name. But when it came to Alessandra …

Nothing felt right .

Because it all felt—ingenuous.

There was a pause, the air between them thick with something unspoken. It wasn’t tense, exactly. Just… there . Lingering. Aless, still caught up in their strange, sharp-edged dynamic, leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table.

“So,” she said, a smirk creeping onto her lips, “you’re not the type to do any of the cheesy stuff, huh?”

Damian arched a brow. “Cheesy?”

Alessandra grinned. “Yeah, you know. The usual. I mean, you’ve already got the flowers down, but I’m talking over-the-top dates. Flying a girl out to Paris, buying her a Birkin bag—none of that?”

She wasn’t sure why she was pushing him on this. Maybe she just wanted to see how far she could take it, or maybe it was because the idea of Damian Wayne —stoic, guarded, and perpetually brooding—doing anything remotely romantic felt like something out of a fever dream.

Damian’s expression didn’t shift immediately. Instead, he regarded her for a moment, as if weighing whether or not this conversation was even worth entertaining. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice even.

“I am starting to believe this fake relationship is just a front for you to exploit my wealth,” he said dryly. “A Birkin bag ? What even is that?”

Alessandra gasped in mock horror. “Says the man wearing Dior sunglasses.”

“My stylist acquired them.”

“You need to fire your stylist.”

“You insult what I’m wearing,” Damian replied smoothly, “yet you have a hole in your sweater.”

“It’s a lived-in look.”

“I was unaware you lived in a barn.”

Alessandra gaped at him, then let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You know what? I was considering playing nice, but no. Now I have to be insufferable about this.”

Damian exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You were going to be insufferable regardless.”

She gasped, placing a hand over her heart. “You wound me.”

“I could only be so lucky .”

Alessandra rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling, still leaning forward like she didn’t mind engaging in this absurd, unnecessary banter. And Damian—though he would never admit it—felt himself relax, just the tiniest bit.

Chapter Text

Jay was starting to regret everything. He had known he shouldn’t have let her drag him into this—he knew better. He’d tried to get her to reconsider, tried to convince her that maybe tonight wasn’t the right night for her Batman stakeout, but nothing was ever going to stop Aless once she got it in her head that she was going to get a scoop. Damian was going to kill him.

"Why can’t you just do this yourself?" Jay asked, his voice betraying more exasperation than concern as he gazed up at the fire escape. Why did I let her convince me to do this? He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. I should’ve texted Jon. I should’ve just called Damian myself. Why don’t I have Damian’s number?

Aless shot him a sharp glance, hands planted on her hips, her stance fierce despite the unease creeping into Jay’s bones. The flickering light from a nearby streetlamp made her determination all the more vivid, her face set in an expression that would have terrified anyone who hadn’t known her so well. "Oh, yeah, tell that to the person still in a boot because Ivy broke her ankle!" she shot back, her voice tinged with mock offense.

Jay sighed, shaking his head. "Fractured. She fractured your ankle. And it was a minor fracture. You get to take the boot off tomorrow."

“But am I still in the boot?” Aless challenged, raising an eyebrow. “Yes or no?”

Jay blinked at her. " Fine, but I’m not going all the way up. I’m afraid of heights, and we can get the picture from here.”

Aless rolled her eyes, undeterred. "You went bungee jumping with Jon in Australia.”

"Well, he was there, so I could hug him the whole time!" Jay responded dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. It didn’t help. Aless was persistent. Too persistent.

“I can call him,” Aless suggested with a teasing smirk. “Or you can hug me. Whichever you prefer.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll go up to the…." Jay sounded defeated, but his reluctance wasn't over. " Wait, what are you doing?!” He squinted in confusion as she stepped onto the fire escape.

Aless shot him an exasperated look. "Climbing a ladder?" she said with a tone that screamed sarcasm and impatience, as though she were the one doing something completely reasonable and he was the one acting like a child.

“I thought you wanted me to go onto the roof?” Jay frowned now, clearly not understanding what exactly was happening.

“Yeah, but then you complained. A woman always has to do what a man can’t.” Aless shrugged, the ease of her words contrasting with the way she was already starting to climb. “Besides, if he does show up, I’ll be able to get to him faster.”

“You can’t climb up on a roof with a boot.” Jay couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped forward, gently gripping her arm, trying to hold her back before she could hurt herself. Not again. Not tonight. She was always so ready to endanger herself for her stories. That’s what made her such a good investigative journalist, but that was before she started going after Jay’s friend. 

Was Damian his friend…? He didn’t even have his number! 

"It didn’t say that in my physical therapy packet," Aless countered with the same grin she always wore when she knew she was right.

"Because they assume people with broken ankles aren't climbing up buildings!" Jay snapped, genuinely worried. It felt like a losing battle. He threw his hands in the air, unable to stop her now. His worst fear was already unfolding as Aless continued her awkward, clunky ascent, her booted foot landing on the rungs despite her ankle's protest.

"Fractured. My ankle is fractured. A minor fracture, too." She looked down at him, throwing him a mocking grin over her shoulder, like the pain didn’t matter.

Jay groaned, shaking his head. He couldn't win with her. He couldn't even keep her safe from herself. “Just... get down!”

But it was already too late. Aless was halfway up, her booted foot planted firmly on the next rung, and there was no stopping her. The fact that she was in pain didn’t seem to matter to her—not when she was so close to getting what she wanted. Nothing ever stopped Alessandra. Not even common sense.

"No! You stay down there and tell me if you see anything," she called down to him, her voice stubborn, determined.

“Alessandra Claire Vreeland!” Jay called, his concern clear now. "I’m going to call the police!"

“That’s good because there’s going to be a robbery at that store in five minutes!” Aless shouted down at him, pointing to the 7/11 across the street. The store’s fluorescent lights buzzed in the otherwise dark, empty stretch of Crime Alley. Jay’s eyes followed her finger and then immediately darted to the shadows, his heart sinking.

“ What?! ”

“Shh!” Aless reprimanded him from above. “But, yeah, my informant told me that it was going to happen. This is away from Batman’s patrol lines, too. He won’t see me coming.” She smiled, raising the camera up to get the store in focus. 

“You have a criminal informant?!”  

“Hey, he was just a guy who needed some extra cash.” 

“That is illegal !” 

“Cry about it!”

Aless was certain about this. She was right . She had been tracking Batman's movements for weeks now, slowly piecing together his new patrol routes, understanding the pattern of his mysterious, unpredictable appearances. And for weeks, she let him toy with her. It was obvious what he was doing, but he was always one step ahead of Aless. She’d run into Spoiler and Black Bat more times than she’d ever had in her life because he was trying to shake her off his tail. 

That was until she decided to go the subtly shady route. If Aless couldn’t use his patrol routes to find him, she’d just have to find another way to get the jump on him. Enter her informant– a shady guy who works for the Penguin but has little-to-no loyalties to anything other than money. He told her the plans for the week, what stores they were going to rob, etcetera, and she picked the one farthest away from Batman’s regular routes to stalk. And now, she was close. So close.

And now, Jay had to figure out whether to stop the robbery or stop Aless from getting in the way of Batman . The thought of trying to intercept a robbery with her around was ridiculous, and worse, she was already getting the camera out and getting ready to snap a shot. She didn’t need to get caught up in whatever was about to go down.

"Should I stop it with my powers?" Jay muttered to himself, unsure. He knew it wouldn’t be the best move—not without causing some unwanted attention. Instead, he pulled out his phone, thinking he could text Jon to get Damian involved, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t already have Damian’s number. Again. What am I doing here? he thought, annoyed at himself.

But then, before he could get the text off, a noise across the street told him it was time. A group of thugs wearing masks and black clothes burst through the door of the 7/11 . One of them pulled a gun, pointing it at the cashier behind the counter. Jay ducked into the shadows, out of sight, hoping that he wouldn’t get noticed. He didn't need to be seen by the Bat Family. 

Alessandra, however, wasn’t as concerned. She was already in position, camera ready, and her eyes locked on the scene unfolding at the store. Come on. Come on. But then, just as the robbers were about to make their move, a figure stepped out of the shadows.

It wasn’t Batman.

It was Red Hood.

“Fuck!”

Alessandra’s breath caught in her throat. How did he know I was going to be here? She was sure that whoever Batman had appointed on patrol routes would be too busy to come over here. That meant he would have to come himself. Or so she thought. The thug with the gun immediately turned, ready to fire, but Red Hood disarmed him with a swift, efficient move, knocking the gun to the floor before knocking the man out with a single punch.