Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the fourth time that week, Marinette feels wrong. 

Not the kind of wrong where there’s danger ahead, and one needs to flee, the kind where you readjust your position because your existence is disturbed by an itch you can’t seem to reach.

The 18-year-old has felt this way for over two years now, and Marinette can’t seem to find the source of the issue for the life of her. In all their iterations , Hawkmoth was defeated last year, and feeling an intense wave of paranoia, she and Adrien agreed to keep their Miraculous in case it was needed again. 

Despite this, Marinette can’t find any source or indication for what is going wrong, which is where the young guardian finds herself now, in an intense stand-off between Tikki and Plagg, the rest of the Kwami floating in various spots within her room, watching in anticipation. 

After what felt like hours, the Primordial Kwami sighed in resignation; if they had shoulders, it’d be down in defeat. 

“You were never supposed to be Ladybug , Marinette… you were supposed to wield destruction .” Tikki begins, looking at Marinette but quickly averting her shocked gaze. 

Despite the revelation, Plagg continues quietly where she left off. “Sugarcube is right. Your soul calls for freedom, Minou… not order. Master Fu ordered us not to complain when we realized we didn’t have the right holders.”

Marinette looked at the two before hesitantly asking, “How long did you know about this? Is that why I’ve been feeling disgruntled for so long?” 

“Why don’t you sit down, Marinette? It’ll take some time to fully answer what you’re asking.” After relocating to the young woman’s bed, Tikki and Plagg begin to tell their tale. 

“It was a few months before we lost Master Fu, around when your Lucky Charms were getting a bit wonky. We confronted him while you and Chat Noir were asleep. Master Fu told us that it wasn’t just that you were supposed to be the Black Cat–Chat Noir isn’t compatible with any Miraculous, and that further threw off the balance between you two.” Tikki says, looking at Marinette with a distressed look. She hurries to Marinette’s cheek, and places her hands on them in an attempt for comfort. Marinette cups Tikki and looks at Plagg for confirmation. 

“In case you’re wondering–Adrien, he doesn’t know any of this. Because you’re the Guardian and a true holder, it’s best that you’re aware. If you really want to fix this, especially before it gets worse, Marinette, you must go where your Ladybug is.”

~~~~~

Later that night, Marinette lay starfished on her bed, staring at her ceiling, her fingers heavily gripping her sheets as she tried to process the weight of Tikki and Plagg’s revelation. The room felt smaller as if the walls were closing in, suffocating her with the truth she never saw coming. She had spent years believing she was chosen, that the Ladybug Miraculous had been meant for her. Every sleepless night, every sacrifice, every moment she had given to Paris—it had all been based on a lie .

“You were never supposed to be Ladybug, Marinette… you were supposed to wield destruction.”

Tikki’s voice echoed in her mind, playing on repeat like a broken record. The words shouldn’t have made sense, but deep in her core, they resonated. 

The unease she had felt for years, the exhaustion, the dwindling success of her Lucky Charms, and her literal unbalance had all been symptoms of something much larger, and she never knew about it . She was a puzzle piece forced into the wrong place, edges shaved down to fit, but never truly belonging.

Plagg hovered closer, his usual mischief replaced with quiet understanding. “Your soul calls for freedom, Minou… not order.”

The weight of it all settled in her chest, squeezing around her ribs. How could she not have known? How had she unknowingly spent years denying something so fundamental? Marinette had always felt a deep connection to Chat Noir’s carefree spirit, his recklessness, his ability to exist outside of rigid structure. 

Now she knew why, and while training her to be a Guardian, her former mentor ensured that she wouldn’t find out about her true compatibility. 

“Master Fu knew ,” she whispered, her voice hollow, tears brimming on the edge of her eyes. “He knew I wasn’t meant to be Ladybug, and he still gave it to me.”

Tikki flinched at the hurt in her voice and flew close to her face. “Master Fu… he believed in your ability to handle the responsibility. And you did , Marinette. You’re incredible with the Ladybug Miraculous. But the strain—it’s breaking you.”

Marinette swallowed, her throat dry. She thought back to every battle, every moment of weakness, every time she felt like she was forcing something unnatural. And then there was Adrien—Chat Noir.

Her partner. A mistake.

Her head snapped up after remembering their words. “Adrien… he’s not compatible with any Miraculous?”

Plagg sighed, his tail flicking behind him. “No, he never was. Master Fu gave him the Black Cat, sensing the need for freedom in his personal life. His soul, however, doesn’t align with any of us. He’s been pulling power he can’t handle, and it’s why his Cataclysm has been so unstable. Why his behavior has been more aggressive during patrols. You’ve been bearing the weight of that imbalance, Marinette.”

She felt sick. Her hands clenched into fists. “And he doesn’t know?”

Tikki shook her head. “He shouldn’t know. It would crush him. He loves being Chat Noir, but the truth is… if you two continue this way, it will destroy both of you.”

Marinette exhaled sharply, dragging her fingers through her hair. “Then I need to leave.”

The words surprised her even as they left her lips, but she knew they were true. She couldn’t stay in Paris. 

Not when Lila continued her tirade against her, sinking her manipulation deeper into her former friends. 

Not when the Miraculous were hurting her, suffocating her, destroying her.

If she stayed, she’d keep trying to force herself into a role that was never meant to be hers. And she couldn’t keep fixing Adrien’s mistakes—couldn’t keep pretending this partnership was balanced when it never had been.

“Where do I go?” She asked, her voice hollow and exhausted, eyebrows furrowed together from the weight of things she had just told.

Plagg grinned, but it wasn’t his usual smug expression. It was something softer, something understanding. “I hope you have your passport, minou. You’ve got to go to Gotham in the United States.”

Gotham. The name sent a shiver down her spine. A city known for its darkness, chaos, and toxicity. But maybe that was exactly what she needed. A place where she could shed the expectations that had suffocated her for years. A place where destruction wasn’t feared but embraced . 

A place where she could finally— finally —be herself.

She nodded at the information, determination settling in her bones. If her Ladybug was waiting for her in Gotham, then that was where she needed to be.

As she began researching the transfer process, Marinette felt like she could breathe for the first time in years.

Telling her parents was harder than she expected.

Sitting across from them in their small living area, she watched their faces shift from surprise to concern as she explained her decision. She couldn't tell them the real reason—not about the Miraculous or the cosmic imbalance that had thrown her life into chaos. Instead, she told them half-truths. Things were a bit difficult at school. That she needed a change. That Paris had too many memories. She had an opportunity in Gotham, in its top high school, and the university there presented her with a wonderful opportunity 

"Gotham?" her mother repeated, exchanging a worried glance with her father. "Sweetheart, that city is dangerous . Are you sure this is what you want?"

Marinette nodded, gripping the edge of the table. "It’s no more dangerous than what we endured during Hawkmoth. I have to, Maman. I feel this calling to go there, and Mme. Mendeleiev said she would work with me on the application."

Her father frowned, but after a long moment, he reached across the table and took her hands in his. "If this is what you need, we'll support you. Just… be careful, okay?"

Marinette smiled weakly. "I will."

~~~~~

The next few weeks passed in a blur of packing, goodbyes, letters, and a growing weight in her chest. Saying goodbye to Chloé, Kagami, and Luka was particularly painful—her best friends could tell there was something Marinette wasn’t saying but didn’t press.

The flight to Gotham was long, giving her too much time alone with her thoughts. Plagg and Tikki stayed hidden, though she could feel their presence. With each passing hour, the reality of her decision settled deeper into her bones.

By the time she stepped off the plane, Gotham’s air was thick with rain and the distant hum of sirens. Everything felt different here—colder, sharper, more alive. Marinette pulled her hood over her head, taking a deep breath as she stared out at the city skyline.

This was it. A new beginning.

She had left Paris behind.

Now, she had to figure out what came next.

Damian stood at the edge of a rooftop, the Gotham skyline stretching endlessly before him. The city lights flickered like distant stars, a false promise of warmth in the cold night air. He felt the weight of his mask pressing against his face, suffocating, as if the persona of Robin was another cage he had been forced into. 

For nearly a decade, he worked tirelessly to mold himself into what his father expected—a son who embodied both discipline and justice. But no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough. His siblings ridiculed him for his Transatlantic accent , rigid demeanor , sharp tongue, inability to grasp their humor, and preference for solitude . 

They thought their teasing was harmless, some initiation into the family, but to him, despite the near decade, it was an echo of the cruelty he had endured under the League. A reminder that, even here, he did not belong with them. 

Father expected perfection. Perhaps he did not say it outright, but his every correction, every lesson, every lecture screamed it. Damian had given his all to be the Robin his father wanted, to erase the boy who had once been nothing more than an assassin. But standing here now, looking down at the city he had sworn to protect, a bitter truth settled in his chest. He didn’t want to be a weapon anymore. 

The realization came quietly but with the force of a blade to the heart: he was done . Done fighting for approval, he would never truly receive. Done being nothing more than a tool in someone else's never-ending war. He wanted more . He wanted to create, not destroy. To heal, not harm. 

But what did that mean for him? 

Who was Damian Wayne without Robin? 

Without the mission? The very thought unsettled him. His entire existence had been dictated by purpose, by orders, by duty. If he was not a soldier, then what was he? The League had taught him that his worth was tied to his skill, his lethality, and his ability to carry out a command without hesitation. And his father—though he never intended to—reinforced the idea that perfection was the only way to be accepted. 

He exhaled sharply, gripping the edges of his gauntlets. The past clawed at him, whispering doubts in his mind. Would this family ever see him as anything other than a killer? 

Would he ever see himself as anything else? His hands, once trained to take lives, now yearned to save them. Could he truly change? Could he ever be enough?

His mind drifted to the rare moments of peace he had stolen for himself—nights spent in the library, buried in novels, art textbooks, and medical journals, fascinated by the human body’s complexities, the way one can depict their surroundings, how one can describe a solution, a problem, and a fantasy. The way a surgeon's hands could mend what was broken, the way a doctor’s knowledge could mean the difference between life and death, not through violence, but through care and split-second decisions. The idea had always lingered in the back of his mind, a quiet rebellion against the path laid out for him. And now, he longed to embrace it. 

He exhaled slowly. Robin had been his identity, but it was not his future. 

A single thought crystallized in his mind, one that had been forming for months, perhaps years . He would leave. Not Gotham—this city was his home—but the life of a vigilante. He would dedicate himself to something that could never be twisted into a weapon. 

He turned away from the skyline, already feeling lighter as he whispered to the empty night, no witnesses but the wind blowing quietly around him, "I refuse to be nothing more than a blade in someone else’s hand."

~~~~~

Gotham’s skyline stretched out before him, a jagged maze of steel and shadows.

A few nights later, in the latest version of the Robin suit, sans his mask, Damian stood on the rooftop of Wayne Tower, the city sprawling beneath his feet, but tonight, he didn’t feel like its protector. He didn’t feel like Robin. He didn’t feel like anything at all.

The wind howled around him, but its chill was nothing compared to the coldness settling in his chest. The weight pressing down on his shoulders was suffocating, growing heavier with every night spent as his father’s shadow. He had spent years proving himself, but no matter what he did, they still saw him as the arrogant, bloodthirsty child of the League.

And he was done.

A sharp voice broke through his thoughts. “Tch. What’s with the brooding Demon Spawn?”

Jason Todd.

Damian clenched his fists. “Todd,” he said flatly, barely turning his head, keeping his eyes on the skyline ahead of him. 

Jason sauntered onto the rooftop, one hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, the other holding his helmet, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What, no witty insult? No death threats? You’re off your game, kid.”

“I am not ‘off my game,’” Damian snapped, glaring at him. “I am simply—” He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. “I am thinking.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? About what?”

Before Damian could answer, footsteps echoed from the stairwell, and soon, Richard and Timothy emerged onto the rooftop in their vigilante suits. Great. Just what he needed—more interruptions.

Richard gave him a friendly smile, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “Hey, little D. What’s going on?”

Damian’s fingers twitched. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Timothy crossed his arms. “That’s funny, because whenever you get like this, it usually ends with a destroyed training room or someone getting stabbed.”

Jason smirked, attention tilted towards the younger man. “Or both.”

Damian’s glare darkened. “Perhaps if you all spent less time attempting to irritate me and more time actually listening , you would understand that I have no interest in your games tonight.”

Richard sighed. “Look, Damian, if something’s wrong—”

“Everything is wrong!” Damian exploded. His voice echoed across the rooftop, cutting through the cold night air. The others went still. “For years, I have fought for a place in this family. I have played the role you expected, followed the mission, and sacrificed my identity to fit into the mold Father and the rest of you created. And yet, I remain nothing more than the violent, misguided child of the League in your eyes.”

His brothers exchanged wary glances, but another voice cut through the night before they could respond.

“Robin.”

Bruce .

Damian turned to see his father stepping forward, his presence as commanding as ever. The others fell silent, watching as the Batman approached his son.

Bruce’s voice was calm but firm. “You are not a child of the League anymore. You are Robin.”

Damian’s eyes burned. He shook his head. “No. No, I am not.”

Bruce frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I refuse to be nothing more than a blade in someone else’s hand,” Damian said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “All my life, I have been a weapon. First for my mother and grandfather, then for you. I do not want to be a weapon, Father. I do not want to live in the shadow of death that seems to follow this family.”

His father’s expression flickered underneath his mask, something unreadable flashing across his features. “Damian, I have never seen you as just a weapon.”

“Then what am I?” Damian challenged. “What have I ever been to you except a soldier in your endless war?”

Bruce took a slow breath. “You are my son.”

The words should have meant something . They should have made this easier. But Damian only felt a hollow ache in his chest.

“Then let me be your son, not your soldier,” he said, walking closer to his father. With his age, his latest growth spurt, and his mother’s lithe build, the 18-year-old was just an inch under his Father's 6’2 height. 

Standing eye to eye with the man, Damian solemnly said, “I do not wish to fight anymore.”

Silence hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Jason let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t see that one coming.”

Timothy still looked skeptical. “So, what? You’re just gonna quit?”

“I am choosing a different path,” Damian corrected. He squared his shoulders. “I have enrolled in a few early college classes through Gotham University. I intend to study pediatrics.”

The stunned silence that followed was almost amusing.

Richard was the first to speak. “Wait, you want to be a doctor?”

“Not just a doctor,” Damian said. “A pediatrician . I have spent much of my life taking lives—I wish to save them instead.”

Jason snorted. “So, what, you’re gonna trade your cape for a lab coat?”

“Yes.” Obviously, were you not listening?

Tim shook his head. “Damian, you’re only eighteen. You don’t have to make this decision right now.”

“I have made my decision,” Damian said firmly. “And I do not require your approval. I am simply informing you so you won’t be surprised when my acceptance letters arrive.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “This is a drastic change.”

“It is my change to make,” Damian said. “And I will make it—with or without your support.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, finally, Bruce exhaled. “If this is truly what you want…”

“It is.”

His father nodded once. “Then I will not stop you.”

Damian had expected resistance. He had braced himself for more of a fight. But this… this was something else entirely. Something strange and unfamiliar. 

Richard clapped a hand on his shoulder, smiling softly. “I think you’ll make a great doctor, Dami.”

Jason smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get all soft on us, Demon Brat.”

Timothy sighed. “I still think you’re being dramatic, but… good luck, I guess.”

Damian looked at them, and for the first time in his life, he felt something close to peace. Hopefully, it will last. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Then, without another word, he turned away from the city, walking back towards the staircase to head to Wayne Manor.

Chapter Text

The moment Marinette stepped through the grand, foreboding gates of Gotham Academy, she knew she would hate it here.

Her host family–two women with an abundance of plants in their apartment–for all of their sketchy yet endearing behavior, opened their arms warmly and ensured she felt comfortable and protected walking around the city and taking its train system. 

For all of their guidance and warnings, Marinette managed to oversleep and missed the train that would have ensured she was early to her first day of school. Thus, here she is, riding the city’s questionable bus to be on time for the day's first class.

What a beautiful start to my new school. The young woman thought grimly, watching the city pass by on her seat.

~~~~~

Contrary to her parents' beliefs, and greatly to Marinette’s surprise, since then, the 18-year-old was able to adjust to the time difference and make it to Gotham Academy early for the next few weeks.

It was an adjustment period, even without consideration of her tardiness. 

It wasn’t just the gray skies that loomed over the campus like a permanent omen or the suffocating feeling that something was always watching. It wasn’t even the students who either ignored her outright or sneered at her accent when she asked for directions. No, it was everything about Gotham—this city felt fundamentally wrong. The people, the energy, the way darkness pooled in the corners of every street like something alive.

Paris, for all its chaos, had been home. Gotham felt like it was actively trying to consume her whole.

Still, Marinette Dupain-Cheng had never been one to back down. If she could handle Hawkmoth, akumas, years of balancing her double life, and all of what she had to suffer through at Lila’s hand, she could survive a few months at an elite prep school filled with entitled trust-fund kids and crime lord offspring.

Besides, she had a purpose here.

The thought steadied her, grounding her as she entered the classroom.

Her seat was already assigned—the back row, on the right side of the room.

She slid into her chair, exhaling slowly, hoping to catch her breath. Then, she felt it—sharp, assessing eyes on her.

She turned and met an intense emerald gaze. Marinette recognized him immediately.

Damian Wayne. Gotham’s Ice Prince .

She knew the name. She had researched Gotham’s elite, and the Waynes were practically royalty. Bruce Wayne’s youngest son was known for being as untouchable as he was infamous. Cold, brilliant, and, according to every student she had managed to speak to, completely insufferable.

But Marinette was not easily intimidated.

He arched an unimpressed brow, then looked away as if she wasn’t worth his time.

She rolled her eyes and began pulling out her notebooks.

~~~~~

When the business teacher announced their long-term project, Marinette already knew how it would go. She had worked with arrogant people before—Chloé, in particular, had been a years -long masterclass in dealing with entitled brats—and she could handle one broody rich boy.

After assigning their groups and giving options for the basis of their project, their teacher left the class to their own devices to spend the period drawing the basis of their projects. Wishing to remain hopeful and despite the whispers, Marinette braced herself for the worst from the Ice Prince; who knows? Maybe he’s just a misunderstood student who’s actually very kind and is just antisocial–

Then he spoke. And any hopes of remaining professional and civil went flying out the window.

“If you don’t have the competence to keep up, I’ll do the project alone.”

Marinette inhaled sharply, leveling him with a look.

“If you don’t have the patience to work with others, why are you even in school?”

The air between them tensed.

A few students glanced their way, sensing the brewing storm.

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I refuse to waste my time catering to mediocrity.”

Marinette scoffed, rolling her eyes. “And I refuse to waste my time catering to your ego.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in them.

Sparks. Immediate rivalry. Neither backed down.

~~~~~

Their interactions were a wildfire, spreading quickly through the classroom. Whenever Marinette countered Damian’s remarks, their classmates exchanged glances, whispering about how someone was finally standing up to Gotham Academy’s untouchable prince. The tension between them became something unspoken but palpable, a competition neither had agreed to, but both were fully committed to winning.

They were at each other in the group discussions and their other shared classes–the utter shock between the two when they arrived at the same two courses at Gotham University;  it was as though Damian and Marinette couldn’t escape each other. 

Their voices naturally clashed, each trying to one-up the other. If Damian cited a philosopher, Marinette countered with historical context. If he challenged a scientific theory, she provided real-world applications. It wasn’t just academic; it was personal. Each conversation was another battle in an ongoing war neither wanted to lose.

What made it worse—or perhaps more entertaining for those watching the saga—was that they were evenly matched. Marinette was relentless, her creativity and adaptability making her a formidable opponent, while Damian’s sharp logic and calculated approach ensured that their debates were never one-sided.

Even the teachers noticed, some amused, some exasperated. One of them, a weary literature teacher, sighed after yet another of their arguments began unfolding and muttered into their coffee, “I should start taking bets.”

Marinette had worked with difficult people before, but Damian Wayne was in a league of his own. 

He was disciplined, sharp, and insufferably stubborn. 

He dismissed ideas without explanation and expected her to simply follow his lead.

Unfortunately for him, Marinette did not follow.

When allotted time to work on their projects or group discussions, their back-and-forths became something of a spectacle in class. Where others might shrink under Damian’s sharp tone, Marinette met him head-on, matching his bluntness with her own sharp wit.

But it wasn’t just about the project. It was how they both carried themselves, the weight of unspoken expectations clashing between them.

Marinette had spent her life balancing multiple traditions and expectations, her cultures influencing and shaping who she was. Despite the rudeness of some of the students around her, she was proud of it. Their eyes analyzed her every step, and their faces alighted with laughter when her accent showed through. Damian, though, never seemed to be at peace or ease. His posture screamed control and precision; something ingrained deep within him.

Damian found himself oddly intrigued despite himself. Marinette Dupain-Cheng did not operate like the others. Most people knew of his reputation and either sought to befriend him for status or avoided him entirely. On the other hand, she treated him like an obstacle to overcome, and he found it… frustrating. Annoying, even. And yet, there was something almost refreshing about her refusal to be cowed by his presence.

~~~~~

Marinette sat across from Damian at their usual table in the Gotham Academy library, her notebook filled with scribbled notes and half-formed ideas. Damian, ever composed, had a neat stack of papers in front of him, annotations scrawled in perfect, efficient handwriting. Even his doodles looked pristine.

“This proposal lacks structure,” Damian said, pushing one of her drafts aside with a controlled flick of his fingers. “Your arguments are too scattered.”

Marinette’s grip on her pen tightened. “Excuse me? I’m laying the groundwork for a more dynamic approach. It'll be predictable and uninspired if we follow some rigid format.”

Damian didn’t even look up as he continued reviewing her work. “Predictability ensures efficiency. Tangents waste time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you actually have a soul, or did you trade it in for a productivity app?” she shot back, crossing her arms.

He exhaled sharply, the closest thing to a sigh she had ever heard from him. “Emotion has no place in this kind of setting.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Tell that to every philosopher, historian, and writer whose thoughts and emotions have made an impact for centuries.”

Damian finally met her gaze, emerald eyes flashing with challenge. “Tell that to every strategist, scientist, and engineer who changed the world.”

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. The only thing that broke the silence was the soft rustling of pages as Marinette forcefully flipped through her notebook. Then, just to be difficult, she slid his notes closer and started crossing things out.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Improving,” she said smugly. “Your approach is technically sound, but you’re ignoring creative solutions.”

He snatched his paper back with a look of pure irritation, and for a moment, Marinette swore she saw his lips twitch—whether in amusement or exasperation, she wasn’t sure.

~~~~~

One particularly late evening, after yet another heated study session, Marinette stretched her arms over her head, exhaustion finally catching up to her. To her surprise, Damian looked just as drained.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, half-joking.

He gave her a considering look. “Sleep is a necessary function. I take what is required.”

Marinette frowned. “That’s not what I asked.”

Damian hesitated. It wasn’t often that someone asked him personal questions with genuine curiosity rather than an ulterior motive. Finally, he leaned back slightly. “It’s…difficult sometimes.”

Something in his tone made Marinette pause. “Nightmares?”

Damian’s expression didn’t change, but he nodded discreetly, and the flicker of something in his eyes was enough of an answer.

Marinette bit her lip, maintaining eye contact with her classmate. “I get that.”

He studied her as if deciding whether she was worthy of an answer. “You do?”

She shrugged. “Paris wasn’t exactly peaceful for a few years. Even when things were good, I always felt like I was one step away from disaster.”

For the first time that day, Damian didn’t have a sharp response. Instead, he nodded, a rare unspoken understanding passing between them.

~~~~~

The breaking point came towards the end of Marinette’s second month at the Academy when they finalized their presentation outline. Marinette had proposed a multifaceted argument incorporating logical reasoning and emotional appeal, but Damian wanted a more rigid, fact-driven approach.

“This will strengthen our case,” Marinette insisted, tapping her pen against her notes. “People don’t just respond to only to logic. They need something they can connect to.”

“We are not here to manipulate emotions,” Damian countered. “The research should be enough on its own. One of the objectives here is to deliver those facts and information.”

“Wow,” Marinette huffed, crossing her arms. “You really don’t understand people, do you?”

“I understand them perfectly,” Damian replied coolly, crossing his arms and looking away. “Which is why I know that emotional appeals leave room for bias.”

Marinette exhaled sharply, staring at him, analyzing his words. “You were raised to think like a weapon, weren’t you?”

Damian stiffened almost imperceptibly, still refusing to make eye contact. “I was raised to be effective.”

There it was again—that brief crack in his seemingly perfect armor. Marinette saw it, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she leaned forward, voice softer. “Being effective isn’t the same as being right.”

Damian said nothing, only turning his head towards her, contemplating her words. For once, she wasn’t sure if that was a win or not.

~~~~~

Then, there was the moment that threw them both off balance.

Marinette, frustrated after another one of Damian’s dismissive comments, muttered under her breath in Mandarin, “你真的很烦人。” (You’re really annoying.)

Without hesitation, Damian, his attention still on his laptop, writing something in his notebook, fluently responded, “你也不容易容忍。” (You are not easy to tolerate either.) 

She blinked, eyes slightly wide, momentarily caught off guard. “You speak Mandarin?”

He also blinked, pausing what he was doing and looking up from his work like it wasn’t a conscious effort to reply to her in the language. His eyes flicked over her, eyes narrow with mild curiosity. “Among other languages.”

Marinette studied him for a moment. For the first time, she saw beyond the cold exterior—there was something else there, something layered and complex.

She still didn’t like him. But she was intrigued.

Damian, for his part, found himself equally unsettled. Marinette was continually not what he expected. She was fiery, resilient, and maddeningly persistent. Unlike others, she didn’t try to impress him or cower under his scrutiny.

Their rivalry had begun. But perhaps it was something more.

Something neither of them were willing to admit just yet.

Marinette and Damian continued to spend several hours together every week working on their project in Gotham Academy’s library. Their discussions were intense, and neither was willing to yield easily. Marinette was meticulous and creative, while Damian was calculated and methodical.

Their study sessions were filled with sharp quips:

Marinette usually initiated their conversations, her voice professional yet amusement evident in her tone. "You know, for someone so obsessed with efficiency, you sure take the long way around an argument."

Damian was always ready to respond, his barbed replies rolling off his tongue while occupied with something relating to their project. "And for someone who thrives on improvisation, your ability to overcomplicate a simple concept is impressive."

Feigning shock, Marinette leaned across their table, a smile lightly quirking her lips. "Overcomplicate? It’s called adding depth , Wayne. Not everything needs to be cold and calculated ."

Looking up from his portion of the research, Damian spoke with a quirked eyebrow, his unamusement clear. "While I dabble in artistic mediums, not everything needs to be an artistic masterpiece , Dupain-Cheng."

But despite the clashes, they pushed each other to be better. Damian was begrudgingly impressed by her relentless pursuit of excellence. Marinette, though annoyed by his arrogance, respected his intellect and discipline.

As the weeks passed, something shifted. They still argued, but the edge wasn’t as sharp. The project forced them to acknowledge each other’s strengths, and—though neither would say it out loud—they worked well together.

One evening, when they were deep in research, Marinette sighed, stretching her arms. “You know, for all your faults, you’re not the worst partner I’ve ever had.”

Damian glanced at her, expression unreadable. “Likewise.”

It was the closest they had come to a truce.

Their shared heritage occasionally surfaced in s urprising ways. One afternoon, they agreed to sit together during lunch, and Marinette pulled out her meal: the homemade baozi she had packed that morning. She was about to take a bite when she noticed Damian glancing at it.

“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"你的折叠技术尚可，但不够精确。" (Your folding technique is okay, but not precise enough.) 

Marinette gaped at him. "Did you just critique my baozi?"

He smirked. "I’m simply stating a fact."

Marinette scoffed. “And you’re an expert now?”

He merely shrugged. “I was taught to appreciate precision in all things.”

She squinted at him. “You made dumplings growing up, didn’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer, but the slight twitch of his lips was enough.

For the first time, Marinette didn’t feel like she was fighting against him. Maybe, just maybe, there were parts of him she could actually understand.

Even if he was still insufferable.

From the moment she stepped into Gotham Academy, Marinette Dupain-Cheng stood out.

Not like most people did—seeking attention, posturing, or clinging to status. No, she stood out because she didn’t seem to care about any of it. She carried herself with an almost deceptive ease, a quiet but undeniable presence that demanded notice without ever asking for it.

And that, in itself, was fascinating .

Damian had encountered many people—arrogant socialites, calculating elites, criminals who masked their intentions beneath charming facades. But Marinette wasn’t like them. She was an enigma, someone who met Gotham’s shadows with a kind of wary defiance instead of fear. He expected her to falter, to cower under the weight of Gotham’s ever-present oppression.

She did not.

Damian had long accepted that most of his peers were incapable of keeping up with him. Teachers barely challenged him, and students were more concerned with wealth and appearances than academic excellence. He had anticipated that Marinette would be much the same—another ordinary student, a temporary inconvenience at best.

He was wrong and never happier for that to be true.

Their first real clash over the project was a battle neither of them was prepared to lose. She challenged his every statement, refusing to accept his conclusions without scrutiny. It was irritating, but more than that—it was exhilarating . No one questioned him like this; no one pushed back against him with such conviction. 

No one talked to him with a balance of brashness and kindness, approaching him where he was and not expecting him to meet them.

Where he mentioned an inefficient idea, she countered with innovation. When he demanded structure, she introduced controlled spontaneity. Her methods were unpredictable but not reckless. There was calculation in her chaos, a strategy in how she approached problems that made even him pause.

It was infuriating. And impressive. He longed to get to know her more.

In his quiet room, Damian spent much time reminiscing about their past conversations and mulling over possible future ones as well. 

~~~~~

At first glance, Marinette appeared effortlessly confident. She walked into a room as though she belonged there, and when people sneered or whispered, she didn’t shrink—she smiled, not even bothering to give their jab any attention. But Damian knew better than to take things at face value. He had spent his life peeling back deception, seeing beyond what people wanted him to see.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was not as unbothered as she pretended to be.

The first time he caught her slipping was subtle. There was a moment where her smile faltered too quickly when she turned away just a little too soon. He had seen it before—the mask of someone who refused to show weakness, who had mastered the art of appearing unshaken even when the world was pressing in too close.

It intrigued him more than he cared to admit

Next, he noticed subtle bags under her eyes during some of their evening sessions. 

Then he saw her sluggishness at times. It was the kind that tipped off someone who spent far too long awake, whether for a few days or encompassing weeks at a time.

When she muttered in Mandarin, clearly not expecting a response, he saw the first real crack in her carefully composed exterior. The surprise in her eyes when he answered her was fleeting, but it was there. That was when he knew—Marinette Dupain-Cheng had layers.

And he wanted to unravel every single one of them.

~~~~~

Their arguments were a storm, sharp and fast, neither willing to yield. But there was something addictive about it. He should have been annoyed—her persistence should have been grating, treating her like the rest of his insufferable peers. Instead, he found himself drawn to it, anticipating it.

“You’re impossible,” she huffed after their tenth disagreement over formatting.

“And you are insufferable,” he returned smoothly, watching the fire ignite in her gaze.

He expected her to snap back. Instead, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”

He hated that his first instinct was to give a small smile in response.

~~~~~

He hadn’t expected her to share his appreciation for precision. Yet, that one afternoon when he offhandedly critiqued her baozi folding technique, she had gaped at him in a mix of offense and disbelief. He hadn’t meant to say it—it had simply been instinct, an observation spoken before he could think better of it.

But she didn’t just brush it off. She challenged him.

“Oh, so you think you can do better?” she asked, arms crossed, one brow arched in defiance.

He had smirked then because, of course, he could. But instead of arguing, she placed the baozi’s now empty container in front of him. A coy smile on her face as she challenged him. “Prove it.”

And he did. The next morning, he appeared at her locker, her container in hand, warm and filled with fresh baozi he had spent the early morning preparing. When she opened the container, true to his word, the steamed buns were perfect—a lovely temperature to be eaten warm or cool, and the pleats perfect in place. 

Her face upon receiving the gift—and getting it so soon after the taunt—put a warm smile on her face. 

The moment was small, but it shifted something between them. She wasn’t just another student or an academic hindrance. She was something else entirely—an equal, a puzzle, a person who wasn’t intimidated by him.

That realization settled uncomfortably in his chest.

~~~~~

Damian was not naive. He recognized when his attention lingered longer than it should, when his observations became more detailed when he started keeping track of the way she absentmindedly tapped her pencil against her notebook or the precise moment her laughter turned genuine.

He refused to acknowledge it as anything other than curiosity. But deep down, he knew better.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was trouble.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid it—or fall into it completely.

I couldn’t find any official heights for the miraculous characters that actually made sense, so I made up my own to incorporate into the fic: 

• Marinette 5’8 (172.72cm) (Tom Dupain- 6’3, Sabine Cheng- 5’4) (with how tall Tom appears, Marinette has to take after that height considering how much she looks like Sabine)
• Damian 6’0 (182.88cm) (Bruce Wayne- 6’2, Talia al-Ghul- 5’11)
• Here’s a chart for all of them: https://ibb.co/bM2VCxLK

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy had a way of making even the most mundane routines feel like military operations. When he arrived at Gotham Academy and parked his black Lexus, Damian al-Ghul-Wayne was already mentally preparing for the day. His mornings were meticulously structured—arrival at exactly 7:45 AM, a quick stop by his locker to put his jacket away and prepare for his classes, and a silent observation of the students around him before class.

What he hadn’t accounted for, however, was Marinette Dupain-Cheng becoming a new fixture in his morning routine. Not that he has a problem with that. And it is even less likely that he’ll outwardly complain about it.

She always arrived at approximately 7:51 AM, usually on running foot or walking briskly via public transport, her bag slung over one shoulder with a casual ease that belied her sharp focus. Despite approaching the cooler temperatures of fall in early November, she never seemed uncomfortable or out of breath. She moved with certainty, weaving through students who either ignored or side-eyed her presence, though she rarely paid them any mind.

At first–during most of September and early October, Damian dismissed her as just another student. Then, he began noticing things. Noticing how she wasn’t an average student, her situational awareness seemed as active as Batman’s. The way she adjusted her stride ever so slightly when stepping into the crowded hallways as if avoiding a phantom threat. The way her eyes flickered to reflective surfaces—not out of vanity, but as if constantly checking her surroundings. It was a habit he recognized, one ingrained through necessity. It made him curious.

~~~

Among his other observations of the international student, Damian began taking intricate glimpses of his project partner when she arrived and how seamlessly she seemed to fit into his routine for reasons unbeknownst to him. 

Each morning at Gotham Academy followed a familiar rhythm. Marinette would step through the dated wrought-iron gates, her satchel slung over her shoulder, eyes scanning the throngs of students walking and fraternizing in the main academic building’s courtyard. It seemed she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, but inevitably, her gaze would land on Damian Wayne.

His navy blue uniform was pristine, without a wrinkle in sight. His posture was rigid and military-like, and his expression unreadable as he moved through the courtyard like a specter untethered by the chaos of high school life. Even among Gotham’s elite, Damian exuded a quiet authority that made people give him space. Marinette, however, never granted him that luxury once their dynamic moved more into friendly territory.

"Morning, Wayne," she would quip in passing, deliberately bumping his shoulder as she walked by to get to her first class.

"Dupain-Cheng," he’d reply, the briefest flicker of amusement crossing his features before vanishing behind his usual impassivity.

It was an unspoken game between them, their first encounter of the day setting the tone for whatever academic battle lay ahead.

Marinette’s locker was inconveniently close to Damian’s. Whether it was fate or some cruel joke from the universe, she found herself sharing the same corridor with him every morning and between nearly every class.

At first, she ignored him. But that proved impossible when Damian, with his unwavering precision, managed to open his locker in a single movement while hers occasionally jammed. The first time he saw her struggle, he merely watched, unimpressed.

"Are you incapable of using basic mechanisms, Dupain-Cheng?"

She scowled, muttering a curse in French and giving the door one last frustrated tug. "It’s not my fault this thing is ancient."

With a long-suffering sigh, Damian nudged her aside and popped the locker open with a flick of his wrist. Marinette blinked, torn between annoyance and reluctant gratitude.

"Huh. I was expecting a full-fledged lecture on inefficiency."

"I have better things to do than watch you wrestle with a piece of metal."

Yet, after that, he made a habit of unlocking it whenever he noticed her struggling. Marinette never asked, and Damian never acknowledged it.

~~~~~

Their lockers were close to each other—unfortunately, right next to each other –another irritation in the growing list of reasons why Marinette Dupain-Cheng occupied more of Damian’s thoughts than she should.

Despite arriving later than he, she would always reach hers first, turning the lock with deft fingers, unlocking it with practiced ease while simultaneously balancing a notebook in one hand. Sometimes, she carried a bag of pastries in her hand while unlocking her combination, the warm scent of baked goods lingering in the air. He had once made the mistake of standing too close, and the momentary distraction of a particularly fragrant tarte aux pommes had almost made him miss the final number in his locker combination.

Another morning, she caught him glancing at the treat in her hand and smiled kindly.

“Want one?” she asked, offering a second pastry wrapped in parchment paper.

He narrowed his eyes, uncertain of her intentions. “Why?”

She shrugged, maintaining eye contact. “Because I made extras.”

Damian hesitated before taking it. The moment he bit into it, he knew she was dangerous in an entirely new way—he actually liked it. He hoped she brought more for him to try.

From that day, their interactions at their lockers became small moments of camaraderie, silent analysis of each other, and begrudging understanding. Marinette was always prepared with some baked goods or snacks to offer him. Damian began accepting them when she stopped offering outright and handed them to him, or placed them against his notebooks when they entered their next shared class.

Damian prided himself on academic excellence. His mother ensured he had the best and most advanced education while in the League, and he ensured her sacrifice wasn’t stale. Gotham Academy was filled with entitled, mediocre students and educators who didn’t challenge him in the slightest. That changed with Marinette.

She was brilliant in an entirely different way that complimented him to a tee—where Damian was methodical, she was adaptable. Where he followed strict logical structuring, she thrived in creativity and problem-solving. It was as infuriating as it was invigorating.

In chemistry, she completed equations with infuriating ease, often sketching small designs in the margins of her notes while waiting for the rest of the class to catch up. In AP Literature, she provided analyses that forced even their teachers to pause in thought–something Damian silently revered because he had similar thoughts. No one challenged Marinette when she spoke; she challenged their American-centric historical perspectives with questions and connections that others passively accepted.

Their debates became legendary.

“If we’re analyzing strategy, Napoléon’s success wasn’t purely about military genius. He understood how to craft a narrative about himself,” Marinette argued quietly one day, arms crossed as she leaned slightly toward him.

Damian scoffed, matching her posture. “Propaganda is a tool . It does not replace strategy. His tactics were fundamentally superior. Look at how it’s revered to the present day.”

“And yet, if he hadn’t controlled public perception, do you think he would have been able to rebuild France’s military in the first place?”

There was an unspoken respect between them, even in their heated discussions. The teachers rarely interfered, gauding the pair to continue, letting their intellectual battles unfold naturally–even molding their next class after what they talked about. 

Their classmates, however, were either entertained or terrified. Who would have thought the Ice Prince found a match in Princess Justice?

~~~~~

Their rivalry was most evident in the classroom. Regardless of the subject, they constantly pushed each other. Marinette was brilliant and creative, thinking outside the box with ideas that sometimes clashed with Damian’s rigid logic and calculated precision.

"Your solution is inefficient," he’d say during a calculus problem, neatly writing out the standard method taught in class.

"And yours is devoid of any out-of-the-box approaches," she’d retort, scribbling an alternative approach in her notes.

Their teachers had quickly learned to let them argue—it was often more productive to let them battle it out than intervene. The literature teacher learned that the hard way when trying to redirect the two back toward the lesson, and both students began debating whether the teacher was viable in interrupting a productive conversation based on the subject. 

What started as tense competition evolved into begrudging respect in the coming months.

Marinette would never admit it, but Damian made her think in ways she hadn’t before. 

Damian, despite himself, found her unpredictable intellect—annoyingly—fascinating.

Gotham Academy’s cafeteria was divided, not by some outspoken school policy but by an unspoken social hierarchy. The wealthy heirs, the scholarship students, the athletes, the outcasts—everyone had a place. Despite their academic clashes, Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Damian al-Ghul-Wayne somehow gravitated toward each other’s company during lunch.

It wasn’t planned, but they often ended up at the same table, much to the confusion of their peers.

Initially, it had been by accident—Marinette had sat at an empty table with her food. Similarly, Damian, unwilling to sit with the more obnoxious members of Gotham’s elite, had ended up at the same table a few seats over. They had ignored each other for the most part, but towards the end of September, something shifted.

~~~

"You again?" Marinette would tease, plopping her tray down and sitting across from him.

"It seems no corner of this school is free from your presence," he’d respond, a playful smirk dancing on his lips, and he never actually told her to leave.

~~~

“You eat the same thing every day,” she noted one afternoon, eyeing his meticulously portioned meal of Tofu Stir-Fry, rice, and vegetables.

“And you seem to have an obsession with pastries,” he countered, watching as she pulled out a small container of macarons.

She grinned cheekily and held a macaron in mock salute. “Guilty.”

~~~

What neither of them acknowledged was how this became routine. 

Some days, they ate in silence. On days when both had a rough night but were unwilling to divulge how to anyone but themselves, there were moments of quiet understanding, both engaging in their own devices, where nothing needed to be said.

Other days, conversations were filled with debates, ranging from cultural nuances to the ethics of vigilantism—not that they ever phrased it that way. 

Despite their bickering, they often fell into an unspoken rhythm—sharing bits of food, quietly working on assignments, or debating the latest lecture material. 

Though heated, their debates never felt genuinely hostile. If anything, they were the highlight of their school day.

Despite their intelligence, neither of them was particularly well-liked by the attendees at Gotham Academy.

Some students viewed Marinette as an outsider, a foreigner who didn’t belong among Gotham’s elite. Her accent, with its French lilt, confidence, and refusal to be intimidated, made her a target for snide remarks. But she had learned how to deal with bullies long ago. A well-timed retort, a sharp glare, or simply outmaneuvering them intellectually left most red-faced and flustered, unwilling to try again.

Damian, on the other hand, was feared. No one dared to insult him outright, but they spoke in hushed whispers about his reputation, family, past, and the tanned difference in his skin against a sea of pale faces. And yet, the teachers often proved to be the actual adversaries.

One history teacher, Mr. Langley, habitually dismissed non-Western perspectives in historical analysis. Marinette, whose patience only went so far, confronted him directly during a discussion about colonialism, and Damian–against his usual inclination—backed her up with irrefutable facts.

“So, you’re saying the effects of colonial rule were ultimately ‘beneficial’?” Marinette’s tone was deceptively calm.

“I’m saying history is not about emotions , Miss Dupain-Cheng. Objectivity is important.”

Damian’s voice was ice, making intense eye contact with the older man. “Ignoring the voices of the colonized is not objectivity. It’s selective ignorance.”

It was one of the rare moments when they stood firmly on the same side, putting aside their usual rivalry for a shared cause.

~~~

Damian had always known that Gotham Academy, for all its prestige, was not immune to prejudice, so far from it that the institution seemed to encourage it at times. He had dealt with subtle condescension, (veiled) barbs about his background, and outright dismissals of his intellect. But when he witnessed Marinette experiencing the same, it ignited something within him that he wasn’t entirely ready to confront.

Mr. Langley habitually called on students in a way that screamed favor toward certain groups over others. That morning, they had been discussing key moments in world history, and Marinette had raised her hand to elaborate on a point about the French Revolution.

Langley barely spared her a glance before choosing another student—someone who, Damian noted, had significantly less knowledge on the subject.

Marinette lowered her hand slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line. He saw the flicker of frustration in her eyes but also restraint. She was used to this.

Damian clenched his jaw deceptively.

“Mr. Langley,” he interjected smoothly, raising his hand, voice crisp and unwavering. “Marinette had her hand raised first. I believe her perspective would add significant value to this discussion.”

Langley’s lips twitched as if suppressing irritation before he finally relented. “Fine, Miss Dupain-Cheng. Let’s hear it.”

Marinette gave Damian a brief look, surprise flickering across her face before she straightened her shoulders and spoke. And, as he expected, her answer was far more comprehensive than the one given previously.

Langley didn’t bother acknowledging or elaborating on it, simply nodding and moving on. But Damian had seen it—Marinette’s fingers clenching her pen tighter, her shoulders drawn towards her.

She was tired of fighting battles and shouldn’t have needed to fight in the first place.

Being a student of color in a place like Gotham Academy came with its own set of challenges among the students. There were always whispers, always those who thought they didn’t belong. Marinette, with her usual silent resilience and rebellion, brushed it off. Damian, on the other hand, had no patience for it.

One afternoon, a senior remarked offhand about Marinette’s "foreign scholarship." Before she could even react, Damian was there, his presence imposing.

"If you’re going to be ignorant, at least try to be original," he said coolly, his voice like sharpened steel.

The student faltered, mumbling something about a joke before slinking away. Marinette observed Damian, her fingers tightening around her books.

"I could’ve handled that."

"I know," he said, walking in pace with her. "But I was there, so I did."

~~~~~

Being among Gotham Academy’s elite didn’t exempt them from bias. It started subtly—teachers scrutinizing their work more than their peers, the double standards applied when they spoke up in class. Damian, ever perceptive, noticed how Marinette’s ideas were often dismissed until a white classmate repeated them. He viscerally thinks about how students whisper about him, calling him an "angry foreigner" when he is simply being direct.

One particular incident stood out. During a history discussion, Marinette countered their teacher’s Eurocentric take on colonization, citing her own mixed heritage and the realities of oppression, comparing what she experienced in France to Gotham. Langley, clearly uncomfortable, smiled thinly. "That’s an... interesting perspective, Miss Dupain-Cheng, but let’s stick to the textbook narrative." A few students smirked, chuckled quietly, or rolled their eyes. Marinette, he noticed, though furious, took a steadying breath and continued arguing her point. 

That night, he thought about her (resilience) more than he wanted to admit.

Then there were the microaggressions: Students making backhanded compliments about Marinette’s "exotic" appearance; teachers raising an eyebrow when Damian focuses his assignments on the complexities of his Middle Eastern and Asian heritage, subtly questioning his sources; and once, when a substitute called roll and hesitated over their full names, he made a joke about it being "a mouthful." Damian had stared him down so coldly that the teacher didn’t dare press the matter further.

One afternoon, Marinette overheard a few girls gossiping in hushed tones. "I don’t know why she’s even here. Did she get in on some diversity scholarship?" They laughed, assuming she wouldn’t understand. She did. And later, when Damian saw her quietly sketching during lunch instead of eating, he knew something had happened. Without a word, he placed a protein bar and an extra container of rice beside her tray. She looked at him, surprised, pencil dropping to the ground. "You’ll need energy if you plan to keep proving them wrong," Damian said, not looking up from the book he was reading as he continued to eat.

Slowly, their partnership became unspoken yet undeniable—a mutual understanding, an unvoiced alliance against a world constantly questioning their worth.

~~~~~

Lunch at Gotham Academy was a calculated game of status. Tables were unofficially assigned based on social standing, wealth, and influence. While Marinette had made a few acquaintances from other classes, she preferred to sit with Damian at a table that was neither at the top nor the bottom of the hierarchy.

As they walked and carried their trays toward their usual spot that day, they heard a hushed comment from one of the students.

“I think I get why she sits with him. It’s like some charity case for both of them. Probably some concerted effort to get in with his father.”

Damian halted mid-step. His grip on his tray tightened. He turned his head slowly, gaze locking onto the source—a boy from a moderately-known Gotham family who clearly believed himself untouchable.

Marinette clearly heard it, too, and exhaled sharply. She was seconds away from saying something, but Damian spoke first.

“Would you care to repeat that?”

The boy’s smirk faltered, expression flickering to one of worry. “I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Then it shouldn’t be difficult to repeat," Damian pressed, his voice dangerously soft.

Marinette nudged him slightly, a silent reminder not to escalate the situation. Damian took a breath, forcing himself to physically step back even though every instinct screamed at him to put the boy in his place. Instead, he turned to Marinette. “Come on. We have better things to do than entertain ignorance.”

She smiled briefly, then nodded, following him to their table. But as they sat, Damian stole a glance at her. Her face was calm, but he could see that her shoulders remained despite the calm exterior.

He hated to see that her composure changed without saying a word.

It started small—little inconveniences that could be dismissed as accidents: Marinette’s locker getting jammed, her books mysteriously ending up on the floor, and notes she’d written for class going missing.

She never complained. But Damian noticed.

So, when he caught a student deliberately knocking over her sketchbook one afternoon, he didn’t hesitate.

“Pick it up.”

The student scoffed, smiling coyly like it was a game. “Relax, Ice Prince. It’s just a joke.”

Damian stepped forward, his presence alone enough to make the student shrink back. “We’re not laughing.”

Marinette sighed, kneeling to pick up her things before Damian could do it. She placed a hand on his arm as she rose. “It’s fine, Damian. It's not worth it.”

He knew she didn’t believe that. But she was tired. And so was he.

~~~

Again, despite everything, despite their differences and intellectual duels, they understood each other in ways that others didn’t. In ways that didn’t make natural sense for them to understand each other.

Through Damian’s icy exterior, Marinette recognized the restraint and weight of expectations he carried. And Damian, though he would never say it aloud, saw the fire in Marinette, how she fought not just for herself but for others, and how she refused to let the world dictate her worth.

They were something. Becoming something.

And neither of them was willing to define it just yet.

~~~

When October rolled through, and November made its appearance, their dynamic began to shift in subtle ways. Their fights still burned hot, and their competition remained fierce, but there was something underneath it all—an undercurrent neither could continue to ignore.

Marinette noticed the way Damian's gaze lingered when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Damian, in turn, found himself more aware of her presence than he cared to admit.

Neither seemed ready to address it, but the truth was undeniable.

At first, Damian only saw Marinette as another classmate, another competitor in a school full of mediocrity. But that changed. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible—until he found himself studying the way she tapped her pencil against her notebook when deep in thought, the way she argued without hesitation but with precise logic.

She wasn’t intimidated by him. That was new. Most people either feared him or tried to impress him. Marinette did neither. She challenged him. She irritated him. And, as much as he hated to admit it, she intrigued him.

The realization crept up on him. One evening in the library, he caught himself watching her instead of his book. The way she absentmindedly tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The soft murmur of French and Mandarin was under her breath as she tried to work through a complicated piece of homework. The rare moments when her serious expression gave way to laughter—something he found himself wanting to see more often.

And then there was the protectiveness. The way his blood boiled when someone belittled her. The way he placed himself between her and trouble, whether it was a particularly harsh teacher or an overly persistent classmate. He told himself it was simply camaraderie, partnership. But deep down, he knew better.

One day, Marinette became frustrated and began rubbing her temples in exasperation. "Why do I even bother?" she muttered. "Maybe I should just stop trying."

Damian had surprised them both when he responded softly, "You won’t. That’s not who you are. And if you did, you would be worse for it."

She had stared at him wide-eyed. And that was the moment he knew—this wasn’t just an academic rivalry. This wasn’t just camaraderie.

This was something else entirely.

Marinette sat on her bed, legs crossed, staring at the ceiling of her room. The soft hum of Gotham’s ever-present nightlife buzzed through the window, mixing with the distant wail of sirens. It had been nearly two months since she first met Damian Wayne, and to say he had lodged himself in her mind like an unstoppable rock and immovable force was an understatement.

Tikki floated beside her, tiny paws pressed together in concern. "Marinette, you’ve been thinking about him a lot lately."

Plagg, ever the instigator, snickered from his perch on her desk. "Yeah, it’s almost cute. Almost. If he weren’t such a stick in the mud."

Marinette groaned, rolling onto her side. "I am not thinking about him. I’m analyzing him. There’s a difference . He’s just... infuriatingly competent. And cold. And frustrating."

"And kind of impressive and handsome ," Tikki added with a knowing smile.

Plagg lazily twirled in the air. "More like terrifying. The kid’s sharper than a well-aged Camembert slice. I mean, he notices everything. And yet, somehow, he hasn’t figured out your little secret."

That much was true. Damian Wayne was nothing short of a prodigy, moving through the world with the calculation of someone who had never allowed himself the luxury of vulnerability. He was all sharp edges, had impossible standards, and had a relentless need to be right. 

To put it simply, it was like someone birthed Damian Wayne with a stick up his ass, and it’s been there since.

And yet, there were moments—fleeting, subtle—where Marinette caught something else beneath the surface. Something uncertain. Something searching.

She sat up. "It’s not about him. I’m not here to get a boyfriend; I’m here for the Miraculous. You both know that. I need to find a partner worthy of wielding the power of the Ladybug if I’m to be the Black Cat. And in a city like this... it’s not easy."

Tikki hovered closer. "Do you think Damian could be a candidate?"

Marinette hesitated. That was the question, wasn’t it?

"He’s disciplined, strategic, and hyper-focused," she admitted, looking apprehensively between the Kwami. "He’d be an incredible partner in battle. Probably even better than Chat Noir in terms of sheer precision. But..."

"But he has the emotional range of a rock," Plagg finished for her, deadpan. "He doesn’t seem to trust easily; he works well with you, but the same can’t be said for anyone else. The Miraculous requires a true balance, Princess. Not a brooding little soldier boy."

Marinette sighed, rubbing her temples. "Then who? Because so far, I haven’t met anyone who fits the bill. Gotham’s full of fighters, but they’re all either too reckless or too detached."

Tikki settled onto her shoulder. "Maybe you don’t need to look for perfection. You need to look for someone who challenges you in the right way."

Marinette frowned. "And you think that’s Damian?"

The kwami exchanged a glance.

"I think," Tikki said carefully, floating from her shoulder to in front of her face, "that he could be. If he let himself be."

Plagg snorted. "And if he doesn’t, he’ll just be fun to annoy. Either way, I think it’s great you’re getting close to someone while you’re here, minou."

Marinette found herself hyper-aware of Damian’s presence the next day at school. The pair didn’t even have to speak for her to feel him—a tightly coiled storm of intensity in every room he walked into.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before their usual clashes started.

"If you’d stop overcomplicating the concept, we’d be done by now," Damian muttered, rubbing his face in exasperation as they worked on the next segment of their project together in the library.

Marinette huffed, barely holding back an eye-roll. "We’ve been over this, Damian. If you’d stop underestimating creative input, maybe your solutions wouldn’t be so clinical."

He looked at her then, sharp green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "There’s no room for excess in efficiency."

"And yet," she shot back, leaning forward, "every truly brilliant thing in history was born from creativity, not just precision."

The air between them felt charged, electric, making her heart pound against her will.

~~~~~

Later, as she relayed the conversation to Tikki and Plagg, they shared an all-too-knowing look.

"What?" Marinette demanded.

Tikki giggled. "You two argue like an old married couple. Always going over the same things."

Plagg snickered. "And he’s got it bad to keep the charade going every time you work on that assignment."

Marinette groaned, flopping onto her bed. "I don’t like him. I don’t, I swear. He’s—infuriating."

But the truth settled uncomfortably in her chest. Because whether she wanted to admit it or not, Damian Wayne was getting under her skin in a way no one had before.

Marinette had been debating it since the topic first came up. Tikki noticed it first. "You think he could be a Miraculous wielder, don’t you?" the kwami asked, floating near her shoulder as Marinette sat at her desk, sketching absentmindedly.

Marinette sighed. "I don’t know. He’s… intense. He’s disciplined and strategic. But he’s also guarded. I don’t know if he’s the kind of person who could handle the responsibility of the Ladybug Miraculous."

Plagg snickered from his perch atop a slice of cheese. "Sounds like someone has a crush."

Marinette groaned. "Plagg, be serious."

Tikki twirled mid-air. "The real question is—does he have the right qualities? Luck and creation require a certain kind of heart, Marinette."

And so, a plan was formed. They’d test him. Not overtly, of course. That would be too obvious. Instead, they’d watch. Observe his choices and his instincts. Little moments—how he handled teamwork, whether he put others before himself, how he reacted to the unexpected.

~~~

The first test came when a younger student dropped his books in the hallway. Most of their classmates ignored it, stepping around the scattered papers. Marinette noticed Damian pause, eyes flickering toward the boy before bending down to help quickly and efficiently. He said nothing; just returned the books and walked away before the kid could thank him.

Tikki hummed thoughtfully. Interesting .

A second test happened when their class was assigned an open-ended project. Damian, for all his need for control, surprised her. He listened. He adapted. When Marinette suggested a different angle, he didn’t dismiss it outright. He considered it, adjusted his strategy accordingly, and jotted down her approach.

And then, the final test—a real moment of truth. A late-night patrol in Gotham led Marinette and Damian into unexpected danger. She asked him to walk her back to her host house after a study session, citing that she felt uneasy going back in the dark. Readily, Damian agreed, and their journey began without a hitch. Then a mugger appeared, too close for comfort. Before she could react, before she could transform or deal with the assailant, Damian went into action. Fast. Precise. A blur of motion that left the would-be attacker on the ground before Marinette even registered what had happened.

As they stood there, breathless in the dim streetlight, Marinette realized something.

"Maybe," she thought to Tikki as the pair resumed their walk to her house, "he’s more than just a match."

Maybe he was meant for this all along.

~~~

The next night, Marinette sat in her room, her unfinished homework on her desk but a notebook open. Tikki hovered beside her, and Plagg lazily curled up on the desk.

“You’re sure about this?” Plagg asked, tail flicking.

Marinette sighed. “Not entirely. But… there’s something about him. Something that tells me he might be right for this.”

Tikki hummed. “It’s risky, Marinette. But I think it could work. During your interactions, I studied him. I deeply sense how well his soul calls for the Ladybug Miraculous. His being is a bit tainted, but it reacts beautifully to nature and regeneration. Not to mention how readily he’s been to protect.”

Marinette smiled faintly, memories of her and Adrien through their battles around Paris. Slight resentment built in her chest as she remembered his growing childish behavior and readiness to leave her to fight most of their battles. 

“I know. I’m unsure if I’m ready to depend on someone when Chat Noir, some of the other holders, even my classmates, were so ready to leave everything to me.”

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne sat perched on the rooftop of Wayne Manor, the crisp night air biting at his skin as he surveyed the darkened skyline. The city had always felt alive to the older teen, humming with familiar energy he could read and depict like the back of his hand. But tonight, that energy felt distant, separate from him in a way he hadn’t quite adjusted to yet.

He was no longer Robin. He hadn’t been Robin in months . 

The weight of that truth pressed down on his chest like an iron fist. Being Robin had been more than a title, more than a legacy—it had been his purpose. His reason for meeting his father and siblings. The drive that pushed him to make something new of himself. Without it, he felt like a blade without a wielder, sharp and restless but left in its sheath.

Timothy had assumed the mantle again. It wasn’t a surprise. Richard had spoken to him about it first, a conversation that was meant to sound like a choice, but they both knew it wasn’t. Damian had nodded, expression unreadable, because that was the expected response. He was a soldier, and soldiers obeyed. But inside, a small part of him burned, smoldering in the silence of his agreement. Richard had been the one to gift Damian Robin, now he was delivering the news it no longer belonged to him.

Adjusting was… difficult.

At the manor, the shift in dynamics was subtle but undeniable. Richard was as frustratingly warm as ever, trying too hard to bridge a gap Damian refused to acknowledge. Jason was indifferent in that way that only he could be, making jabs that were meant to sting but never landed the way he intended. Timothy—well, he didn’t gloat, which somehow made the adjustment worse. It was as if taking back the mantle had made his brother more patient, more understanding, as if he thought Damian needed time to "find himself."

Tt. As if he were lost.

Father didn’t speak much about it. Damian didn’t ask him to.

But the energy within him hadn’t dulled. The need to act, to move, to fight was still there, coiling like a caged beast beneath his skin. Regardless of the fact he no longer needed to, Damian continued his rituals. Waking early on the weekends to train around the Manor Gardens and in one of the spare rooms above the Batcave. The training helped, but the routine of it felt stifling, an echo of something he could no longer claim as his own.

It was this restlessness that led him to seek an outlet elsewhere.

Marinette was an enigma. Sharp, infuriating, and unpredictable. He had yet to fully categorize her, which in itself was a rarity. Their clashes had become a routine, their constant bickering an unspoken agreement neither had formally acknowledged but both participated in eagerly.

After one such exchange, an argument over historical strategy that had somehow devolved into a heated debate about modern tactical applications, he noticed it—the same restless energy mirrored in her.

She tapped her fingers against the desk, her leg bouncing slightly, her eyebrows scrunched with frustration that wasn’t directed at him. The realization was sudden but obvious in hindsight.

She needed an outlet too.

He didn’t think before he spoke. “We should spar one day.”

She blinked, thrown off course. “What?”

“You clearly have excess energy. I am in need of a more effective training partner.” He crossed his arms, watching her carefully. “Sparring would be mutually beneficial.”

Marinette tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made his shoulders stiffen. Then, slowly, a smile curled at her lips—sharp, knowing. “You just want an excuse to fight me, don’t you, Wayne?”

He smirked just a little. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

Her laughter was quiet but full of challenge. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

Something in his chest uncoiled. Again, he refused to give the feeling a name.

Damian Wayne has always been defined by his role. 

When in the League, he was the Heir to the Demon Throne. He trained to earn the title, killing and bleeding to garner the respect of soldiers twice his age and size. As Robin, heir to the Bat, he remained a trained assassin. 

But now, the mantle of Robin belonged to someone else. It left a hollow in his identity that he hadn’t yet figured out how to fill. Gotham was still his city, its shadows still familiar, but without the title of Robin, his place within it felt uncertain.

His siblings, in their own way, had taken different approaches to comforting Damian since he left the mantle. Richard, ever the peacemaker, treated him with a subtle air of nostalgia as if mourning the loss of something Damian hadn’t agreed to let go of. Jason, though distant, had his own way of acknowledging the shift, usually with some snide remark about how he was "finally free of the cape." Timothy, ever analytical, regarded Damian with an odd mix of relief and wariness as if unsure whether to welcome the change or be suspicious of what Damian might do next. With her quiet understanding, even Cassandra had taken to observing him more closely as if waiting to see what his next step would be.

~~~

Without the title, without the mission that had once defined him, Damian Wayne found himself in a strange limbo. His father, ever the stoic, had framed it as an opportunity—an invitation to redefine himself outside the shadows of the Bat. But Damian knew the truth. Because of his refusal of the family hobby, he was exiled, and he was expected to find peace in it.

The Batcave was quieter without the weight of Robin’s presence. And yet, the absence of the title had done nothing to lessen the sharp barbs from his brothers.

His siblings were less than accommodating. They treated his lack of a title as an invitation for relentless teasing and playful jabs that never quite landed as harmless.

“You’re practically a civilian now,” Jason had said one night, smirking as he ruffled Damian’s hair in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Just think,” Tim had added, “you could actually do normal things now. Like, I don’t know, sleep.” This ironic sentiment coming from you, Drake. You’re notorious for not sleeping. 

Damian had merely scowled, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. But their words lingered, gnawed at him in the quiet hours of the night when he could no longer distract himself with training or missions. Without Robin, who was he?

~~~

Later that night, as he sat in the dim glow of the Batcave, the area empty with the rest of his family already out on patrol. Damian found himself drifting into old memories—ones he had spent years trying to push aside.

His mother’s voice, sharp and commanding, echoed in his mind. Talia had raised him to be perfect, to be strong. There was no room for weakness in the League of Assassins, no time for hesitation or doubt. His last name had been a banner of legacy and blood, something to carry with pride. But here in Gotham, it was a weight he had chosen to put down— most of the time .

Despite rejecting his grandfather’s ideology, there were moments when his past refused to let go. When he spoke Arabic and Urdu, when he moved with the deadly grace that had been drilled into him from birth, when he found himself entrenched within the flora and fauna of Gotham, drawing the scenes and studying the life around him—he was still an al Ghul.

And yet, here, in this life, he was attempting to build; he was also something else. Damian Wayne was a son, a brother, a student, perhaps even a friend.

The thought unsettled him. The change had never been something he accepted easily. But perhaps, with Marinette and the strange, frustrating, and intriguing place she occupied in his life, he might start to figure out what came next.

In one of these moments of restless uncertainty, he found himself conversing with Marinette. She was sharp, persistent, and—annoyingly—more perceptive than most.

“You’re restless,” she observed, watching him as they walked through the halls of Gotham Academy. “You move like someone who’s used to having an outlet, and now you don’t.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “And you’re being particularly nosy today.”

She shrugged. “I call it as I see it.”

There was silence between them for a moment before she continued. “I know what it’s like to need to move. To fight. To get something out of your system.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t wrong. And if anyone understood the need for control through action, it was her.

“So, what are you suggesting?” he asked, arching a brow.

“A spar. We never set a date for when it should happen,” she said simply. “How about at the end of the week? Nothing serious, just a way to burn off the extra energy.”

He considered her for a long moment before nodding. “Fine. But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

Marinette smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Wayne Manor’s training room was vast, lined with state-of-the-art equipment and mats that had seen countless battles between the Bat-family. Tonight, however, it was hosting a fight unlike any other.

Marinette stood in the center of the mat, rolling her shoulders as she studied her opponent. Across from her, Damian regarded her with his usual mix of scrutiny and superiority. His siblings lounged around the perimeter of the training space, clearly expecting him to make quick work of her.

“This won’t take long,” Jason muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. Tim smirked, nodding in agreement.

Dick, however, was watching with an amused glint in his eye. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said lightly.

Marinette grinned at Damian, shifting into a relaxed stance. “Promise you won’t hold back, Pretty Boy?”

Damian rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Tt. As if I need to against you.”

Bruce, who had agreed to referee the match, gave them both a nod. “Begin.”

~~~

Damian lunged first, his form a picture of precision. Every move was calculated, every strike measured. He was strategy incarnate, moving with the balance and purpose of someone who had trained since birth. Marinette, however, fought like a storm. Her movements were unpredictable, weaving through his attacks with an instinctive chaos that had his carefully laid plans crumbling almost instantly.

He barely dodged a counterattack, eyes narrowing. “You fight like destruction incarnate.”

She laughed, light on her feet as she ducked beneath his next strike and twisted away. “And you fight like order itself.”

It was a dance of contradictions—his structure against her spontaneity, his control against her reckless adaptability. He aimed a sharp jab at her ribs, only for her to pivot at the last second, using his own momentum to push him off balance. He corrected instantly, but she was already moving again, pressing forward with an unpredictable rhythm that forced him onto the defensive.

The Bat-siblings were no longer lounging. Tim was sitting up; brows furrowed in realization. Jason had straightened from his position against the wall, arms no longer crossed. Even Bruce was watching with a new intensity.

Dick let out a low whistle, voicing what they had all been thinking. “Dami, you just met your match.”

Damian barely heard him. He was too focused, too intrigued by the challenge before him. This shouldn’t be happening. He had fought trained assassins, warriors bred for combat. Marinette was smaller, quick, and incredibly light on her feet, yet she was keeping up with him.

“Impossible,” he breathed as she spun on her heel and swept his legs out from under him. He barely managed to flip back onto his feet before she could pin him down.

Her grin was infuriating. “Having fun yet?”

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to attack again. But this time, he adjusted. If she fought with chaos, he had to adapt to it. He loosened his rigid technique, allowing fluidity into his movements, countering her unpredictability with his own. The fight stretched longer, neither willing to give in.

By the time Bruce called for them to stop, both were breathless, chests rising and falling in tandem. Marinette wiped sweat from her brow and shot him a smirk. “Still think this wouldn’t take long?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy processing the realization creeping through his mind. He had underestimated her—more than that, he had misjudged her entirely. There was something about the way she fought, the way she balanced destructive moves with precision, that felt eerily familiar. It gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside for now.

Instead, he met her gaze and smirked. “I suppose I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Marinette laughed, stepping back. “Looking forward to it, Pretty Boy.”

As the Bat-siblings exchanged knowing looks behind them, Plagg and Tikki, unseen, watched from the shadows, their tiny eyes gleaming with realization. The two teenagers in front of them truly were a perfect match for the Black Cat and Ladybug.

The second time they sparred, it was under different circumstances. The first match had been unexpected, but now they both knew what the other was capable of. The moment Bruce called for them to begin, they launched at each other like lightning striking water—sudden and inevitable.

Damian’s movements were tighter this time, adjusting to her erratic style. Marinette, in turn, shifted unpredictably, forcing him to stay on his toes. He had expected her to lean into her agility, but she surprised him with bursts of direct strength, blocking his strikes with well-placed counters and even pushing him back when he expected her to retreat.

“Improving, are we?” Damian muttered as he barely dodged a high kick.

Marinette smirked. “You’re not the only one who adapts.”

The match became a display of relentless exchanges—attacks and counters that blurred together, neither giving an inch. Their movements grew sharper and more refined, and as they fought, an unspoken challenge burned between them. Each strike carried something more than just combat—it was a test, an assessment, a dance of two forces learning to coexist on the battlefield.

By the time it ended, neither had landed a decisive blow. They pulled apart, sweat-slicked and panting, yet both felt the familiarity of it, the spar feeling like a dance between them rather than a fight.

The third match came with no audience, no siblings watching from the sidelines. It was just the two of them, meeting in the training room late at night at Damian’s invitation.

Damian’s guard was up, but for the first time, he felt something new threading through their fight. Familiarity. Marinette wasn’t just a skilled opponent—she was a fighter who moved in tandem with him, a combatant whose rhythm he had learned and yet still struggled to predict. It was frustrating. It was exhilarating.

Marinette, for her part, was grinning. “Tu penses trop quand tu te bats.” (You think too much when you fight)

Damian scowled, blocking her punch. “Et tu ne réfléchis pas assez quand tu te bats.” (And you don't think hard enough when you fight)

They clashed again, movements weaving together in a fast-paced exchange of skill. But there was no hostility. Just understanding, a mutual respect built in sweat and bruises. When they finally pulled back, both exhausted but triumphant, Damian found himself looking at her differently.

Not just as a rival. Not just as a challenge.

But as an equal.

The training room was eerily quiet after their fight, the echoes of their ragged breaths the only sound in the cavernous space. Marinette sat on the mat, water bottle in hand, as her back rested against the wall, sweat glistening on her brow as she tried to catch her breath. Across from her, Damian stood, his hands resting on his hips, his expression unreadable.

She felt it too—the shift, the undeniable realization that this wasn’t just about a few simple spars. Something deeper had been unearthed in those moments of rapid strikes, perfectly timed counters, and the banter between them. The way they had moved together, almost instinctually predicting each other’s next move, was something Marinette never experienced with Adrien before.

Damian finally exhaled sharply and sat beside her, albeit with his usual rigid composure. “你还不错。” (You’re not too bad)

Marinette let out a tired chuckle. “不错吧？ 我几乎把你玩弄于股掌之间。” (Not bad, huh? I almost had you in the palm of my hand.)

His lips quirked into a reluctant smirk. “Tt. 整场比赛我们势均力敌。” (We were evenly matched throughout the game.)

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she tilted her head back, staring at the high ceilings of the manor’s training hall. “我用毁灭战斗，你用秩序战斗。这就是为什么我们的战斗如此平衡。” (I fight with destruction, you fight with order. That's why our fights are so balanced.)

Damian nodded slowly, his gaze distant. 这就解释了为什么我们俩都没赢。我想把这变成例行公事。” (That explains why neither of us won the spar. I'd like to make this a routine.)

Marinette nodded, and silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a quiet understanding now, something unspoken yet tangible. The energy between them had shifted, something neither could ignore. Marinette could feel the pull of something familiar yet foreign—a balance, a force that mirrored something deep within them both.

Plagg and Tikki had been watching, unseen but knowing. The way their chosen wielders fought, the way their natural instincts aligned with the opposite Miraculous, spoke volumes.

As agreed, it would not be the last time they sparred.

The next week, the training mats were marked with the sweat of their effort, the echoes of their struggle still reverberating in the silence that followed. Damian’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his mind racing. Marinette, too, seemed lost in thought, rolling her shoulders as she eyed him.

“Tu n'es pas mauvais,” (You’re not bad) she admitted, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Pour quelqu'un qui se bat comme un maniaque du contrôle” (For someone who fights like a control freak.)

He huffed, not bothering to mask the hint of amusement in his eyes. “Et vous vous battez comme quelqu'un qui n'a jamais suivi une règle de sa vie.” (And you fight like someone who’s never followed a rule in her life.)

She shrugged, smiling lightly. “Les règles sont ennuyeuses.” (Rules are boring.)

Something about her words struck him harder than they should have. The rigidity of his life had always been both his comfort and his cage. And now, stripped of Robin, he had no structure to anchor him.

Marinette studied him, tilting her head slightly. “Damian, ça va?” (Damian, you okay?)

For a moment, he considered brushing her off. But something in her gaze made him pause. “Je vais bien” (I’m fine.)

“Menteur.” (Liar.)

It had become a routine to spar every few days. Sparring sessions that were supposed to be simple workouts turned into hours of battle, neither willing to let the other claim victory.

Marinette thrived in the unpredictability of movement, weaving her strikes between precise blows and misdirection. This infuriated and fascinated Damian in equal measure. He, on the other hand, fought with an unwavering balance, each move meticulously measured to perfection. Where she was storm and chaos, he was the tide, steady and relentless.

“You always go for the expected openings,” Damian noted as he parried a punch and countered with a low sweep. Marinette dodged, barely avoiding his grasp.

“And you always hesitate when I break your rhythm,” she shot back, flipping over him before aiming a quick jab at his shoulder.

His siblings watched from the sidelines, their amusement growing. They were used to Damian outclassing his opponents. But this? This was different.

Their sparring had taken a toll. Hours of combat left them both panting, sweat clinging to their skin, but neither wanted to yield. Damian had never met someone so infuriatingly resilient. Marinette had been knocked down multiple times, yet she got back up every single time.

“屈服,” (Surrender) Damian demanded, his tone sharp as he pinned her arm behind her back.

Marinette scoffed, rolling her eyes. “你先.” (You first)

Before he could react, she twisted her body in a way that should have been impossible, slipping free and forcing him to roll away before she could trap him in a counter hold. He stared up at her from the mat, chest heaving.

“不可能,” (Impossible) he breathed.

She grinned down at him, extending a hand. “告诉过你” (I told you)

Something in him shifted. He wasn’t sure what yet, but he knew one thing—Marinette was a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.

It was late when they sat together after their latest spar, both exhausted, drinking water in silence. Damian studied her carefully, noting the small scars on her hands and the way her fingers flexed restlessly.

“You don’t fight like someone who learned in a dojo,” he remarked.

Marinette glanced at him cautiously, considering her words. “J'ai appris par expérience.” (I learned from experience.)

Damian hummed in acknowledgment. “L'expérience est souvent le meilleur professeur. Mais l'expérience seule ne fait pas un combattant comme vous.” (Experience is often the best teacher. But experience alone doesn’t make a fighter like you.)

She smiled slightly but didn’t elaborate. Instead, she nudged his knee with hers. “Vous vous battez comme quelqu'un qui a trop de règles dans la tête. (You fight like someone with too many rules in his head.)

Damian exhaled through his nose. “Les règles sont nécessaires.” (Rules are necessary.)

“Peut-être. Mais parfois, il faut les briser.” (Maybe. But sometimes, you need to break them.)

He didn’t reply, but he found himself wondering—how many rules had she already broken?

Their sparring had become something else—more than training, more than just a test of skill. There was an understanding between them now, something unspoken yet undeniable. And it was in that quiet moment, after another hard-fought match, that Marinette finally spoke the words that changed everything.

“I have something to tell you,” she admitted, shifting to sit cross-legged across from him.

Damian raised a brow. “About what?”

She hesitated before finally sighing. “About something bigger than both of us.”

Damian didn’t speak, simply waiting. And when she finally began to explain, he realized that his world was about to change once again.

Despite being located in South Jersey, Gotham is modeled after the dark parts of NYC. Technically speaking, though, it takes inspiration from NYC, Chicago, and London. Because they’re technically in the city, I’m modeling the Wayne Manor to be like this estate in Chicago; in some iterations of the Manor, it looks farther away from the city, but this is Batman and Bruce Wayne; he’s gotta be close to his city someway or another (the house i linked is 25,000 Sqft, 6 bedrooms, 11 bathrooms, and has a 3-car garage (quite literally screams rich people)

Chapter Text

It was a rare sight to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng looking anything less than vibrant. But tonight, as she sat in the Wayne Manor library, curled up in one of the plush chairs, Damian noticed the distant look in her eyes.

“Something’s wrong.”

She blinked at him, startled. “What?”

He sat in the chair across from her, studying her carefully. “You’ve been quiet. Your usual level of chaotic energy is absent.”

Marinette sighed, tucking her knees to her chest. “I miss home.”

Damian didn’t say anything at first. He understood the feeling all too well. Instead of offering empty words, he stood and disappeared from the room. When he returned, he carried a small wooden box and placed it on the table between them.

“What’s this?” she asked, lifting the lid.

Inside was a delicate silver charm bracelet intricately crafted with tiny engravings. Each charm represented something—an Eiffel Tower for Paris, multiple iterations of bread and sweets for her family’s bakery, and surprisingly, a tiny ladybug and black cat intertwined in a Yin-Yang symbol.

Marinette’s breath hitched. “You made this?”

Damian merely shrugged. “Tt. It’s nothing.”

But she knew better. And for the first time that evening, she smiled.

Damian’s birthday had never been an event he looked forward to. The Wayne family insisted on celebrating it despite his insistence that it was unnecessary. Gifts were given, and pleasantries exchanged, but it all felt… obligatory. 

December 20th arrived with little fanfare on his part. He had never been one for grand celebrations, and without Robin, he found little reason to mark the occasion. To his mild surprise, Marinette found a way to celebrate.

She arrived at the manor just as the sun began to set. Damian watched her approach with narrowed eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind her presence.

In her hands was a medium-sized bag. Upon closer inspection, he saw a meticulously wrapped package and box of some kind. She held it out with an almost hesitant confidence. “Happy birthday, Pretty Boy.” 

Not wanting any interruptions to the gift, Damian led her to a quiet corner of the library, an area none of his siblings frequented, providing a much-needed blanket of security.

He took the gift carefully, peeling away the layers to reveal a hand-made sweater—dark green for the most part, with intricate gold designs along the sleeves that hinted at both her heritage and an understanding of his.

“You made this,” he murmured, running a thumb over the fabric.

“Of course.” She crossed her arms, watching him closely. “I don’t do cheap gifts.”

Something warm flickered in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation that he wasn’t quite ready to name.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, crossing his arms after he put the gift down.

Marinette raised a brow. “And miss the opportunity to annoy you on your birthday? Not a chance.”

He huffed but took the box, peeling the paper with deliberate slowness. Inside was a leather-bound sketchbook, the initials ‘D.a-G.W.’ embossed on the cover in gold. It was simple, elegant, and yet undeniably thoughtful.

“I took a peak at the attendance sheet when it passed around when we had that sub in Chemistry. I didn’t know you had two last names; no one ever called you by them. And I noticed you sketch sometimes,” Marinette explained, rubbing the back of her neck. “Thought you might like something nice to keep them in.”

Damian traced his fingers over the cover before closing it carefully. For the first time in a long while, he felt… seen.

“Hm. It’s adequate. Thank you, Marinette.”

Marinette laughed, putting her hand on his arm. “You’re welcome, Pretty Boy.”

It was an offhanded comment, one she likely hadn’t meant for him to catch, but he had. The slight downturn of her lips, the wistfulness in her voice as she mentioned missing home. He recognized the emotion well.

He didn’t ask when he invited her to the manor, didn’t press when she hesitated before accepting. Instead, the next time they spent time together in the Manor, he simply made space for her—offering quiet company, a warm drink, and an unspoken understanding.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she admitted after a while, gaze fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth.

“I notice everything,” he replied simply.

A small smile ghosted her lips. “Thank you.”

He nodded, the warmth in his chest growing.

~~~

The winter holidays had always been complicated for them both. Marinette was torn between her mother’s Chinese heritage traditions and her father’s French-Italian roots. Damian was holding on to the remnants of his mother’s Arabic customs while blending with the Wayne family’s Western festivities.

Between them, the clash of cultures was a silent but ever-present force. And yet, rather than pulling them apart, it only drew them closer. When Marinette suggested a quiet holiday celebration—something away from prying eyes, something theirs—he hadn’t hesitated.

The day after Damian’s birthday, on the night of the Winter Solstice, they met at Wayne Manor, sitting in the main kitchen, looking out the open window and talking amongst themselves.

“My mom is from Shanghai, and she celebrates Dongzhi with tangyun and niangao,” she murmured, handing him one of each. “She explained once that they symbolize family unity and prosperity, and hope and good fortune for the upcoming year.”

Damian hesitated before taking it, looking at her softly. “My mother taught me to celebrate Yaldā. The longest night of the year meant to be spent in warmth and with those you trust.”

Marinette glanced up at him, something soft in her gaze. “Then I guess we’re blending traditions.” 

Together, they ate foods from their respective cultures, talking in hushed tones about past celebrations they held with their mothers. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed against each other, but neither made a spectacle of it; at that moment, amidst the cold night air blowing through and the quiet hum of the city, both teenagers realized something.

He didn't feel alone for the first time in a long time.

And neither did she.

Winter Solstice is called Dongzhi, and the celebrations can vary depending on the region in China between December 21st and 23rd. Considering she lived in Shanghai (and that’s technically in Southern China), I went with what I found about the traditions that you’d do typically and in the specific area. Tangyuan (汤圆) are rice balls filled with sweet fillings, and niangao (年糕) is a rice cake made with rice flour that can be steamed, fried, or boiled. 

Yaldā Night is a Persian festival in Iran (also in Kurdistan, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan) on December 20/21st and the last day of the 9th month and 1st day of the 10th month according to the Iranian solar calendar. During this time, friends and family gather to eat (typically red foods symbolizing the dawn and flow of life), drink, and poetry. I chose this because I couldn’t find winter solstice celebrations tied to Arabic-speaking countries, and this always popped up (despite speaking a very different language-)

Chapter Text

Previously: 

Their sparring had become something else—more than training, more than just a test of skill. There was an understanding between them now, something unspoken yet undeniable. And it was in that quiet moment, after another hard-fought match, that Marinette finally spoke the words that changed everything.

“I have something to tell you,” she admitted, shifting to sit cross-legged across from him.

Damian raised a brow. “About what?”

She hesitated before finally sighing. “About something bigger than both of us.”

Damian didn’t speak, simply waiting. And when she finally began to explain, he realized that his world was about to change once again.

The room was silent except for the labored breathing of the pair, trying to catch their breath from their latest spar. The adrenaline thrummed faintly in Marinette’s veins, but she forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. Standing across from her, Damian was doing the same, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the tension of battle.

She knew what she had to do. It had been building inside her for too long, this need to tell him—every session, exchange, and moment of trust they had built led to this. And now, with her heart pounding in her chest, she had no idea where to begin.

Sensing her hesitation, Damian tilted his head slightly. “You’re stalling.”

“I—” Marinette exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “This isn’t easy.”

Damian studied her for a long moment, then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door. “Come.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You clearly need privacy for whatever you’re about to tell me. My bedroom is secure.”

Marinette hesitated for only a second before following. He was right—this wasn’t something she wanted anyone overhearing. And if Damian Wayne was guaranteeing security, she believed him.

Damian’s room was as precise as she expected. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with an eclectic mix of literature—classic works in multiple languages, tactical manuals, and a few tomes that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a personal collection. His bed was neatly made, black and navy sheets tucked to military style, and a small weapons rack stood beside a desk littered with sketches—some of animals and plant life, some of medical sketches, others of battle formations and architecture from various places.

Marinette’s gaze landed on a framed photo sitting near the bed. It was of a young Damian with his mother. The woman’s expression was unreadable, but the boy beside her looked almost vulnerable, his usual sharp eyes holding something uncertain.

“You’re analyzing.” Damian’s voice brought her back.

She turned, heat rising to her cheeks. “Just… taking in the details.”

He gestured toward the chair near his desk, waiting for her to sit before he took his own place on the bed. “Speak.”

She took a steadying breath. “Damian, what I’m about to tell you—it changes everything.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Then I expect details. Anything you say will be kept close to my chest; I won’t tell anyone less you want me to.”

She exhaled, reaching for her ears. With careful precision, she unclasped the small, black spotted earrings she had worn for years. She held them out in her palm, letting them catch the room's dim light.

“This,” she said, “is a Miraculous. It’s a piece of magic older than any recorded history. You can come out now; this is a safe space.”

A soft hum filled the air, and a glow pulsed from her hand. Two small figures materialized a second later, floating beside her—Tikki, warm and gentle, and Plagg, lazily stretching as if he had just woken from a nap. 

Damian stiffened. "What—"

"We are Kwami," Tikki spoke, her tiny voice carrying centuries of wisdom.

Damian’s expression barely changed, but she saw the flicker of something in his eyes. Caution. Analysis. He was processing everything at a speed most people couldn’t comprehend. Maybe this was the right choice; he’d make a great partner in an actual fight.

“This is Tikki,” Marinette continued, gesturing to the Kwami. “She’s the Kwami of Creation. And that’s Plagg, the Kwami of Destruction.”

Plagg smiled lazily, floating around Damian. “Nice to meet you, kid. You look like someone who could appreciate a little chaos.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly before raising an eyebrow. “You are sentient magical entities. Interesting.”

“Interesting indeed.” Plagg yawned. “And you’re about to find out just how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

Tikki floated forward, her expression kind. “The Miraculous are tools meant to maintain balance. Marinette was chosen as Ladybug, the guardian of creation, but—”

Marinette swallowed, the weight of the words heavy, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I was never meant to be alone. The Ladybug and the Black Cat are two sides of the same coin. A balance of creation and destruction, but my partner–the person who formerly held Plagg’s miraculous isn’t compatible with it, and I’m bearing the weight of that imbalance.”

Damian’s gaze flickered between them. “And you believe I have a role in fixing this imbalance?”

Tikki hesitated before nodding. “Yes. The magic of the Miraculous doesn’t just choose at random. It follows something deeper, something instinctual , connecting with your very soul and being. And you… you were never meant to be separate from it.”

Damian leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “This tale,” he murmured, “is vaguely familiar.”

Marinette’s heart skipped a beat, eyes blinking in bewilderment. “What?”

He stood abruptly and moved toward one of the bookshelves. His fingers traced the spines until he pulled out a worn leather tome. He flipped through it quickly, stopping on a page filled with faded ink and ancient symbols.

“The League of Assassins,” Damian said slowly, showing Marinette the page briefly, “has long sought artifacts of power. My grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul–the former head of this organization–spoke of relics capable of tipping the scales of fate, time, and physics itself. My mother mentioned a set of objects bound to spirits that could shape the world if wielded correctly.”

Marinette’s breath caught. “This League of Assassins knows about the Miraculous?”

“They know of something ,” Damian corrected, looking through the tome. “But if this information was shared with me, it means my grandfather deemed it significant. And Ra’s does not pursue anything lightly.”

Tikki and Plagg exchanged a look, one Marinette didn’t miss.

“This isn’t just about Paris anymore,” she murmured, holding her head in her hands before rubbing it in frustration. “It never was.”

Plagg huffed. “It never is when it comes to power.”

Damian shut the book with finality. “If the League knows these artifacts, it means they had a plan. And if they have a plan…” His green eyes locked onto Marinette’s. “We may be at the beginning of something much bigger than anticipated.”

Marinette clenched her fists. She had always thought her fight was in Paris; the war she fought til its finality was a secret burden she carried alone. But now, in this moment, she realized how wrong she had been.

The world was shifting beneath them, and they were standing at the center of it.

Following their conversation and after Marinette was picked up by her host family, Damian began looking at his personal library with a revived fervor. 

Nearly three years ago, his mother showed up at the Manor, personally handing him a large box containing multiple books in various languages. At first, the newly 16-year-old thought it odd because of all the things Talia deemed worthy of placing in her son’s custody; books were hardly one of them. He read them occasionally to maintain his fluency in his known languages, but they were hardly touched more than a few times in the following years. 

Now, Damian picked a few from his bookshelf and began reading through them with a fresh notebook like a sleep-deprived student studying for the exam that would determine his life or death. 

~~~~~

At Damian’s insistence (and paranoia of public spaces, given what he found while staying up late), the next day, he and Marinette found themselves back in his room, five dated books between them and two notebooks of Damian’s notes and connections beside them. 

As Marinette traced her fingers along the spine of an old text, she felt an almost electric pull. A guardian’s instinct. She carefully turned the fragile pages, scanning the words written in a mixture of Mandarin, Arabic, and Latin. Damian stood beside her, his sharp gaze flickering over the pages and his manuscripts, absorbing the knowledge held within.

“The League sought balance through controlled destruction,” Damian muttered, reading aloud from a page detailing the League’s doctrine. “By culling the weak, eliminating corruption, and ensuring only the strongest survived.”

Marinette’s breath caught as she scanned the opposing philosophy. “And the Order believed in protection, in maintaining balance through guidance and guardianship.” Her fingers clenched over the fragile page. “They were once the same… until they weren’t.”

She turned another page, her heart pounding as she read a passage detailing a great betrayal. The League had broken away, viewing the Order’s methods as weak and ineffective. The Order, in turn, saw the League as violent extremists, perverting the very essence of balance.

~~~

Marinette flipped through the books with increasing urgency until she stumbled upon a text that chilled her to the bone. Her lips parted, her voice barely a whisper as she read aloud, “The Black Cat is meant to challenge the Ladybug… a force of destruction to test creation itself.”

She swallowed hard, scanning further. “The Ladybug was meant to be a warrior of balance, but never alone. The Black Cat’s power was a necessary chaos, one meant to be in harmony with the Ladybug.” Her voice trembled as realization dawned. “They knew. They knew I wasn’t meant to be Ladybug.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Whoever chose you did so because they thought they were upholding tradition,” he said, his voice grim. “But the Order… they decided that guardianship meant dictating fate rather than following it.” He looked at her sharply. “The League and the Order… they’re just two sides of the same damn coin.”

Marinette’s fists clenched at her sides. All this time, she had thought the Ladybug Miraculous had been meant for her, that it had been fate. But what if it hadn’t been? What if it had resulted from a flawed ideology of centuries-old decisions made by men who thought they knew best?

~~~

Damian continued scanning through the texts, his mind racing. “It continually mentions something called a Miracle Box. Whatever it is, it was never meant to be locked away,” he murmured. “It was meant to be wielded by those who were found to be ‘true holders’, those who understood both order and destruction.”

Marinette felt her heart hammer against her ribcage. “Then that means…”

“That the Order’s rules were never infallible,” Damian finished. “The Miraculous wasn’t meant to be dictated by a singular vision of balance.”

They stared at each other while the sun set from behind Damian’s window, the weight of history pressing down on them. Everything they had been taught—about the League, the Miraculous, the balance itself—had been built upon fractured ideology.

And now, they were left to piece together the truth.

The next night, Damian sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, the space before him stacked with tomes and books worn by time and secrecy. The dim light of his desk lamp cast long shadows across the open pages, their inked words breathing stories long buried. Marinette sat opposite him, knees pulled to her chest, eyes flicking between the books and his sharp profile as he read. Tikki and Plagg floated nearby, their tiny forms tense with the weight of what they might uncover.

Marinette exhaled slowly. "So, what exactly are we looking for?" Her fingers hovered over a thick volume titled The Guardians’ Lost Doctrine as though touching it would burn her.

Damian flipped a page in Veil of Shadows , his expression neutral, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his focus. "Connections. If the League had been aware of the Miraculous for centuries, it would have meant their interest was never incidental. And if Ra’s was searching for them…"

"Then they were meant for something far bigger than we realized," Marinette finished voice barely above a whisper.

Tikki, who had been scanning the pages with them, let out a small sigh. "The Order was always wary of outside forces, especially those who sought power for conquest. This League of Assassins—if what these books suggest is true—was once in direct conflict with the Guardians. But the full truth was hidden, even from us ."

"Why hide it?" Damian’s tone was edged with skepticism, though his eyes showed an understanding. "Knowledge of an enemy is power. If the Guardians knew the League would keep searching for the Miraculous, why erase their past dealings?"

Plagg floated closer, lazily looping around Marinette’s wrist before landing on the floor. "Maybe because they lost." His green eyes flickered with something unreadable. "And when you lose to an enemy like the League, you don’t just disappear—you erase yourself before they can finish the job."

Marinette swallowed hard. It made sense. It explained why the Order had been reduced to a single Guardian before her time, why Master Fu had never spoken of a war, only of responsibility and his mistakes, and why she had been given so much power with so little knowledge.

Damian turned a page in The Fractured Balance , fingers steady even as his eyes scanned words that threatened to shift everything he knew. He read aloud:

'Where there is chaos, we restore order. Where there is excess, we bring restraint. The same oath once bound the League and the Guardians, but the path was divided when one chose preservation and the other control. Destruction and Creation are not meant to be wielded without consequence.'

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "This reads like the League’s doctrine. Their justification for eliminating targets they deem a threat to ‘balance.’ But here, it speaks of division. If Ra’s truly sought the Miraculous, then at some point, the League must have believed they were the rightful inheritors of its power."

Marinette shook her head, her fingers curling into the fabric of her pants. "And if they still believe that? If they never stopped searching?"

Tikki and Plagg exchanged a glance. It was Tikki who answered, voice soft yet heavy. "Then the Miraculous aren’t just tools of balance. They’re a war that never ended."

Silence stretched between them.

Damian finally closed the book with a soft thud and exhaled through his nose. "This changes everything. If the League is still searching and believes in their claim to the Miraculous… then your role, Marinette, was never just about Paris. And my involvement in this isn’t a coincidence."

Marinette met his gaze, her heart pounding. "Then what do we do?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his fingers drummed against the book’s cover. "We prepare. We learn everything these books have to offer. And then…"

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but not entirely devoid of amusement either. "We rewrite history before they get the chance."

Marinette’s breath caught, but she nodded. Because for the first time, she wasn’t alone in this war. 

It had started as nothing more than a theory, a stray thought that had settled in Marinette’s mind, gnawing at her ever since she had begun to suspect that something about the Miraculous Order wasn’t quite right. Damian, ever the skeptic, had dismissed it at first. But following their most recent revelation, as they had pored over records and fragments of lost histories, the connections had become impossible to ignore. And now, after weeks of searching, they found clues within Damian’s books in Talia’s handwriting, a trail she intended only for her son to see; they were here—deep beneath Gotham’s streets, in a hidden archive buried within the city’s underworld, staring at truths neither had ever been meant to uncover.

The chamber was suffocating in its silence, the weight of forgotten knowledge pressing down upon them. Lanterns flickered against damp stone walls, illuminating shelves lined with ancient scrolls, brittle with age, and tomes bound in decayed leather. Symbols of long-dead languages were carved into the very walls, and for the first time, Marinette truly felt the depth of history surrounding the Miraculous.

Damian stepped forward, fingers ghosting over the edges of a weathered manuscript. "This place was meant to be forgotten," he murmured. "No one was supposed to find it."

Marinette inhaled deeply, steadying herself. "Then it’s exactly where we need to be."

~~~

The first revelation had come in pieces—mentions of the Order of the Miraculous intertwined with the earliest records of the League of Assassins. A single organization that had existed centuries before either of them had been thought of, had a singular purpose: to maintain balance in the world.

But somewhere along the way, that unity had fractured.

“The League sought balance through controlled destruction,” Damian read aloud, his voice even but hands shaking slightly. “They believed that corruption could only be eradicated through elimination, that the world would thrive only if the weak were purged."

Marinette scanned another section, her fingers trembling as she traced the inked script. “And the Order took the opposite path… they believed in guidance, protection, and maintaining equilibrium not through death, but through wisdom.”

A silence stretched between them as the pieces clicked into place.

“They were one and the same,” Marinette whispered. "Until they weren’t."

Marinette turned the page, her breath catching as she read further. The words before her felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel confirmation of the doubts that had been creeping into her mind for months.

“The Black Cat is meant to challenge the Ladybug… a force of destruction to test creation itself,” she murmured. The words felt heavy, sinking into her like stones.

Damian shifted closer, reading over her shoulder. "The Ladybug’s power was never meant to exist in isolation," he noted. "It was always meant to be counterbalanced by concentrated destruction…chaos wielded with the intention of continual evolution. Should either power be wielded by a false holder, disastrous events ensue."

Marinette swallowed hard, remembering the revelations that brought her to Gotham in the first place. The words before her dawned upon her with a sickening certainty: "He knew." She looked up at Damian, her voice hollow. "He knew I didn’t have the right partner. He knew I wasn’t meant to be Ladybug. He must have known what was going to happen because of it."

The words settled between them, sharp as a blade. Damian’s expression looked down at the parchment in his partner’s hands, his mind racing through every training session, every battle he had ever fought. "I believe whoever chose you," he said slowly. "Did so because they thought they were protecting the Order’s ideals. But the Order wasn’t infallible."

His jaw clenched. "The League and the Order… they’re just two sides of the same damn coin."

Marinette shut the book with trembling hands. Everything she had believed—about her role, about destiny—had been dictated by an ideology that had been fractured long before she had even been born. 

~~~

Damian moved to another shelf, scanning its contents with renewed determination. "This Miracle Box," he murmured, pulling out a smaller, dust-covered text. "Whatever it is, it was never meant to be locked away. Those who understood both order and destruction were meant to wield it."

Marinette exhaled sharply, staring down at her own hands. The Ladybug Miraculous had been presented to her as though it had been her fate. But now, standing here, surrounded by the weight of centuries of deception, she couldn’t help but wonder—what if fate had never had a say in it at all?

"Then that means…" she started, voice barely above a whisper.

"That the Order’s rules were built on fractured ideals," Damian finished. "And that the Miraculous weren’t meant to be dictated by them."

A heavy silence stretched between them. They had come looking for answers, but they found something far more dangerous.

Everything they had ever known—about the League, the Miraculous, the balance itself—had been built on opposing halves of a shattered whole.

And now, they were the only ones who knew the truth.

~~

The memory came unbidden—a day in Paris, the weight of the Miraculous newly placed in her palm. Master Fu’s voice had been steady, certain, as he told her she had been chosen and meant to wield the power of creation.

But even then, a part of her had felt… uncertain.

~~

Another memory came to her mind. She had stood on her balcony. The city spread out before her, the earrings burning against her skin. She had wanted to take them off, hand them back, and walk away, but duty and fear had kept her there.

Now, in the dimly lit archive, Marinette realized the truth: she had been trying to fit into a role that had never truly belonged to her.

And maybe… it was time to change that.

A few days later, upon the school’s closing for President’s Day, the pair found themselves holed up in Damian’s room for the afternoon, though it was quickly becoming night. 

Damian’s expression barely shifted, but Marinette could see the tension in his jaw, the slight clench of his fists. "Start from the beginning," he stated gently, beginning to pace around his room. "I want to hear everything if we’re going to figure this out in its entirety."

Marinette hesitated, then pressed forward, her voice steadier now. "The Order and the League used to be one." She gestured toward the old manuscripts, where inked symbols of both organizations intertwined in a forgotten language. "Centuries ago, they were a single force dedicated to maintaining balance in the world. But that balance means different things to different people."

Damian’s lips curled in something almost like recognition. "Ideological division."

Marinette nodded, making a note of such in her own notebook. "The League—your grandfather’s side—believed in balance through controlled destruction. If something was corrupt, if a system was broken, it needed to be erased so something stronger could rise in its place. No hesitation, no mercy. Just the strongest surviving."

Damian scoffed a humorless sound. "That sounds about right. And the Order?"

Tikki floated closer, her red glow gentle against the pages of the ancient tome. "The Order chose another path. They believed balance was best maintained through guidance and protection, by placing power in those they deemed could wield it wisely."

Plagg snorted. "And that, my friends, is where things went to hell."

Marinette nodded, swallowing hard, eyes scanning their notes, tomes, and books. "There was a war between them—silent, hidden. The League saw the Order’s refusal to use force as a weakness. In turn, the Order saw the League’s methods as tyranny. Eventually, they split entirely. The League continued its path of assassinations and purges while the Order withdrew from society entirely, focusing on safeguarding the Miraculous and ensuring they never fell into the wrong hands."

Damian frowned, processing. "And yet the Order still failed."

Marinette looked down at her notes. "Because their way wasn’t perfect either. They became so obsessed with the idea of control, of ensuring the ‘right’ people had the Miraculous, that they lost sight of what mattered. They made choices for people—choices that weren’t theirs to make."

Her throat tightened. "Like choosing me."

~~~

Damian studied her carefully, his mind working through the implications.

"It wasn’t fate," Marinette whispered. "It was a decision based on old, broken ideology. The Ladybug and the Black Cat Miraculous were never meant to be wielded separately. They were meant to counterbalance each other: creation and destruction. But the Order decided they knew better. They thought they could control how balance was maintained if they gave one to a single wielder. If they kept destruction out of the hands of those they deemed ‘unworthy,’ the Order could shape fate itself."

She clenched her fists. "Master Fu–the man who gave me my Miraculous–wasn’t choosing me because I was the best candidate. He chose me because he was following an outdated belief that had already doomed his predecessors."

Damian was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhaled. "So you were never meant to be Ladybug alone."

Marinette shook her head. "No. And I’ve spent years wondering why things always felt… wrong. Why I struggled in ways I couldn’t explain. Why I always felt like something was missing."

Damian’s jaw tightened before looking at her softly. "Because something was."

~~~

He resumed his pacing, his mind racing. "It’s the same damn thing," he muttered under his breath.

Marinette looked up. "What is?"

"The League," Damian said bitterly. "Ra’s al Ghul preached of a world environmentally balanced through death, through control. But at the end of the day, it was about power and fear. He lived for centuries and sought to shape the world into an image of what he thought was right instead of letting people shape it themselves."

His hands curled into fists. "I spent my entire childhood being trained to be something I never had a choice in being. And when I finally broke away, meeting my father and learning from him, I thought I was free of it. But now—" His gaze flicked to her. "Now I see I wasn’t the only one."

Marinette felt something in her chest tighten. Damian wasn’t the type to speak about his past. But she saw it clearly at that moment—the unspoken weight of a lifetime shaped by forces beyond his control. He understood this revelation as profoundly as she did, not just as an outsider looking in but as someone who had lived its consequences firsthand.

"You weren’t," she admitted softly.

For the first time in a long time, she felt like someone truly understood.

~~~

Plagg yawned dramatically, breaking the heavy silence. "Well, this has been sufficiently depressing. But there’s still one more thing, kid."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "What now?"

Tikki floated forward. "You weren’t meant to be outside of this."

Marinette inhaled sharply, gaze focused on the Kwami instead of Damian. 

Tikki looked at her, then Damian. "The Miraculous choose their wielders. And the Order may have tried to control fate, but fate is persistent."

Plagg grinned. "Let’s just say that destruction has been waiting long for its rightful balance."

Damian scowled. "You’re suggesting—"

Plagg smirked. "No, kid. We’re telling you. You were never just meant to inherit the League’s legacy. You were meant for something more."

Damian exhaled slowly, looking at Marinette.

She met his gaze, her heart pounding. "And now… we decide what to do with it." She stretched her hand out, earrings resting on it intimidatingly. 

Chapter Text

The first time Marinette held out the earrings to Damian, he scoffed.

"You expect me to wear these?" he asked, eyeing the delicate black earrings.

Marinette smirked. "Yes. Unless you want to ruin the cosmic balance of magic and risk Gotham, let alone the world descending into supernatural chaos. Your call."

His scowl deepened, but he took the earrings anyway.

"So, what am I supposed to do with them?"

Marinette settled into the chair across from him, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. "They’ll bond to you once you put them on. With them, you inherit the full powers of the Ladybug Miraculous. Enhanced agility, increased strength, luck-based combat skills, and most importantly—creation and restoration."

Damian lifted one of the earrings closer to his eye. "Creation and restoration?"

Tikki floated forward, nodding. "With your Lucky Charm–the power that channels creation-based energy, you can summon an object that will help you solve any given problem. And with Miraculous Cure–what the Lucky Charm is used for after you’re done, you can repair all damage done during a battle."

Damian glanced at Marinette. "And you just—what—destroy things? That hardly seems like a balance of powers."

"It's called Cataclysm," she said with a wicked grin. "And you should pray you never have to see it up close."

A few days later, Damian stood in front of the mirror in his room, earrings in hand, staring at himself, uncharacteristically hesitant. 

He had spoken to his Father first about piercing his ears, only to receive a sharp, assessing look followed by, "You're not going undercover, are you?"

Next was Dick, who had laughed in his face for five minutes straight before offering to do it himself. Damian had politely and sternly declined.

In the end, Alfred was the one who helped. "Might I remind you, Master Damian, that style is subjective? If you wish to adorn yourself, you need not make excuses."

Damian grumbled but allowed the older man to pierce his ears, silently thankful when Alfred didn't press for the real reason.

Marinette had always carried the weight of responsibility like a second skin. As Ladybug, she had been the unshakable strategist, the planner, the leader. But now, wielding the Black Cat Miraculous (her new hero name still pending), she was something entirely different—chaotic, unpredictable, free . 

Marinette adapted instantly, slipping into the city’s dark streets with the effortless grace of a shadow. She pursued petty criminals from alleyways, landed on narrow ledges like it was second nature, and thrived in the chaos of the city.

Despite the suit being exactly how she envisioned it, it allowed her to be like a liquid shadow, and she moved with an effortless grace that startled even her. Her new suit is a sleek and tactical take on the Black Cat Miraculous design. The bodysuit is primarily black, form-fitting, and adorned with subtle green accents. The fabric is durable yet flexible, allowing for unrestricted movement.

Her top has a high collar and long sleeves, with a decorative green ribbon tied at the front, adding an elegant yet practical touch. The fitted bodice extends into a belted waist, secured with a silver buckle featuring an intricate design, suggesting a nod to tradition or craftsmanship. A long green tassel hangs from the belt, swaying with each movement.

Her gloves operate like a hybrid of human hands and cat paws, offering both dexterity and grip, while her boots are reinforced with cat-paw-like soles, blending style with function. A long, whip-like cat tail extends from the belt, tipped with a metallic ornament, which, in dire situations, could serve as a potential weapon.

Her mask is a simple yet striking green, covering her eyes while leaving the rest of her face visible, hinting at her new playful yet mysterious persona. Her hair is pulled into a high bun, adorned with small green charms and decorative ties, further enhancing her new identity's graceful yet mischievous air.

Her powers came naturally, almost too naturally. Destruction, entropy, chaos—where she once hesitated to act without a plan, she now thrived in uncertainty. A cracked streetlamp? One tap and it crumbled entirely, allowing her to manipulate the darkness. A faulty fire escape? A well-placed Cataclysm ensured it fell in just the right way to block a pursuer. Unlike Ladybug’s methodical problem-solving, the Black Cat Miraculous was about instinct.

She was fast. Not just physically but mentally—her reactions had sharpened, her body responding to threats before she had time to consciously process them. It was exhilarating and addictive. But it was also dangerous. Because for the first time in years, she wasn’t responsible for fixing things. She could break them, and she liked it.

Gotham’s crime scene had no idea how to handle her. Unlike the methodical approach of the Bats, she was erratic, slipping through their fingers like smoke. Criminals who had spent years studying the patterns of Gotham’s protectors, predicting when and where to move, found themselves utterly unprepared for the streak of mischief that now prowled the city.

~~~

Despite feeling at peace with the miraculous, Marinette found herself restless in the halls, full of pent-up energy, balancing on the tips of her toes at any given moment. When things went wrong, they went wrong spectacularly —assignments mysteriously disappeared, pencils snapped, paint spilled. It was like the universe delighted in reminding her that she was the embodiment of chaos now.

Her agility also made itself known in subtle ways while she was at school. She was always a little too fast, becoming the first to dodge an incoming projectile in gym class and landing in ways that didn’t make sense. Her acquaintances noticed but chalked it up to luck. But Damian noticed everything.

“Marinette,” he muttered under his breath after she caught a falling book with ease. “You’re slipping and making it far too obvious.”

She just grinned at him cheekily. “Life’s a game of chance, Damian. Might as well make it interesting.”

Damian had always operated with precision. Everything about him was calculated, from the way he spoke to the way he fought. So when he first held the Ladybug Miraculous in his hands, he had expected it to be a simple tool, an asset to be mastered. He hadn’t expected it to be… alive .

The earrings glowed with an unnatural warmth. Hurriedly, he placed them in his ears. Tikki hovered before him with a far too knowing expression.

“You are more suited to this than you realize,” she said.

He disagreed.

Damian al Ghul-Wayne wasn’t a healer. He wasn’t a creator. Despite the professional field he wanted to go in, he was a weapon, honed from birth to be sharp and deadly. 

Apparently the Miraculous didn’t care for his protests. It settled into his life like an uninvited guest, integrating itself in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

He fixed things—not just physically but emotionally.

Alfred took notice first.

“You seem more… mindful,” the old butler observed as Damian effortlessly repaired a broken tea set that had shattered just minutes before. “I dare say you’ve developed a rather nurturing streak.”

Damian scowled but didn’t argue. It was true.

His patience had stretched in ways he wasn’t prepared for. Where once he had little tolerance for imperfection, he now found himself assessing how to mend rather than discard. He found himself drawn to small, careful acts of creation. His hobby of plants–once tricky herbs and tropicals that rested in the backyard of the Wayne Manor–now flourished under his touch, growing in lush abundance after the urge to bring them into his room. 

Alfred, again had noticed and made sure to remark on it. "Reviving an old hobby, Master Damian?"

Damian didn’t answer, merely looking at his hands. He had been raised to be a weapon, a tool of destruction. And yet, now, he was tasked with restoration. He had spent part of his life taking lives. Now, he had the power to fix what was broken.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

The Ladybug Miraculous wasn’t about power. It was about responsibility. It forced him to see the bigger picture and consider consequences beyond his immediate goals.

It wasn’t easy by any means.

The power burned under his skin, whispering that he could do more. That he could fix more. It was a dangerous temptation, the urge to step in and control, to repair things that weren’t his to repair.

Marinette took a deep breath as she stepped onto the grounds of Gotham Academy, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. The imposing Gothic architecture loomed over her, and the air was heavy with the ever-present drizzle of Gotham’s sky. She adjusted her ring absentmindedly with her thumb, her thoughts a tangle of nerves and determination. 

As she entered the main building, Damian stood near their lockers, arms crossed, eyes sharp. In its ever-changing dynamic, their partnership felt different with the revelations the two uncovered and unsteady as they navigated their new roles. 

Marinette, reeling from the extent of their research and officially retiring from her tenure as Ladybug, felt foreign in her body, like wearing someone else’s skin. Damian, as the new Ladybug holder, carried himself with the same rigid confidence as always, but she could see the weight of their findings pressing into his shoulders. Their eyes met, and with an almost imperceptible nod, he gestured for her to follow.

Damian had arranged for them to begin their senior capstone–a research project focusing on obscure mythological artifacts—a cover for their deeper investigation into the Miraculous. Marinette knew Gotham was dangerous, but she hadn’t expected the sheer magnitude of crime intertwined with its history. The more they researched, the more they uncovered—whispers of lost talismans, hidden connections between the city’s underworld and miraculous power. Every discovery brought them closer to understanding their roles between the League and the Order.

As they settled into their first class, Marinette felt Damian’s steady presence beside her. He didn’t offer words of comfort—that wasn’t his typical way—but his sharp, almost protective glances toward anyone who eyed her too long were enough. She allowed herself a small smile. Whatever this new stage of life brought, she wasn’t facing it alone.

~~~

The library of Gotham Academy was their sanctuary, dimly lit and filled with the scent of aged parchment. Marinette sat cross-legged in her chair, surrounded by books detailing ancient relics, forgotten deities, and whispered legends. Damian sat across from her, flipping through a heavy tome with practiced efficiency. The low murmur of their conversation was the only sound breaking the silence.

“Here.” Damian pushed a book toward her, his finger tapping against a passage. “Mentions of an artifact called ‘The Shadow’s Grasp.’ Seems to be a lost piece of an unknown Miraculous set.”

Marinette leaned closer, scanning the text with interest. “If this is real, it could explain why Gotham feels different. It’s not just the crime—there’s something lurking beneath everything.” Her fingers traced the illustration of a clawed pendant.

Damian nodded, thoughtful. “We need to cross-reference this with the texts on Talia’s League archives. If she had any knowledge of Miraculous power, Ra’s might have pursued it.”

~~~~~

Living with Harley Quinn and Ivy was never dull. Harley’s energy was boundless, bouncing between outrageous schemes and surprisingly heartfelt advice. Ivy, by contrast, was a grounding force, though her sharp wit and sharper glares kept even the most daring Gotham criminals in check.

Marinette had been nervous about her host family at first, but in the coming months, she found herself easing into their odd rhythms. Harley insisted on “family movie nights,” where they watched old rom-coms and action flicks while eating homemade popcorn that Ivy had infused with herbs for ‘mental clarity.’ It tasted awful, but Marinette never complained, hoping the ingredients it was infused with would help her in any way.

When Ivy noticed how often Marinette came home late with bruises and cuts—scars from her duties as Hēi lánhuā that didn’t heal quickly—she didn’t pry. Instead, she quietly started leaving healing salves in Marinette’s room. No words, no judgment, just an unspoken understanding. It was the kind of care that made Marinette feel safe in a way she hadn’t expected Gotham to offer.

Despite everything, Marinette found herself smiling more. Her life was strange, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Unbeknownst to Marinette, some forces weren't as excited and welcoming with her new persona.

It started as whispers. A new vigilante in Gotham. Not a Bat and not part of the usual rogues’ gallery.

Dick was the first to bring it up during a patrol debrief. “There’s someone out there,” he said, tossing a photograph onto the Bat Computer's screen. The figure was sleek, black-suited with acrobatic grace. “Doesn’t move like a thief. Too fast, too precise.”

Bruce studied the image in silence, his expression unreadable. “Keep an eye on it. See if they’re a threat.”

Jason smirked, looking at Bruce. “Looks like Gotham got itself a new cat. Selina’s gonna love this.”

Tim frowned, taking a sip of his coffee. “Or hate it. We don’t know what they want yet.”

As the days passed, sightings increased. A shadow moved through rooftops, leaving behind criminals tied up in unconscious heaps. Unlike the Bats, this figure didn’t seem interested in fear or intimidation—just efficiency, stopping petty crimes, and leaving without taking credit. 

Something about it didn’t sit right, and Bruce knew better than anyone things didn’t come without a price in Gotham.

Marinette hadn’t meant to run into Red Hood. She had been running through the outskirts of Gotham, curiosity getting the better of her and leading her to explore near the docks, her instincts tingling as she moved through the shadows. Right as she was about to turn and head back to her temporary home, a set of quiet but heavy footsteps reached her ears.

“You’re not one of ours,” a voice drawled from behind her. She barely had time to dodge before a bullet ricocheted off the crate beside her. Red Hood stepped into view; guns lowered but not holstered, his posture tense. “Mind telling me who the hell you are?”

Marinette straightened, adjusting her stance. She had faced worse than Jason Todd. “Hēi lánhuā, and I won’t be telling you its meaning,” she said smoothly, tilting her head. “And you really shouldn’t shoot first when you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Jason scoffed, but there was a flicker of curiosity behind his mask. “Cute name. Don’t remember recruiting you.”

“That’s because I don’t work for you,” Marinette shot back. She could see the way his fingers twitched, ready for a fight. But she wasn’t here for that. “Same goal, different method. You can either get in my way or let me do my job.”

Jason chuckled darkly. “That so?” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing behind his helmet. “Alright, Hēi lánhuā. Let’s see if you’re as lucky as you think.” And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving her to wonder just how closely he’d be watching her next move.

“You ever notice how Damian’s been acting weird lately?” Stephanie asked, munching on a donut as she lounged in the Batcave.

Tim barely looked up from his screen. “Damian’s always weird.”

“No, but like—more secretive than usual,” Duke chimed in. “And he’s been spending a lot of time at Gotham Academy.”

Jason snorted. “Since when do we care what Demon Spawn does with his time?”

Dick, flipping through security footage, raised an eyebrow. “Since he started sneaking around and talking with a certain acrobat in black.” He enlarged the image—a frame of Hēi lánhuā sitting alongside Damian in his civvies on the Wayne Enterprise Tower rooftop.

The room went quiet.

Bruce finally turned from the Batcomputer, steepling his fingers. “Find out who that is.”

黑兰花 (Hēi lánhuā) means Black Orchid in Simplified Chinese. Per Floraly, The Black Orchid is said to represent mystery, power, and sophistication or sends a message of strength, determination, absolute power, and authority .

Realized that Plagg is slowly becoming a recurring character here…let’s say, technically, Adrien is still his holder. But, without the need for the Miraculous (and Adrien’s concerning behavior as stated in earlier chapters), Marinette said she needs to hold onto it for an extended time to study them more.

I know it’s most likely for animation reasons and it being a kid’s show but I find Ladynoire’s outfit to be stupidly simple… thus I changed to the third version of this fanart by Lineith on Tumblr

Chapter Text

Before their celebration of the Winter Solstice, Marinette and Damian's forced then reluctant partnership had been tense. Their personalities clashed—he was sharp, unyielding, and sometimes dismissive; she was meticulous and relentless in her pursuit of creative perfection. Initially, they worked together out of necessity, navigating the labyrinthine texts of Gotham Academy’s archives for their research project, which evolved and doubled as an investigation into the Miraculous artifacts rumored in Gotham’s underworld.

Their academic debates were a battlefield of curt remarks and pointed silences. Damian was brutally intelligent but had no patience for inefficiency, while Marinette agonized over every detail, ensuring nothing was overlooked. It should have been unbearable, but she noticed something in how he carried himself—a tension in his shoulders, an ever-present edge to his voice. His coldness wasn’t just arrogance. It was armor .

She saw it most clearly in the way his family treated him.

~~~

The first time she witnessed it was a few days after their initial revelation. They were at the Wayne Manor library, researching the mythological connections of lost artifacts to contribute something to their final senior project. Jason had waltzed in with Tim, both making themselves home in the vast space.

“Wow, Demon Spawn, actually studying? Thought you just absorbed knowledge through sheer willpower,” Jason teased, plucking a book from Damian’s stack and skimming it without care.

Tim snorted. “More like he barks orders and expects the rest of us to fill in the blanks.”

Damian’s face remained impassive, but Marinette saw the tightening of his jaw, the flickering pinch between his eyebrows before it disappeared under layers of control. He said nothing. Instead, he turned a page with unnecessary force.

Marinette frowned. Teasing among siblings was natural, but there was a fine line between playful jabs and outright undermining. She was painfully familiar with a line she experienced with her “friends.”

~~~

It continued over the following weeks. Even Richard, the most outwardly affectionate, often dismissed Damian’s opinions with patronizing fondness.

“Chill, Little D. You always act like the world’s ending.”

“I act with the necessary caution, Richard,” Damian would reply stiffly, only for Jason to roll his eyes and mutter something about “League brainwashing.”

At first, Marinette wasn’t sure if she was overreacting. But the more she was invited to Damian’s home, the more she observed and the more apparent it became. The Wayne Family never considered that their ‘teasing’ was stacking on years of trauma. He didn’t go into detail beyond the name, but going on that alone, this “League of Assassins” must have brutal discipline, and Damian learned to take cruelty in stride, to wear it like a second skin. But just because he had adapted didn’t mean he was unaffected.

~~~

Another instance happened as the two students approached Damian’s room with Titus and Alfred the Cat accompanying them. Stephanie playfully blocked their walkway before ruffling Damian’s hair, effectively wiping the calm look off his face. No words were exchanged, but it was plain that the unwanted touch had affected the 19-year-old. Stephanie was further along the hallway, but that didn’t stop Marinette from turning around and giving her shadow a dirty look.  

~~~

It appeared that despite their nearly ten-year relationship, his father was as prominent a culprit as Damian’s siblings. 

Once, when Damian snapped at Jason for another ill-timed and ill-mannered joke, it happened as Bruce Wayne walked through the Manor’s library. Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples as he walked into the room. “Damian, you’re being too aggressive. We’ve discussed this, and I’m sure Jason was joking with you.”

Damian stiffened, turning his attention towards his father. “I am defending myself and stating that I was uncomfortable with the ‘joke’ Todd stated.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with being uncomfortable about a joke, but these are your brothers; they hardly mean anything by it. You should just move past it, Damian.”

Hearing the whispers of the ‘reassurance’ from her former classmates mirroring that of her friend’s father, Marinette bristled, stepping forward. “Pardon me, M. Wayne, but why does he have to move past it? As a father to multiple children and a businessman, you must be knowledgeable when jokes and statements go too far. If Damian is only stating his discomfort, is that a problem?”

Bruce regarded her with his patented, unreadable gaze. “It’s about control and knowing what battles to fight and how. Whether it be siblings, classmates, or colleagues.”

“Then tell him that instead of acting like he’s the aggressor and failing some invisible standard,” she shot back. 

Damian didn’t say anything, but later that night, when Marinette handed him a cup of tea from Alfred during another study session, he took it with an almost imperceptible nod of gratitude.

~~~~~

Damian had mentioned having numerous siblings and family friends with access to the Manor, but Marinette didn’t think that meant they all had access to him . She had assumed, as anyone would, that his family operated in a way that acknowledged boundaries, that while the doors to the grand estate might be open to them, his personal space—his mind, his emotions—would be something they had to earn access to. But the more time she spent at Wayne Manor, the more she realized that assumption had been misguided. His family didn’t just have access to the Manor; they treated Damian like he was another piece of its foundation, something they could walk through, rearrange, and comment on without consideration.

She noticed it in the way Jason barely knocked before entering Damian’s room, regardless of how many times Damian told her that he clearly stated his plans in the family’s group chat and left the door ajar so nothing could be assumed. 

She saw it in Tim's habit of reading over his shoulder without permission, rattling off unsolicited commentary on whatever he was working on. 

Stephanie would drape herself over the arm of whatever chair he sat in, stealing his snacks with a cheeky grin. 

At the same time, Duke occasionally redirected his conversations to include Damian as though he weren’t entirely disengaged. Even Cass, quiet and observant, had a habit of sitting close without asking, though she at least seemed to gauge when Damian had reached his limit. 

Dick, the worst offender in some ways, treated Damian like an extension of the family rather than an individual, ruffling his hair or tugging him into casual hugs despite the evident rigidity in his younger brother’s shoulders.

At first, Marinette had thought Damian didn’t mind, that this was simply how the Wayne family operated—an entanglement of limbs, laughter, and endless conversation. But the longer she watched, the more she saw the cracks beneath Damian’s carefully composed surface. The way his shoulders tensed when someone invaded his space. The brief flickers of irritation when his words were talked over or dismissed. The way his hands sometimes curled into fists under the table, in his lap, or at his sides was a subtle battle between restraint and the instinct to snap. She realized it wasn’t that he disliked his family—it was that they treated his presence as a given, never once considering that he might need space.

The worst part was that they didn’t seem to notice. Not when they interrupted his sentences to interject their own stories, not when they teased him about his training habits or his overly formal speech. Not even when they brought up his past—his time with the League, his mistakes as when he was younger—as though it were a punchline rather than something that had fundamentally shaped him. To them, it was just playful banter, a way to include him in their dynamic, but to Marinette, it felt like a constant push against boundaries that were never acknowledged, let alone respected.

She wondered how long Damian had been enduring this—how long he had been expected to simply tolerate their presence, touch, and words without protest. How often had he bitten his tongue to avoid the inevitable argument, to keep himself from being labeled as overreacting or ungrateful? It was something she understood far too well. To be surrounded by people and yet feel unseen. To be included but never entirely understood. It made her chest ache, made frustration simmer beneath her skin. 

Damian had been right—his family had access to the Manor. But none of them had truly earned access to him. This made her protectiveness bristle with rage, whether that be from her personal experiences of not having that herself or an amplification of her emotions due to the nature of being a Cat holder. 

They were in the grand study, papers sprawled across the table, when Jason and Tim entered again, this time in full force.

“Careful, Marinette,” Jason drawled, grabbing an apple from the nearby bowl. “Spend too much time with the Baby Brat here, and you’ll start thinking murder’s a valid problem-solving method.”

Tim smirked. “Please, like she hasn’t figured that out already. He’s probably been indoctrinating her since day one.”

Dick, passing by with a snack in his hands, chuckled. “You do have a habit of being a little intense, Damian.”

Marinette slammed her notebook down. The room went silent.

“You do realize you’re all awful to him, right?” she said, voice calm but sharp enough to cut.

Jason blinked. “Excuse me?”

She folded her arms. “You act like you’re just teasing, but you’re not. You mock his past, belittle the way he was raised, and then expect him to just take it because it’s ‘brotherly bonding.’ That’s not how family works.”

The tension in the room became suffocating.

Dick looked uncomfortable. “Marinette, it’s not like that. It’s just how we—”

“How you what? Push him away? Make him feel like he’ll never be enough, no matter how hard he tries?” She glanced at Damian, who sat stiffly, expression unreadable. But his hands curled into fists in his lap, shaking slightly betrayed him.

Jason shifted, avoiding Damian’s gaze. Tim looked down. Even Dick seemed at a loss for words. No one had ever forced them to examine their behavior before.

Eventually, Jason huffed. “Tch. Didn’t realize we had a shrink in the house.” But there was no real heat in his voice.

Tim muttered something under his breath about “not meaning it like that,” and Dick merely nodded, expression troubled.

The conversation ended there, but the damage had long been done. They left soon after, and silence stretched between Marinette and Damian.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said at last, voice carefully neutral.

“ Yes , I did. I know what it’s like,” she retorted, her voice soft. “To be expected to carry everything. To be told you’re ‘too much’ just for existing as you are, while others are allowed to roam free and hurt you. But that doesn’t mean you should put up with it from the people who are supposed to have your back.”

Damian was quiet momentarily before exhaling, tension leaving his body in a slow trickle. He didn’t thank her—he didn’t need to. But something in the way he looked at her, the slight ease in his posture, told her everything she needed to know.

They continued their work, but something had shifted between them. The partnership had grown steadier, and their friendship blossomed into something still evolving.

The breaking point came during one afternoon spent planning the next phase of their business project at Wayne Manor. Marinette was already having a sour day, from oversleeping to the latest bout of the Black Cat’s bad luck, another near argument with teachers determined to ignore the points she and Damian were making; it was another harsh nickname from his siblings that sent her over the edge.

"His name is Damian al Ghul-Wayne, not any of the horrendous nicknames you keep calling him," Marinette had snapped one evening, her patience finally reaching its breaking point. For whatever reason, the Wayne siblings seemed content intruding on their time together and determinedly being loud while it happened. 

The words had left her mouth before she fully realized what she was saying. Still, she didn’t regret them—not when she saw the way Damian’s shoulders stiffened considerably in the last hour and his hands twitched in his lap as if unsure whether to clench into fists or stay perfectly still. She had been holding back for weeks, watching as his family tossed out ridiculous monikers like "Demon Brat," "Gremlin," and "Little Assassin" without a second thought. 

Again, she had assumed it was harmless, the kind of teasing that came naturally between siblings, but the longer she observed, the clearer it became that it wasn’t just teasing—it was a pattern, a way of erasing his identity under a pile of dismissive, borderline cruel jokes.

The others had frozen at her words, their expressions varying between confusion and mild amusement. Jason was the first to scoff, tossing an arm over the back of the couch as he smirked. "Relax, Pixie. It’s just a joke. Demon Spawn knows we don’t mean anything by it." He said, gesturing to Damian, whose eyesight remained fixed on the notes of research and planning in front of him. 

Tim had nodded along, barely looking up from his laptop, and even Dick, ever the peacemaker, had given her a placating smile. "It’s just how we bond, Marinette," he had explained as if that made it okay. As if that excused the way Damian’s name—his real name—was rarely ever used. Marinette wanted to shake them. Did they not realize that Damian never called them by anything other than their actual names? That he never fired back with childish taunts or nicknames of his own? That alone should have told them everything.

But they didn’t see it. They didn’t see how Damian’s jaw tightened whenever he was referred to as something other than himself. They didn’t see how his gaze darkened, how his fingers twitched as if he wanted to correct them, but knew it would be a wasted effort. He hardly reacted beyond the occasional scoff or muttered insult, and because of that, they must have assumed he didn’t care. Marinette knew better. She knew what it was like to be given names that weren’t her own, to have people treat her identity like something they could reshape for their own amusement. Maybe to them , it was playful. Maybe to them, it was nothing more than sibling banter. But to Damian, who, like she had their entire existence, been a battle to prove who he was and where he belonged, it was just another way of stripping him of control.

She wasn’t naive enough to think that one outburst would change anything, but it had planted a seed. Jason had grumbled about "overreacting," but he had been noticeably more hesitant to throw out nicknames in the days that followed. Tim, while still insufferable in his own way, had at least looked thoughtful when she pointed out that he never called Damian "brother" the way he did with Dick or Jason. Even Stephanie, who had always used the most absurd and ridiculous names, had jokingly tried "Dami" instead—only to be met with a sharp glare and a muttered, "That is equally unacceptable, Brown." It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was a start.

And Damian? When his older siblings left that night, he thanked her, eyes downcast and voice quiet, but gratitude deeply embedded within the taller individual. When she said his name—his real name—he looked at her, eyes steady, expression unreadable but lighter somehow, as if, for once, someone had finally called him what he truly was.

Chapter Text

Damian Al Ghul-Wayne leaned back against the bleachers of Gotham Academy, his arms folded across his chest as he watched his class engage in gym class on the grass-filled field–though his gaze consistently drifted to watching Marinette play and beat their classmates. 

Due to flare-ups from his metal spine, he was occasionally allowed to be excused from strenuous physical activity; however, sitting out from one activity led to an increase in disruptive thoughts entering his mind. 

Amidst his latest bout of brooding, Marinette turned her head and made eye contact with the student, a smile instantly appearing on her face as she waved. Hesitantly–and still unused to the hammering of his heart when she looked at him–Damian waved back and responded with what he hoped was a peaceful expression.

Later as they made their way to Marinette’s host house, Damian remained pensive, staring at the road in front of them, a slight crease found between his eyebrows. The teenager could feel his friend’s gaze frequently returning to him, but she seemed to respect the silence and didn’t push for him to talk, only resting her hand in the space between their seats, a space that Damian’s hand found its way to.

~~~

Damian Wayne had seen many strange things in his life, but nothing had prepared him for an afternoon spent with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. His usual concept of "family time" revolved around strict routines, tactical discussions, and maintaining a sense of control. But this... this was chaos wrapped in vibrant colors and unpredictable energy. No wonder Marinette acted the way she did. This seems to encourage Plagg’s nature.

It all started when Marinette invited him over for the afternoon after school. "I promise, they’re not as bad as you think," she reassured him with a mischievous smile. She hadn’t warned him about the whirlwind of chaos he was about to step into.

As soon as he stepped into the apartment, a garish place filled with neon hues and mismatched furniture, his eyes immediately found Harley Quinn on a couch, playing with what looked like a giant rubber chicken. She grinned at him, her hair bouncing with each movement.

“Hey, kid! You’re the famous Damian Wayne, huh? The little Bat ?” Harley’s voice was bubbly and chaotic, but there was an undeniable sharpness in her gaze as she sized him up.

Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “I’m not little , and I’m not a Bat. But I am Damian Wayne. And you are… Harley Quinn?”

“Ding ding ding! Give the man a prize!” Harley spun dramatically before tossing the rubber chicken at him. He caught it out of instinct, glaring at the absurdity of the situation.

“I take it you're Marinette’s… host family?” Damian asked, his tone cautious but polite as he surveyed the apartment’s decorations.

“We prefer the term ‘eccentric guardians,’ but yeah, that works!” Harley quipped, jumping off the couch and appearing way too close to him for comfort. "We're like family! You’re gonna love it here."

Before Damian could process that, a calming voice cut through the noise. "Harley, back up. Give the boy some space." Poison Ivy appeared from the shadows of the garden nook that took up the far corner of the living room, her presence as commanding as it was serene. She was surrounded by plants that were a striking contrast to the madness of the room—tall, lush green vines that seemed to pulse with life, the leaves glistening in the soft light.

Ivy walked forward, her red hair flowing like a cascade of fire, her eyes a calm yet calculating emerald. She extended a hand to Damian, her touch as firm as it was unexpected. "I’m Ivy. It’s a pleasure to meet you."

Damian shook her hand briefly, a bit surprised by the warmth in her demeanor. "I’ve heard of you," he said, his voice guarded. "Your work with plants is... impressive."

Ivy smirked, almost as if she had been expecting this compliment. "Well, thank you. I prefer my work to be sustainable, unlike certain individuals I know." She cast a side-eye at Harley, who was busy making faces at him.

Harley puffed her cheeks out and stuck out her tongue. “Hey! No need to bring up my plant-killing days. I’m reformed now; I haven't killed a Snake Plant or Pothos in weeks!” 

Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed by her antics. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Harley laughed, unbothered by his lack of enthusiasm. “I’m just messin’ with ya. Come on, Damian! You gotta live a little! You're all stiff like your old man. Ivy's got the right idea: let’s get some plants growing in you!”

“I’m fine without the plants; I already have some in my room,” Damian said dryly.

Ivy and Marinette watched the exchange with a small smile before the older woman spoke again. "Harley, perhaps we could tone it down for a bit. Damian has a more serious demeanor, and that’s not a bad thing." She turned back to Damian. “But you can relax here. Harley's wild antics can be a bit much, but we’re... well, we’re family. And family doesn’t need to be perfect.”

Damian studied Ivy carefully, noticing how the plants around her seemed to almost lean toward her, responding to her presence in a way that was both unnatural and fascinating. He nodded, reluctantly admitting to himself that there was a certain comfort in her grounded, calm nature.

“Don’t worry about her,” Ivy added with a knowing smile. “She’s harmless in her own way. Just... don’t let her near your plants unless you want them to really blossom.” Her voice dropped a little, hinting at something darker beneath her gentle tone.

Harley spun back around and struck a dramatic pose. "Or we can make 'em explode ! I mean, a little boom never hurt anybody, right?"

Damian narrowed his eyes at Harley, unsure if she was joking. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself!” Harley chirped, ignoring his disinterest. “Now, how about you help us decorate for the evening? Ivy and I are throwin’ a little dinner party later. You in?”

Damian hesitated, but he could feel the weight of their expectant gazes. “Alright, I’ll let my father know. But I’m not doing anything ridiculous, and it would be best to inform you that I’m vegetarian.”

“Attaboy! And that’s no trouble at all,” Harley exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Look at you rebelling against Brucie; I knew you had a little chaos in you!”

The rest of the afternoon was a bizarre mix of surprising moments. Harley and Ivy turned what should have been a quiet dinner prep into a chaotic adventure. Damian had never thought he’d be in the same room as a highly dangerous botanist and an unpredictable ex-villain, and yet here he was, helping Ivy arrange some very unusual plants for the evening.

Ivy had Damian carefully water a few of her rarer plants, and he couldn't help but be impressed by her depth of knowledge about them. There was something oddly soothing about the way she spoke to them like they were more than just plants—they were companions.

After pushing Marinette to go to her room to do her homework, Damian was left in the company of the two women. He immediately felt the hairs on his arms bristle when he was the sole object of their attention.

“So,” Harley called out from the kitchen, “what’s the deal with your whole Robin thing? I haven’t seen the little birdie out in a while.”

Damian paused, unsure of how to handle this. Of course, Harley would be the one to bring it up. "I was. But I’m not anymore.”

“Ahh,” Harley nodded sagely, tapping her finger against her chin. “So, what? You got tired of being Batman’s little sidekick ?”

“I wasn’t a sidekick,” Damian snapped, but his voice softened quickly, realizing how harsh it had sounded. “I was... I have a different path. A different way of looking at things.”

Poison Ivy, who had been silently listening from across the room, finally spoke up. “I understand the weight of a legacy... It’s hard to be your own person when the world expects you to be someone else. Bruce can be... controlling. But you’ll find your way, Damian. We all have our journeys.”

Damian nodded slowly, grateful for Ivy’s understanding. It was rare for him to hear that from someone, especially someone who had their own battles with expectations.

“Well, if it helps, you’ll always be welcome here,” Harley added, her tone shifting to something unexpectedly sincere. “We may be a little nuts, but we’ve got your back, kiddo. Consider this a second home; Marinette already does.”

Damian didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nodded. Maybe this family wasn’t so bad after all—chaotic, unpredictable, and definitely not what he was used to, but perhaps that was exactly what he needed.

For once, he didn’t feel like he had to hide who he was. Not with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy around.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon as evening cast a soft glow over the apartment and balcony, bathing the room in warm light. The wind gently danced against plant leaves and stems. Damian had been silently observing the lush greenery that overtook most of the space, the vibrant plants Ivy had carefully nurtured. The air smelled sweet with the scent of flowers and herbs, a strange, almost heady energy that only someone deeply connected to plant life could cultivate.

Ivy was tending to her plants with practiced ease, her fingers brushing over the leaves and vines with a tenderness that spoke volumes of her bond with them. It was as if they were extensions of herself, part of her soul that she protected fiercely. Damian, standing in the doorway to the little indoor garden nook, couldn’t help but feel a strange resonance within him—a deep understanding of what Ivy was doing, even if he couldn’t explain it fully.

“I’ve always wondered,” Ivy’s voice broke the silence, soft but steady. She didn’t look up from the small potted plant she was adjusting. “How does it feel? To be so... connected to life itself?”

Damian’s eyes flicked toward her, not entirely surprised by the question. He had often felt this same pull, a connection to creation itself. Since being its holder, the Miraculous of Creation was something that had always felt like a part of him , although he doesn’t fully understand it. But he had never spoken of it. Not to anyone. Not even Tikki .

“I don’t know if I can be of any use,” Damian said quietly, his gaze turning to a nearby vine that seemed to stretch toward him, almost curiously. "But... I think it’s like feeling the pulse of the earth beneath your feet, hearing the rhythm of life all around you. Every plant, every tree, every blade of grass—there’s a whisper to it. A language of sorts."

Ivy turned then, her emerald eyes narrowing as if she was studying him more intently than she ever had before. She crossed the room, moving toward the window where the light hit her plants just right. “That’s a beautiful way to describe it. People think of plants as just... well, plants. But they don’t realize the energy they hold. The power to heal, to grow, to change. For thousands of years, civilizations across the world knew of the power plants held, yet in a few centuries, humanity destroyed so much of it.”

Damian couldn’t help but admire the way Ivy spoke about them—as if they weren’t just living things but beings with purpose and intent. It reminded him of how he felt about his own connection to his miraculous, how the creation power gave him a profound understanding of nature and the forces of life, though his was wrapped in a different kind of responsibility.

“I used to think the world was just full of people like my father—hard, unyielding, controlling. People who want to shape things to their will,” Damian began, almost reflecting to himself as much as to Ivy. “But plants... they grow in their own way. They adapt. They survive. They fight for life, even when the world doesn’t give them a chance.”

Ivy paused, considering his words carefully. There was a spark of recognition in her gaze. “Yes,” she murmured, almost to herself, her fingers gently stroking the edges of a leaf. “That’s exactly it. My whole life... I’ve fought for them. For the plants, for the earth. People destroy them without thought, without care, without understanding. I’ve given so much trying to protect them from that.”

Damian could see the conviction in her eyes, the fierce protectiveness that defined her very being. It was the same fierceness he’d seen in his own heart, in the way he defended those he loved or fought against injustice. But her fight was different. She fought for something he had come to understand only recently—the balance of nature, the protection of life, the strength in the quiet growth of a seed.

He nodded slowly, his mind racing through his own connection with the miraculous. The power of creation allowed him to connect with plants to give them life and purpose. It was about understanding, nurturing the small things, and letting them grow into something powerful in their own right.

“I’ve never met anyone who fights the way you do,” he said, his voice low. “You fight for something that people can’t always see. You see the value in life in its simplest forms. And you protect that.”

Ivy’s lips curled into a small, approving smile, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. “You’re right. Most people think plants are disposable like they’re just decoration or a commodity. But there’s power in nature. True power.”

“I understand,” Damian said, his gaze briefly falling to his hands. He remembered the few times he had reached into the earth, using the miraculous to pull life from the soil and further connect with his plants. A whisper of energy, a thread of power. Creation . It was delicate, yet it could shape the world if given the chance.

Ivy’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly, as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a rare one, Damian Wayne. You understand. Not many do.”

Damian met her eyes, his lips tight but his voice firm. “I like to think that I’m learning. Just constantly evolving.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the quiet that came when two people—two forces of nature, in their own right—recognized the bond between them. They were different, but in their own ways, they were both connected to the earth, to life, and to something that transcended the ordinary.

Ivy’s gaze softened as she watched him. “Maybe you’re more like me than you think. But just remember Damian, you’ve gotta protect it all. The earth, the plants... they’ll always need someone to watch over them. Just like everything else.”

Damian gave a small nod, the weight of her words settling deep inside him. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was talking about more than just the plants. Maybe, just maybe, she was talking about him too.

The next day, Damian returned to Marinette’s home at her invitation. 

Marinette Dupain-Cheng stood beside him on the balcony, her eyes searching the shadows as if waiting for something she couldn't quite name. The breeze rustled her hair, but she didn't notice. Her mind was elsewhere, caught between the normalcy of her world and the weight of the revelation she was ready to confront

He hadn’t told her. Not directly. She had known for a while—she wasn’t stupid, after all—but needing to hear the words come from Damian himself felt like a new weight settling in her chest.

"You're not just the son of Bruce Wayne, are you?" she asked, her voice small yet determined, as though she were trying to draw something out of him that she already suspected. Her eyes flicked to his, searching for any sign of hesitation.

Damian’s gaze met hers, and for a long moment, he said nothing. The city noise felt distant, almost muffled, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had shaped him over the years. “No. I was Robin.”

The words hung between them, sharp and heavy. Marinette blinked as if her mind had momentarily stopped functioning. She hadn't expected it to be so... direct.

“Robin?” she echoed, a strange mix of awe and confusion in her voice. She'd seen him fight during their spars and had witnessed the intensity in his eyes. She’d seen the pain in his actions, too—like he was haunted by something just out of reach. But this? This was a deeper truth, a part of him that made her wonder just how much of Damian Wayne was still the boy standing in front of her.

Damian exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "I don't talk about it often. In fact, I’ve hardly ever talked about it. But you deserve to know."

He glanced away, his eyes narrowing slightly. The past wasn’t something he liked to revisit. But it was something he couldn’t outrun anymore, not when Marinette was involved.

"I was born into a legacy I didn’t choose. My mother—Talia al Ghul—believed I was her weapon. She raised me to be just that: a killer. Don’t get me wrong, my mother raised me with plenty of love, care, and attention for the first decade of my life. I'm deeply grateful for the things she sacrificed to get me out of the League. It doesn’t change that Talia trained me to take down anyone who threatened her will, including my own father and my grandfather. I was her son, but sometimes it felt like I was a tool to her first."

He paused, letting the words sink in. Marinette didn’t interrupt, sensing the depth of his struggle.

“But then there was Bruce... my father." Damian’s voice softened, the bitterness creeping into his words. "Sometimes I wonder if he didn’t want me to be his son. He certainly didn’t want me to be a weapon. But he had his own vision of what that meant. His way of training me… was nothing like what I expected. He didn’t want me to be his Robin at first, but circumstances changed, leading me to be the fifth sidekick."

Marinette’s eyes narrowed, trying to connect the dots. "But you didn’t want to be?"

Damian shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I didn’t have a choice. Not at first. Talia told me it was my birthright, and I was just a child—a soldier in a place I was unfamiliar with so I followed her expectations, even from across an ocean. And Bruce? Eventually , he saw me as Robin, the next to fight alongside him, Richard, and the others."

Marinette could hear the unsaid in his words. She’d heard stories of Batman’s obsession with justice, his relentless pursuit of it, and his no-kill rule despite countless discussions of some villains deserving such a fate. To hear Damian’s pain—his struggle with the identity that had been thrust upon him—made her realize just how much was buried under his cool and indifferent exterior.

“Richard,” Damian continued, his voice thickening, “Richard Grayson was Robin first. He was my father’s first partner—his ideal sidekick. He was everything I wasn’t. Richard was the golden boy. The one Bruce could trust. And I… I was never going to be him or any of the others. That was the problem.”

He looked at her then, his expression raw, as if he’d just exposed the core of who he was. “Then Richard left. He became Nightwing, and when my father was incapacitated for a time, Richard chose to take up the mantle. I thought when he gave me Robin that maybe... maybe it would mean something. Maybe it would make me feel like I was part of something. But it didn’t. I hated it. I hated the mask. I hated that every time I put it on, I was reminded that I wasn’t my own person—I was Bruce Wayne’s son. I was another Robin, another version of Richard or any of the past Robins whose shoes I could never fill.”

Marinette swallowed hard, understanding now the complexity of the boy standing beside her. He was more than the brooding, intense figure she’d come to know. He was a son, a warrior, but most importantly, a child who had never been allowed to grow up without the weight of expectations crushing him.

“So… that’s why you quit?” she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper against the wind.

Damian’s gaze hardened. "It was because I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t wear the mask and pretend that it meant anything other than what it felt like: a chain around my neck. My father wanted me to stay in line, to be the perfect Robin, not an assassin from the League, but I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be. I couldn’t live in Robin’s shadow any longer. I couldn’t live with the way my siblings seemed more at ease in their vigilante identities while I felt suffocated. And I couldn’t be a pawn in my mother’s game either. So I left, told them I was going to study to be a pediatrician, and metaphorically hung my cape.”

He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of the past had momentarily eased.

“I didn’t want to be a symbol of anything. Not Batman’s sidekick. Not my mother’s weapon. I just wanted to be Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. To choose my own path.”

Marinette took a step closer, her heart aching for him. She couldn’t begin to understand the depth of what he’d gone through, but she could see the scars—the ones that ran deeper than skin. And yet, standing here, in the quiet of the night, she realized something: Damian Wayne might have walked away from the mantle of Robin, but he hadn’t walked away from himself. Not yet.

“I think,” Marinette said gently, “you’ve already started finding your path.”

Damian turned to her, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened, just the faintest trace of a smile crossing his lips. “Maybe. But it’s not easy. And sometimes, the past loves to come back to remind me that I’ll never fully escape it.”

“I don’t think you need to escape it,” Marinette replied, her voice steady, standing next to him before placing her head on his shoulder. “You just need to move forward with it. One step at a time.”

The night around them was still, the city below unaware of the truths that had just been shared. But for Damian, it was a weight lifted, even if just for a moment. He didn’t have all the answers, and he didn’t know where his journey would take him next. But for once, he wasn’t alone in it.

Not anymore. He thought gently placing his head on top of hers.

The dimly lit training room of Wayne Manor felt like an escape, a secret world where Marinette and Damian could exist outside of expectations. The moment she stepped onto the mat, exhaustion from sleepless nights and endless responsibilities faded. Here, in the quiet, she wasn’t just Hēi lánhuā or Marinette. She was something in between, something more.

Damian, standing across from her, arms crossed, regarded her with his usual unreadable expression. “Again.”

She rolled her shoulders and lunged, her movements fluid and precise. Damian countered easily, but there was something different about their sparring. He wasn’t just testing her—he was learning her, mapping out the way she moved, the way she thought. It was exhilarating.

For someone who claimed to be done with hero work, Damian fought like he never left it.

Tikki and Plagg hovered nearby, watching with something close to amusement. They had been bickering moments before, but now their tiny forms radiated a rare seriousness.

“You two are… different,” Tikki murmured, eyes filled with an old knowing.

Plagg smirked. “More than different. You’re bonded.”

Marinette stilled. “What do you mean?”

Tikki hesitated before floating closer. “True holders of the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculous are meant to be partners in every sense. They complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses, balance one another.”

Damian frowned. “That’s ridiculous. Marinette already has a partner. She told me of the previous Black Cat of Paris.”

Plagg scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah? And how’s that working out?” Marinette opened her mouth, then closed it.

The question lingered, heavy and unavoidable. Marinette’s grip on her transformation pin tightened. Adrien. She thought about all the moments of miscommunication, the times he had tried too hard or not at all. She thought of the weight of knowing she had never been his choice—not really. He had always longed for Ladybug, rarely Marinette. They were never in sync. There was always something slightly off-kilter, always something that never quite clicked.

And yet, taking the Miraculous from him felt cruel.

Damian, ever blunt, cut through her thoughts. “Staying in a failing partnership doesn’t help either of you. You will have to tell him sooner or later.”

The more time she spent with Damian, the more she understood him. Marinette continually saw that Damian understood her in ways others didn’t. He didn’t coddle her, didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear. He challenged her and forced her to see things from perspectives she had never considered. He didn’t just challenge her in training—he forced her to confront things she had ignored for too long. 

"He still loves the idea of you," Damian said one evening as they sat in the manor’s library, books on ancient Miraculous history spread out between them.

Marinette tensed. "That’s not fair."

Damian glanced at her, unimpressed. "Isn’t it?"

She hated that he was right.

But in return, she learned about him, too. She learned about the weight of his past—the brutal training, about the morality that had been beaten into him rather than taught. He spoke of the League with detachment, but underneath was a deep, unspoken conflict—the part of him that still questioned whether he was ever truly free of it.

"You think you left," she murmured one night, the light from the Batcomputer casting harsh shadows over his sharp features. "But you still carry it. Like a part of you is still waiting for permission to let it go."

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. That, more than anything, told her she was right.

“And you don’t?”

She had no answer.

The change was slow but inevitable. As winter faded into spring, their friendship deepened, filled with sharp barbs and quiet understanding. Somewhere along the way, their arguments became something else entirely—something charged, something neither of them acknowledged. His siblings noticed the shift before they did.

"You and Damian have been spending a lot of time together," Stephanie teased over lunch, her grin sly.

Marinette nearly choked on her drink. "We’re just training."

Tim arched a brow. "That what the kids are calling it these days?"

She scowled. "You’re insufferable."

"You’re blushing," Dick pointed out helpfully.

Marinette groaned. Damian, for his part, said nothing, but she caught the faintest twitch of his lips.

The moment Adrien contacted her, Marinette knew something was wrong.

She and Damian were side by side, walking Titus together in Gotham City Park, the moment peaceful as they discussed the final steps in their projects and graduation. And then Adrien’s number rang on her phone; ignoring the bad feeling in her stomach, she answered,  immediately regretting doing such. 

Adrien—Chat Noir’s usual charm was replaced with something frantic, desperate.

“Marinette, you need to listen to me.” Adrien’s voice was tight, urgent. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

Marinette stiffened. Beside her, Damian’s grip on Titus’s leash subtly tightened, his sharp gaze flicking toward her. She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Adrien, slow down. What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been seen—with him. ” The way he spat, the word made it clear who he meant. “People are talking. Paris is talking. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

She exhaled sharply. “If this is about Damian—”

“This is about you in Gotham, ” Adrien cut in. “About him, his family, what they stand for. You can’t just trust people like that. You— we —have responsibilities. You’re Ladybug. You don’t get to run away and start over with some—some playboy’s son who probably follows in his father’s footsteps.”

Her fingers clenched around her phone. “You don’t get to decide who I spend my time with, Adrien. You, of all people, should understand what it’s like to be more than your father’s name.”

Silence. A beat of hesitation, just long enough for her to realize she had struck a nerve. But then his voice returned, colder. “This isn’t just about you, Marinette. You’ve made yourself a target. If the wrong people see you with him, they’ll dig. They’ll connect dots. Do you think Paris won’t figure it out? You think whoever wants to copy and cosplay Hawkmoth—won’t use that against you?”

She sucked in a breath, feeling Damian shift slightly beside her, listening. He hadn’t spoken, but she knew he was already bristling.

“Adrien,” she said, quieter now but no less firm, “I know what I’m doing.”

“No,” he said, the hurt bleeding through despite his anger. “You really don’t.”

And then the call ended.

“Would you rather watch him break himself because he’s being consumed by something not meant for him?”

Damian’s words hit like a blade, cutting straight to the truth she had been avoiding. Marinette stared at the Black Cat Miraculous in her hands, the weight of it pressing into her palm.

Plagg, who was nestled in her bag, for once, was silent.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But it was necessary.

That night, she, Plagg, and Kaalki traveled to Paris to talk with him for the final time. When she finally renounced his connection to the Miraculous from Adrien, the look on his face nearly shattered her resolve.

But for the first time in years, she felt at peace, and the world felt aligned.

Digging into history was supposed to give them answers. Instead, it unraveled more mysteries.

"This isn’t just about us," Marinette said, flipping through the brittle pages of an ancient tome. 

Damian leaned over the book, his expression darkening. "They split when their ideologies differed. One pursued balance through control. The other through destruction."

Marinette ran a finger over a passage. "They may say it’s a difference of ideologies, but they operated similarly. The Order committed its own atrocities. Master Fu—he was part of that legacy. He chose what he thought was best. Even if it meant denying and burying the truth."

She swallowed hard, staring at the words, their weight pressing down on her. "He never wanted me to have both Miraculous. He thought it was safer to keep them separate."

Damian met her gaze. "And do you still believe that?"

Marinette’s grip tightened on her ring.

"No. He had chosen to keep me bound to a partnership that was never meant to last."

Their eyes held.

For the first time in years, the world felt like it was aligning—not perfectly, not cleanly, but in a way that finally made sense.

Together, they would decide what came next.

Chapter Text

Previously: 

“You ever notice how Damian’s been acting weird lately?” Stephanie asked, munching on a donut as she lounged in the Batcave.

Tim barely looked up from his screen. “Damian’s always weird.”

“No, but like—more secretive than usual,” Duke chimed in. “And he’s been spending a lot of time at Gotham Academy.”

Jason snorted. “Since when do we care what Demon Spawn does with his time?”

Dick, flipping through security footage, raised an eyebrow. “Since he started sneaking around and talking with a certain acrobat in black.” He enlarged the image—a frame of Hēi lánhuā sitting alongside Damian in his civvies on the Wayne Enterprise Tower rooftop.

The room went quiet.

Bruce finally turned from the Batcomputer, steepling his fingers. “Find out who that is.”

“Would you be willing to accompany me to an upcoming charity gala?” Her immediate answer to the question was her shock was apparent as she choked briefly on her lunch before looking at Damian as he said it. His expression seemed concerned as she continually tried but failed to dislodge the shock from her system. 

“Was this an inopportune time to ask Marinette?” Frantically, she shook her head, hurrying to regain her composure before responding. 

“No! No, it’s not that,” Marinette sputtered, hurriedly setting down her fork as if that would somehow help her regain control of the situation. Her heart was still recovering from the surprise—a gala? With Damian?

She had imagined— dreamed —of going on a date with him, but never like this. Not in the grandeur of a Gotham charity gala, surrounded by the elite and their polished facades. She had imagined something quieter, maybe meeting on the top of Wayne Enterprises after a late-night patrol that turned into an impromptu coffee run when she detransformed or a museum visit where they’d debate art styles. Something that felt them. This? This was an entirely different realm.

Across from her, Damian looked equally surprised, as if he himself hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth. His usual sharp confidence was momentarily disrupted, his lips slightly parted, and his brows raised just a fraction. It was... endearing.

“I just—” Marinette licked her lips, glancing down before meeting his gaze again. “I didn’t expect that. ”

To his credit, Damian composed himself quickly, his expression shifting back to something more measured. “It is merely an event. You are a designer, and your presence would be more than fitting. And—” he hesitated, clearing his throat slightly and avoiding eye contact before continuing, “I would appreciate the company.”

Oh.

Her heart stuttered. That wasn’t just practicality speaking. There was something softer beneath the words, something almost hesitant.

Marinette swallowed. “Then, um—yes. I’d love to.”

And briefly, she swore she saw the corner of Damian’s lips twitch, just barely, before he nodded.

“Excellent. I’ll text you more details. It’s at the Manor; I can pick you up, or you can just arrive as you typically would. Which would you prefer?”

Marinette adjusted the delicate lace sleeve of her gown, glancing at herself in the car's mirror. The deep navy fabric hugged her figure elegantly, intricate embroidery swirling like constellations across the bodice and flowing into a sweeping train. It was one of her own designs, a quiet rebellion against the designer labels that often filled these events. If she was going to attend a Gotham gala, she would do so on her own terms.

Beside her at the wheel, Damian was the very picture of composure, dressed in a tailored black suit with subtle emerald detailing. His usual sharp, guarded expression had softened—just slightly—as he observed her.

“You look—” He hesitated for the briefest moment. “Well-dressed for the occasion.”

Marinette fought back a grin, her cheeks heating at the compliment. “I should hope so,” she teased. “I do design clothes, after all.”

The car rolled to a smooth stop, and before she could reach for the door, Damian was already out, extending a hand to help her. She took it without thinking, her fingers slipping into his warm grasp.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” she murmured, inhaling deeply before stepping onto the red carpet.

When they entered Wayne Tower’s grand ballroom, Marinette understood how different this was from anything she had experienced before. Parisian fashion galas had their fair share of extravagance, but Gotham’s elite brought a weight to their almost suffocating presence. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over the marble floor, and servers in crisp uniforms maneuvered through clusters of high society with silver trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Conversations hummed in the air, accompanied by the distant melody of a string quartet.

All eyes flicked to them the moment they arrived. Marinette felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the veiled curiosity—if not outright scrutiny. But if Damian noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it. His grip on her hand remained steady as they moved further inside, his presence a silent anchor.

“Just ignore them,” he murmured lowly, barely audible over the crowd's murmur.

“That obvious, huh?” she muttered, forcing a polite smile as they passed a particularly nosy couple whispering behind their champagne glasses.

“Tt. They stare at everything. It’s a tedious habit.”

She smothered a laugh. Leave it to Damian to be utterly unimpressed with Gotham’s high society. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the attention. Being with him put her under an entirely different level of scrutiny.

“Ah, Damian, you actually showed up,” a smooth voice drawled, and Marinette turned to find a man approaching with effortless charm, a glass of whiskey in hand. His piercing blue eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he smirked. “And with a date, no less. I’m impressed.”

“Grayson,” Damian greeted flatly, though Marinette noted that his grip on her hand didn’t tighten as it usually did when he was irritated. That was something.

The eldest Wayne child was dressed in a tailored black suit. His dark hair was ruffled in a way that made it look effortlessly cool. His smile was wide, and his eyes twinkled with charismatic energy. He smiled kindly at her, offering a hand that suggested he’d already read the room, and decided she was a fun person to chat with.

Marinette took his hand with a hesitant smile. “Likewise Richard… it’s nice to see you again.”

If the use of Richard instead of Dick surprised him, the older man hid it well, but the slight widening of his eyes gave it away. “You’re an artist, right?” Dick’s smile widened, and she had to stifle her surprise. “I’ve heard about some of your pieces. Your work is really impressive.”

“Um, thank you. I… I don’t usually exhibit much—just a few local galleries and commissions in Paris,” she stammered, surprised by his recognition. 

Damian shot Dick an almost exaggerated look of annoyance, clearly irked by the older man’s interruption. “Not you , too,” he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual venom. It was more resigned than anything else.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like me talking to your girlfriend, Damian?” he teased, completely unbothered by the younger Wayne’s grumbling.

Marinette laughed nervously, trying to shake off the tension. “We’re not dating Richard. I didn’t expect Gotham’s upper class to be so... friendly,” she said, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

Before he could reply, another voice cut in.

“Damian! You’ve been holding out on us.”

Marinette barely had a second to react before a tall blonde in a striking emerald gown appeared, looping an arm around Dick’s. She had the effortless grace of a trained socialite and the mischief of someone who lived for drama.

“Brown,” Damian muttered, clearly already done with the interaction.

Stephanie Brown beamed at him before turning her attention to Marinette, eyes practically twinkling. “So, you managed to get Damian to attend one of these things willingly, and it actually seems like he wants to be here. I have to know your secrets.”

Marinette grinned. “Trade secret, sorry.”

Dick snorted into his drink while Stephanie gasped dramatically. “You’re perfect. I’m glad Damian found a girlfriend to take him out of his shell.”

Damian exhaled heavily. “Can we move on before you embarrass yourself further?”

Marinette, however, found herself relaxing for the first time since stepping into the ballroom. Whatever Gotham’s high society thought of her, she felt Damian’s family—the part that mattered—was already on her side.

As the night carried on, while Damian was pulled away at times, he always returned, holding her hand firmly. She found that maybe—just maybe—she could get used to this.

The group finally made their way toward the main event hall, where Bruce Wayne stood at the podium, preparing for his speech. Marinette could see why Gotham’s elite held him in such high regard—his presence was commanding, his voice steady, exuding both authority and ease. But the way he glanced at Damian every so often, the quiet pride behind his otherwise unreadable mask, made her smile.

As the speech concluded and the formal dinner began, Damian guided her toward their designated seats at one of the Wayne tables. He was calm, controlled as ever, but she could sense the slight tension in his shoulders. These events weren’t his favorite—he endured them out of obligation.

So, Marinette did what she did best—she leaned in, voice just for him. “How long until we sneak away to that balcony I saw earlier?”

His lips twitched slightly, amusement flickering in his green eyes. “An hour, at most.”

She laughed softly. “Make it forty-five.”

Damian hummed, clearly considering. “Thirty.”

And just like that, the weight of the evening felt a little lighter.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, right?” a voice interrupted her train of thought, smooth like silk but sharp as a blade.

Marinette turned, her breath catching as she was face-to-face with the woman who had become the subject of Gotham’s elite: Selina Kyle. The rumors of her being Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend were well-known, but they were nothing compared to the whispers of her own clandestine life. The former cat burglar turned philanthropist was just as elusive as the shadows she was said to hide in.

Selina's piercing green eyes seemed to take in every inch of her as though she were studying a puzzle piece. Her gaze lingered a little too long on Marinette’s posture, the way she held her wine glass in her hand as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality. Those eyes had a strange sense of familiarity—like Selina knew precisely what it was like to feel out of place.

“You seem… out of place,” Selina observed, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. “You don’t seem like the typical ‘Gotham elite.’”

Marinette forced a smile, a tight, nervous expression. “I’m more of a guest, really. Just a friend of Damian’s and here for the food.”

Selina raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a playful smirk. There was no judgment but an unmistakable sharpness in her gaze. The kind of look made Marinette wonder if Selina had seen through every mask she’d ever worn.

“I can tell,” Selina remarked, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “But you know, Gotham has a way of pulling people in. And not all of us play by the same rules.” She glanced briefly toward Bruce, who was talking with Alfred in the corner of the room before her eyes returned to Marinette. “Some of us can spot a mask from a mile away.”

The words hit Marinette like a punch to the gut. A mask? Her heart skipped a beat. Was Selina talking about her? Had she seen through her carefully crafted persona—the quiet, reserved girl trying to escape the chaos of her double life?

Her breath caught in her throat, her hand tightening around the glass of water. She could feel the weight of Selina’s gaze, like a spotlight exposing every vulnerable part of her, but Marinette forced her expression to remain neutral.

“I’m not... I don’t know what you mean,” Marinette replied, her voice faltering slightly.

Selina studied her for a moment, that knowing smile never fading. It was the kind of smile that suggested she knew far more than she let on, a smile that could melt into a sneer or become something much more dangerous in the blink of an eye. She leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping lower, almost as if she were speaking only to Marinette.

“We all have our secrets,” Selina said softly, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Just be sure yours doesn’t get you into trouble.”

Marinette’s pulse quickened. She wanted to swallow the words and brush them aside as a casual warning, but something in Selina’s tone made it impossible to dismiss them. Something in the way Selina spoke made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Marinette replied, but it sounded weaker this time, even to her own ears.

Selina’s gaze flickered to Bruce again, who was still conversing with Alfred. The slight tension between them—the unsaid things, the secrets, the shared history that hung between them like an invisible thread—was palpable. And somehow, Marinette was caught in the middle of it all.

Selina’s lips curled into that same knowing smile, suggesting Marinette’s deflection didn’t fool her. “Of course, you’re not. But don’t forget, darling… Gotham’s got a way of making people reveal their masks whether they like it or not.”

With that, Selina stepped back, leaving Marinette to digest the words alone in a sea of strangers. Her mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of doubt and fear. Had Selina really seen through her? Was she the only one who had no control over her own secrets? Or was this just another game Gotham’s elite liked to play—a game she had no interest in joining?

But it was too late to turn back now.

Marinette's gaze flickered back to Damian, who was chatting with someone near the entrance, completely unaware of the exchange. And though Bruce was still talking with Alfred, Marinette couldn’t shake the feeling that both of them had been watching her every move. Gotham wasn’t a city you could slip into unnoticed, no matter how hard you tried.

As the evening wore on, Marinette couldn’t stop thinking about Selina’s words. Every conversation, every glance felt like an interrogation. Was Selina right? Did she really have a mask, one she didn’t even know she wore?

She could feel the weight of Gotham’s eyes on her, all of them waiting for her to slip and reveal her secret.

And deep down, Marinette knew one thing for certain.

Gotham had already pulled her in.

Damian stood in the heart of the ballroom, a sea of Gotham's finest people swirling around him. He hated charity events like this. The extravagant clothes, the forced smiles, the whispers of people who couldn’t care less about the cause but saw an opportunity for business or social gain. It wasn’t the first time he’d been dragged into one of Bruce’s affairs, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. But that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

He glanced at the clock, wishing for the event to end already. It wasn’t that he disliked his family’s company or even the idea of charity, but there was something so artificial about it all. Gotham loved its theatrics, and this ballroom full of polished, perfectly manufactured masks was no exception. He had learned long ago that the people in this room were skilled at pretending. At pretending to care. Pretending to be something they weren’t.

And yet, here he was, watching from the sidelines, a silent observer, his arms crossed as his gaze swept over the crowd. His mind flicked back to Marinette, who was standing near the edge of the room, looking completely out of place. She had arrived with him, but her discomfort was evident in the way she clutched her glass like it was a lifeline and hugged herself tightly.

Damian could relate. Gotham’s air made anyone feel like they didn’t belong—especially someone as earnest and unassuming as Marinette. She wasn’t one to hide behind a mask, which made her stand out more than she realized.

He was pulled away from her almost as soon as they entered together, but he finally managed to get away. He pushed away from the column he had been leaning against and made his way toward her. He could tell she was struggling, not fitting into the polished mold that Gotham's elite so desperately tried to sell.

"You're still standing over here alone?" Damian asked, his voice cutting through the noise of the event.

Marinette startled slightly, but the look of relief on her face, when she saw him made the tension in his shoulders, loosen a little. She gave him a tight smile, though he could see the unease in her eyes.

"Yeah, I was just... trying to figure out how to survive the evening," she muttered under her breath, a wry edge to her voice.

Damian couldn’t help but smirk. "I don’t think anyone survives these things. They just make it to the end and leave with more headaches than they came with." He glanced back at the crowd. "My Father’s been cornered by the usual vultures. They’re all trying to get their hooks into him."

Marinette chuckled, her eyes lighting up slightly with humor. "Sounds like a party."

Damian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he followed her gaze to where Bruce was standing, chatting with some of the other influential figures of Gotham. Bruce had that air about him, didn’t he? Always so controlled, always a few steps ahead. It wasn’t just the money or the mask he wore as Gotham’s billionaire playboy—it was the power he commanded with every word, every gesture.

Damian’s eyes narrowed as Bruce laughed along with the others, too polite, too perfect. He could see through the facade, just like he could see through the masks of the people around them.

“Careful, Marinette,” he muttered. “Gotham has a way of pulling people in, even if they’re not looking for it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, a quizzical look on her face. “What do you mean?”

Damian shrugged, almost unconsciously. “This city doesn’t let you walk away. Gotham’s not like Paris. People here wear masks, and not just the literal kind. They wear masks of identity, masks of power, masks of need . It’s all a game where if you don’t play it, Gotham will find a way to drag you into it anyway.”

The words hung between them for a moment, heavy and unnerving. 

At some point, Damian found himself being led onto the dance floor. The youngest Wayne, was not the type to seek out ballroom dancing, but he moved with sharp precision, guiding her effortlessly through the steps. It was intimate, even with Gotham’s elite watching their every move.

“You’re a good dancer,” she murmured.

“I was trained in many forms of movement,” he replied. “This is just another skill.”

She smirked. “You can just say you like dancing with me.”

His grip on her waist tightened slightly. “Tt.”

~~~~~

Marinette nudged Damian toward a quiet balcony, where the noise of the gala dimmed. The cool Gotham air was a relief.

“This is much better,” she sighed.

Damian leaned beside her, glancing over the city. “They can keep their social politics. I prefer silence.”

She smiled, bumping her shoulder against his. “You don’t have to endure it alone, you know.”

He turned to her then, expression softening. “I know.”

He leaned against the marble column beside her, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes scanning the crowd with quiet intensity. Marinette had seen this look on him before—like he was constantly analyzing everything, taking mental notes of every movement, every subtle shift. 

Before she could respond, a voice boomed from behind her, and she stiffened instinctively. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Damian,” came Bruce Wayne’s voice, low and controlled. It was the kind of voice that could silence a room and make even the most powerful people feel small. And, as always, his eyes were intense—focused, calculating, observing everything in the room. “I need to speak with you.”

Damian sighed shallowly but made his way toward his father. Before he could slip away, Bruce’s gaze flickered to Marinette, and for the first time that night, Marinette felt a chill. It wasn’t malice, exactly, but it was a scrutiny that cut through her like a knife.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng,” Bruce said smoothly, leaning heavily into his public persona, smiling widely. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

Marinette’s breath hitched, and she quickly forced a smile. “It’s... certainly an experience.”

Bruce nodded slightly as if he had expected this response, then turned his focus back to Damian. “There’s a couple of things you and I need to talk about,” he murmured before walking off without another word.

As Bruce disappeared into the crowd, Damian's lips creased into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing. “Don’t mind him. He’s just... Bruce .”

“Just Bruce?” Marinette repeated, unsure if she should laugh or feel completely terrified.

Damian shrugged, unphased. “He’s playing it up a lot during these kinds of events but I’m not afraid of what he has to say anymore, there’s not much that surprises me when interacting with Father.”

By the time the event wound down, Marinette felt like her head was spinning from the whirlwind of interactions. Gotham’s elite had a way of making her feel simultaneously invisible and too visible at the same time. But through it all, one thing was clear: Gotham had a way of pulling people into its web—whether they wanted to be there or not.

~~~~~

As the event wound down, Marinette and Damian made their way to the exit. Dick and Stephanie caught them on the way out, offering a teasing farewell, while Bruce simply gave them an approving nod.

Once inside the car, Marinette exhaled. “That was… a lot.”

Damian smirked faintly. “You handled it well.”

She glanced at him, warmth in her gaze. “I had a good partner.”

He looked away, but she caught the slight smile on his face and the way his hand fidgeted on the steering wheel.

A few nights later, members of the Bat-family were lounging around the Batcave. Stephanie took another bite of her donut, licking the sugar off her fingers. "Okay, but seriously. Am I the only one who's noticing this? Damian’s acting shady. Shadier than usual."

Tim sighed, not looking up from his laptop. "He’s always shady. It’s his whole thing."

Duke leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Yeah, but usually, his brand of shady involves sneaking off to maim criminals, not hanging around Gotham Academy like a lovesick teenager."

Jason, who had been lazily cleaning one of his pistols, let out a loud snort. "Since when do we care what Demon Spawn does with his free time? He could be running an underground fight club for all I care. Actually, that’d be hilarious."

Dick, who had been scrolling through the Batcave’s security footage, suddenly stopped. "Oh… oh. I think we’ve got something."

That immediately got everyone’s attention. Jason set his gun down. Duke leaned in closer. Tim, finally looking up from his screen, adjusted his glasses.

On the massive monitor, Dick enlarged a frame from one of the rooftop security feeds. Damian was seated on the edge of the Wayne Enterprise Tower, his posture relaxed but engaged. A masked figure was next to him, dressed in sleek black with subtle green accents.

Stephanie leaned forward. "Who’s that?"

"Hēi lánhuā," Dick murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "She’s been showing up in Gotham more frequently over the past few months."

"Okay, hold up, hold up," Jason interjected, waving a hand. "You’re telling me Demon Brat is playing rooftop tag with some mystery acrobat?"

"Not just playing tag," Duke pointed out, watching the next few frames. "Look at their body language. That’s… comfortable. Familiar . And Damian doesn’t do ‘comfortable’ with people outside of, like, three of us."

Tim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "She’s not a Gotham regular, but I’ve seen reports about her. She’s shown up in Paris, New York, even Shanghai, and Metropolis a handful of times. There is minimal intel and no confirmed identity. But she’s good. Very good."

Stephanie whistled. "Demon Baby’s got a type."

Jason cackled. "Man, this is gold. If it turns out the kid’s got a girlfriend before Tim does, I’ll never let it go."

Tim glared. "Excuse you, I—" He cut himself off with an irritated huff. "Never mind. Not the point."

"The point is," Duke interjected, "this girl’s important enough for Damian to be sneaky around. And that means she’s important enough for us to figure out who she is."

The room went silent for a beat before Bruce finally turned from the Batcomputer, steepling his fingers. "Find out who that is."

The words sent a ripple of determination through the group. Dick, still focused on the screen, exhaled deeply. "Guess we’re doing some recon."

Stephanie grinned. "I love recon."

Jason leaned back, a smug smirk on his face. "I’m just here to watch the chaos unfold."

Tim was already typing. "Give me twenty minutes. I’ll start running facial recognition."

Duke smirked. "And here I thought Damian was the best at keeping secrets."

Stephanie snorted. "Guess he forgot he has a family full of nosy detectives."

Just as Tim’s scan began running, another alert popped on the screen. Dick clicked it open, and the feed from another Gotham surveillance camera played. This time, it showed Hēi lánhuā in action—gracefully disarming three men in an alley before vanishing into the shadows.

"Y’know," Jason muttered, watching the clip. "She fights kind of like…"

"Like someone trained in multiple disciplines," Tim finished. "Acrobatics, precision strikes, strategic takedowns… she’s not just a vigilante. She’s been trained."

"By who, though?" Duke asked. "League of Assassins? Some rogue faction? Or…"

Dick frowned, his gaze lingering on Damian in the rooftop footage. "Or by someone close to us."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on the screen. "Keep digging. I want a name."

For once, Damian was in a good mood at the Wayne Manor. He should have known it wouldn’t last long.

The confrontation came sooner than Damian expected. He’d barely made it through the manor doors before he was met with crossed arms, expectant stares, and a rather smug-looking Jason lounging on the couch.

Bruce stood at the center of it all, arms folded, his expression unreadable. "Damian. We need to talk."

Damian narrowed his eyes. "About what?"

Richard stepped forward, laptop in hand, and pressed play on the computer. Footage of him and Hēi lánhuā flickered onto the screen. "About this."

Damian’s jaw tightened, but his face remained carefully blank. "So? Surveillance footage? Hardly shocking."

Tim gave him an unimpressed look. "You’re on a rooftop. Talking. Repeatedly. With someone we don’t know."

Jason smirked. "So, who’s the girl, Demon Brat? Don’t tell me you finally found a partner in crime."

Damian crossed his arms, his voice cold and even. "She is an operative. Nothing more."

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. "An operative for whom?"

Damian’s hesitation was minimal, but they all caught it. "I do not know."

Duke raised a brow. "But you trust her?"

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I wouldn’t say that. She is… competent. Skilled. We have crossed paths before."

Richard wasn’t buying it. "Crossed paths doing what, exactly?"

"That is irrelevant."

"No, it’s really not," Tim countered. "You don’t just let people into your circle, Damian. Whoever she is, she means something to you. And if she’s operating in Gotham, we need to know why."

Stephanie leaned in with an exaggerated grin. "So, she’s either a threat or a crush. Which is it?"

Damian scoffed. "You are all insufferable."

Bruce, still watching Damian carefully, finally spoke. "If she’s nothing more than an operative, then you won’t mind if we do our own research."

Damian stiffened slightly. "That would be a waste of time."

"We’ll be the judge of that," Bruce said, finality in his tone.

Jason let out a chuckle. "Man, this just keeps getting better."

Damian grit his teeth. He knew they wouldn’t drop this easily. But he also knew one thing for certain—he wouldn’t let them uncover the truth.

The next few days in the Manor were filled with an undercurrent of suspicion. Whenever Damian entered a room, conversations would cut short, glances would be exchanged, and an undeniable air of scheming lingered in the background.

It was infuriating.

Stephanie and Duke had started shadowing him around Gotham terribly. He caught Tim setting up new tracking software on the Batcomputer—probably to find out where Hēi lánhuā went after their last rooftop conversation. Even Richard had started throwing casual, leading questions at him during training.

It all culminated when Damian walked into the cave one evening, only to find all of them waiting for him—again.

He barely had time to turn before the massive monitor flickered to life, displaying a grainy image of Hēi lánhuā mid-leap across a Gotham rooftop. Tim, arms folded, nodded toward the screen.

“Ran every search we could. No identity match. No known affiliations. No real background. Either she’s got some next-level security scrubbing, or she’s new to the scene in a way that doesn’t add up.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Congratulations. You have confirmed what we already knew.”

Bruce, standing near the computer, finally spoke. “You’re hiding something, Damian.”

Jason leaned against the table, smirking. “Come on, kid. You know how this goes. We find out eventually. Make it easy on yourself.”

“I have nothing to say.”

Richard sighed, rubbing his temple. “Damian, if she’s important to you, that’s fine. But if she’s a risk to Gotham, we need to know.”

Damian’s temper flared. “She is not a risk.”

Duke raised an eyebrow. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Then explain why.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. “Because I have fought her before. I have seen her abilities firsthand.”

Tim leaned forward. “And yet, you won’t tell us who she really is.”

“She is no threat.”

“That’s not an answer,” Richard pointed out.

Damian exhaled sharply, fists clenching. “I owe you no explanation.”

Jason snorted. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re acting exactly how Bruce does when he’s hiding something.”

Bruce didn’t even react, still watching Damian with an unreadable expression. “If you truly believe she’s no threat, then there should be no issue with us looking into her.”

Damian’s muscles tensed. They were relentless. The Batfamily never let things go, not when something—or someone—seemed important.

He met Bruce’s gaze directly, forcing his voice into cold neutrality. “She is merely a rogue agent—a vigilante like many others in Gotham. Our paths crossed. Nothing more.”

The lie was smooth. Nearly flawless.

Nearly.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly as if detecting the smallest of cracks. Richard still looked skeptical. Stephanie, Jason, and Duke exchanged knowing glances. Tim, however, was the most blatant—watching Damian like a predator watches for the slightest misstep.

But no one outright challenged him. Not yet.

Bruce finally nodded, but there was no dismissal in his tone—just certainty. “Then you won’t mind if we continue looking.”

Damian said nothing, but he knew they weren’t dropping this. Not by a long shot.

The tension in the Manor had been suffocating for days. The Batfamily was relentless—watching, questioning, pushing. They weren’t backing down, and Damian knew it.

It all came to a head eventually.

He went out for a run while his father and siblings were on patrol when his phone rang. He answered through his earbuds.

“Damian,” Tim’s voice was steady but sharp. “Where are you?”

Damian scowled but kept his pace. “I’m out for a run by the Gotham City Park. Shouldn’t you be focused on patrol?”

“Funny,” Stephanie cut in, her tone too light to be casual. “Because we were just in that sector. Didn’t see you.”

Damian’s hands tightened into fists. “Then perhaps you need to improve your observational skills.”

“Or maybe,” Jason’s voice drawled, “you’re not actually where you said you’d be.”

Damian sighed deeply, exhaling through his nose. “What, exactly, are you implying?”

A new voice cut in. Bruce.

“She was here, wasn’t she?”

Damian’s fingers twitched.

“We ran a city-wide surveillance sweep,” Tim said. “Pulled heat signatures, movement patterns. She was in Gotham tonight. By WE, and so were you.”

Stephanie’s voice was quieter this time. “Damian, just be honest.”

He could hear it in her tone—something almost gentle, understanding. It made his blood boil.

“I owe you nothing.” His voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the line.

Duke’s voice came next, calm but firm. “You do when it concerns Gotham.”

“Enough,” Damian snapped, stopping his run and looking at the city scenery. “You act as though I am betraying some mission when I have done nothing wrong. You track me, interrogate me, accuse me—like criminals under investigation.”

Jason snorted. “Well, when you act like one—”

“Shut up, Todd!”

The sudden explosion of rage in his voice caught even himself off guard. Silence rang through the comms.

Damian took a breath, forcing his voice to steady.

“You do not trust me,” he said, quieter now but no less sharp. “You never have.”

“Damian—”

“No.” His voice was deadly calm. “You hound me, demand explanations, pick apart my every action. Yet you refuse to believe me when I say there is nothing to tell.”

Richard’s voice was softer. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, Damian. We just—”

“You do not trust me.” His voice was ice now. “If you did, we would not be having this conversation.”

Another long silence.

Then Bruce’s voice was low and unreadable. “If you have nothing to hide, then why are you so angry?”

Something inside Damian snapped.

“Because I do not answer to you!” His voice was raw with fury, with his hands raised into the air in frustration. “None of you! You act as though I am still a child who must be watched, contained, and controlled. I am not. I am nineteen years old, and if I say there’s nothing to tell, you should trust me enough to back off and not push me for some query you are trying to satisfy.”

No one spoke.

His breaths were sharp, shoulders tense, fingers curled into fists.

Then, finally, he spoke again—quieter this time, but colder.

“You can dig. You can investigate. You can waste your time with your endless surveillance. You will find nothing. Because I have nothing to tell you.”

Then he cut the call and blocked all communication from the Bat and his sidekicks.

And for the first time in a long while, he let himself disappear.

Chapter Text

Tension still clung to the air like smoke after an explosion. Once their patrol ended, the Batcave was unnervingly quiet.

Jason let out a low whistle. “Well. That was dramatic.”

Stephanie leaned against the Batcomputer, arms crossed. “Dramatic, but not surprising. He’s been a ticking time bomb for weeks.”

Duke shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him that angry before.”

“I have,” Dick muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “Last time was when Bruce—” He stopped himself. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bruce was unreadable as he stared at the monitors, the blank screens reflecting in his eyes.

“He shut off his tracker,” Tim announced. His fingers flew across the keyboard, scanning the last known location before Damian had gone dark. “No signals, no backup frequencies. He must have planned for this.”

Jason scoffed. “Of course he did. Kid’s got enough paranoia to make you look normal, Replacement.”

Tim ignored him. “Point is, we’re not finding him unless he wants to be found.”

Stephanie frowned. “So what now? We just… let him stew in his own anger?”

“He’s been doing that already,” Duke said. “And let’s be real—pushing him harder isn’t gonna make him talk. If anything, he’s just gonna dig his heels in deeper.”

Bruce finally spoke. “We wait.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Fantastic plan, B. Just let the Demon Brat go on his little tantrum tour across Gotham. I’m sure that’ll end well.”

“He’ll come back,” Bruce said evenly.

The certainty in his voice made something twist in Dick’s chest. Because he wasn’t sure Damian would . Not this time.

Damian always came back—after fights, after arguments, after storming off. But this wasn’t just frustration. This was something else .

Dick exhaled. “And if he doesn’t?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

Because none of them knew.

Damian had learned to disappear long before he arrived in Gotham and certainly before he became Robin.

It was a skill honed from years of necessity. Shadows were a second skin, silence an old friend. He had been vanishing long before the Batfamily ever forced him to belong .

Tonight, he vanished again.

Perched on the rooftop of an old, abandoned theater, he watched Gotham breathe beneath him—lights flickering, traffic humming, crime pulsing beneath the surface like a steady heartbeat.

He should have gone back to his safe house. Should have found a place to regroup. But instead, he was here.

Waiting. 

The tension coiled in Damian’s chest refused to unwind, even when she joined him to sit on the ledge. He wasn’t used to confiding in people. Trust, for him, had always been something conditional—something earned through blood, battle, and an understanding that loyalty was a blade as much as it was a bond.

And yet, here he was.

Sitting in silence with someone he had known for only six months but instinctively knew he could trust her wholeheartedly.

Hēi lánhuā wasn’t like the others. She didn’t pry, didn’t push. She existed in the space between knowing and not knowing, between presence and absence. It was a skill, the same one he’d mastered—how to slip through the cracks, how to never give too much. But with her, it wasn’t a game. It wasn’t manipulation or strategy.

It was just… her .

And maybe that was why he wasn’t leaving.  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally—

“I take it something happened with your family,” she finally said, breaking the silence.

Damian let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “Understatement. They know about you.” His voice was quiet, edged with something unreadable.

She hummed, unbothered. “I assumed as much.”

“They will not stop digging.”

“I expected that, too.”

Damian exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the city below. “They believe you are a threat.”

She tilted her head, considering. “And what do you believe?”

“I believe you are the only person in this city I trust.”

She hummed. “And now you’re here. Instead of with them.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched the city below, the headlights of cars cutting through the night, the distant wail of sirens blending into the ever-present hum of Gotham.

“They always want answers,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, edged with something that might have been exhaustion. “Explanations. As if I owe them something.”

She glanced at him, arching a brow. “And you don’t?”

Damian tensed slightly, but she didn’t press.

“… It’s not that simple,” he admitted after a moment. “They say they trust me, but they don’t. Not really. They trust me to follow their rules and to stay within their lines. But the second I step outside of their expectations, they assume the worst.” His hands curled into fists, grasping at his hair and pulling it in frustration. “They assume I am the worst.”

Hēi lánhuā was silent for a moment as if choosing her words carefully.

“I think,” she finally said, “that they trust you. But they don’t understand you.”

Damian scoffed. “That is putting it mildly.”

She gave him a look—not quite pitying, but something close. “You care what they think.”

He bristled. “No, I don’t.”

She didn’t argue, just tilted her head slightly. He hated when she did that. Like she was seeing through him.

“Tch.” He looked away, scowling. “… I shouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” She shifted, resting her arms on her knees. “But you do.”

Damian didn’t have an answer for that.

Because she was right.

And that infuriated him. But for the first time that night, Damian let his shoulders relax. Just slightly.

The mood in the Batcave had not improved.

Tim had spent half the night running traces, but Damian had covered his tracks too well. Jason had gotten bored around two AM and left to patrol. Duke had stayed until exhaustion got the better of him. Dick had stayed the longest, pacing, checking cameras, looking through anything that might give him a lead.

Bruce hadn’t moved from his seat at the Batcomputer.

Now, morning had crept in, and Stephanie walked in with coffee—one for herself, one for Tim. She eyed Bruce. “I assume offering you one would be pointless?”

Bruce didn’t respond.

Stephanie took that as a yes and plopped down into the chair next to Tim. “So? Anything?”

Tim sighed. “Nothing. He knows our patrol schedule, his room is neat like it always is, and none of his devices were left in it. If he doesn’t want to be found, we’re not finding him. And he’s not coming back until he decides to.”

“So… we wait?”

“We wait,” Dick confirmed, arms crossed.

Stephanie huffed. “I hate waiting.”

“You’re not alone.”

Jason strolled back in, biting into an apple like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Man, you guys are really wound up over this.”

Dick shot him a glare. “He blocked us on his devices, disabled his tracker, and stormed off after yelling at us. That’s not exactly normal behavior.”

Jason shrugged. “Yeah, well. Maybe he’s just finally had enough of your overbearing nonsense.”

“Jason,” Bruce said warningly.

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying. You all went in on him at once. The kid’s got issues, sure, but maybe cornering him like a pack of bloodhounds wasn’t the best strategy.”

“We weren’t cornering him,” Duke argued. “We were asking him about something suspicious—”

“Oh please,” Jason cut in. “You weren’t asking . You were interrogating. Like always .” He waved a hand at Bruce. “And you—big surprise, ‘I’ll let my son work through his emotions by treating him like a case file’ didn’t work out in your favor.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers steepled slightly.

Tim exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Okay, fine. Maybe we didn’t handle it the best way. But that doesn’t change the fact that we still don’t know what’s going on with him. And he’s not the type to just explode like that.”

Jason tossed his apple core into the trash and leaned against the table. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he is that type, but he’s just been holding it in.”

Silence.

Duke shifted uncomfortably. “… So what? We just leave him alone?”

Jason smirked, stretching against the table. “Oh, hell no. I fully plan on finding him.”

Dick frowned. “You just said—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what I said,” Jason waved him off. “But the difference is? I’m not gonna show up acting like I’m about to slap him with an intervention. Kid’s already pissed off. Someone should at least make sure he’s alive.”

Bruce finally stood, his cape shifting behind him. “You won’t be the only one.”

Jason raised a brow. “Oh? Daddy Bats stepping in?”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response.

Dick, exhaling, nodded. “I’ll go too.”

Tim looked up. “… Alright. I’ll keep running scans. If he does surface somewhere, I want to know first.”

Stephanie stretched. “Guess that means the rest of us are on standby?”

“For now,” Bruce confirmed.

Jason smirked. “Sweet. Time to go track down our favorite demon.”

And with that, the hunt began.

Damian had stayed in the same spot longer than he should have.

Hēi lánhuā had left before dawn, slipping into the night the way she always did, leaving nothing behind but a quiet presence in the air.

And now, alone again, Damian stared at the skyline.

His family wouldn’t stop looking for him.

They wouldn’t let it go.

And he… he wasn’t ready to go back.

Not yet.

So, when the familiar sound of boots landing on the roof behind him broke the silence, he didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Took you long enough, Todd.”

Jason chuckled, stepping into view. “You say that like I wasn’t the only one willing to come find your grumpy ass.”

Damian didn’t move. “So they sent you.”

Jason shrugged. “Nah. I sent me.”

That caught Damian’s attention. He glanced at him, wary. “… Why?”

Jason smirked. “Because, unlike them, I don’t need to know what’s going on.” He sat on the ledge next to him, stretching his arms. “I just need to know if you’re good.”

Damian frowned. “I am fine .”

Jason snorted. “Yeah. Sure you are.”

Damian scowled, but Jason didn’t push further.

They sat there in silence.

For once, that was enough.

Damian stood outside the apartment door, his hand poised to knock, but he hesitated. It was a strange thing, asking for shelter from someone he once considered an enemy. But they had changed. And he—he wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

The knock echoed in the hallway.

A moment later, the door swung open, and Harley Quinn’s face lit up with surprise. “Well, well, well—if it ain’t my favorite grumpy gremlin.”

Damian scowled. “I do not appreciate being referred to as a gremlin .”

Harley smirked. “Aw, c’mon, it’s a term of endearment. Now, you gonna tell me why you’re knocking on my door at—” She glanced at the clock inside. “— the ass-crack of dawn with half your bedroom behind you?”

Behind her, Poison Ivy appeared, raising a delicate brow. “Damian?”

“… I need a place to stay.”

That made both women pause.

Harley blinked. “You serious?”

Damian shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Marinette is out with some friends, but she said I could stay here if I needed the space.”

Ivy studied him, her green eyes sharp but not unkind. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your father, does it?”

“Tch. Of course it does,” Harley scoffed. “Look at ‘im. Classic ‘I’m mad at Batsy’ posture.”

Damian bristled, but he didn’t deny it.

Harley hummed. “Well, kid, we ain’t exactly runnin’ a bed and breakfast, but—” She opened the door wider. “You got a couch if ya need it.”

Damian hesitated. “… I don’t need charity.”

Ivy sighed. “It’s not charity, Damian. It’s a safe place.”

Harley grinned. “And if ya needa vent, we got ice cream and bad decisions waitin’.”

Damian frowned. “I do not make bad decisions .”

“Sure, sure.” Harley waved him in. “C’mon, before ya freeze to death in the hallway.”

~~~

Damian stepped inside, once again taking in the apartment’s eclectic mix of greenery and chaos. Ivy’s influence was clear—vines hung from the ceiling, potted plants lined every available surface, and the air smelled fresh and earthy, unlike the sterile, shadowed halls of the Manor. Then there was Harley’s touch—neon lights, a slightly cluttered coffee table, and a well-loved baseball bat leaning in the corner.

Damian sat stiffly on the couch, arms crossed, eyes set on the window. Ivy moved through the kitchen, brewing some kind of herbal tea, while Harley sat next to him, legs tucked under her.

Harley plopped onto the couch, kicking her feet up. “So, you want the grand tour, or do ya wanna just collapse on the couch and ignore all ya problems?” She grinned. “Both are valid options.”

“I do not ignore my problems,” Damian muttered, stiffly standing near the doorway. He was still uncertain about this, about asking for anything. He was trained to survive, to adapt, not to seek comfort.

“So,” Harley started, tossing a kernel of popcorn into her mouth. “You gonna tell us what happened?”

“No.”

Ivy gave Harley a knowing look before setting a cup of tea on the coffee table. “Then we won’t ask.”

Damian glanced at her. “You’re not going to pry?”

“Nah.” Harley leaned back. “Ain’t our business. But just so ya know, whatever went down, you ain’t alone.”

Ivy nodded. “You’re welcome here as long as you need.”

For a long moment, Damian said nothing. Then, finally—

“… Thank you.”

Ivy sighed and brushed past him, already grabbing a blanket from a chair. “You’re not on trial here, Damian. No one’s waiting for an explanation or expecting you to prove something.” She handed him the blanket with a raised brow. “Now, sit before Harley decides to try and psychoanalyze you.”

Harley gasped dramatically. “Hey! I’d be great at that.” She winked. “You got trauma, short stack, and I got jokes. We could work through this together .”

Damian rolled his eyes but remained on the couch with the two women.

~~~~~

The tea sat untouched on the table, the steam curling into the air between them. Damian wasn’t used to this—quiet concern, patience without pressure. His family asked questions, expected answers, and demanded explanations. Here, he was allowed to simply be .

“You know,” Harley started, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth, “you don’t gotta tell us nothin’, but if you do wanna talk, I do have a PhD.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I technically count as a therapist.”

Ivy groaned. “Harley, you lost your license years ago.”

“Semantics! The knowledge is still in my head.” Harley waved a hand. “Point is, kid, you wanna scream into a pillow, punch somethin’—not someone , ‘cause Ivy’ll kill me—you got options.”

Damian eyed them both before turning his gaze to the window. “… I do not scream into pillows.”

Harley smirked. “Give it time.”

Jonathan Kent didn’t need super-hearing to know something was off .

Damian’s texts had been short—shorter than usual. And when Jon called, he got nothing but vague, clipped responses.

So, naturally, he took the fastest route to Gotham. Jonathan Kent wasn’t exactly subtle when he arrived in Gotham—in fact, he rarely was. His landing wasn’t loud, but the burst of wind that followed it was enough to stir Damian’s hair slightly.

When he found Damian, the younger boy was perched on a rooftop, looking out over the city like it had personally offended him.

Jon landed with a soft thud . “Okay, what happened?”

Damian didn’t turn. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jon crossed his arms. “Dude. Really ?”

Silence.

“You’re getting predictable, Kent.”

Jon chuckled, stepping forward. “Nah. You’re just getting too easy to read.” He gave Damian a once-over, frowning slightly. “You look like hell.”

Damian scoffed. “Charming.”

Jon sighed, sitting next to him. “I know that look. That’s the ‘I’m brooding, but I refuse to admit I’m brooding’ look.”

Damian scowled. “I am not brooding.”

Jon smirked. “Right. And I don’t have superpowers.”

Damian huffed.

Jon nudged him lightly. “C’mon. I’m not asking for the whole story, just… talk to me, man.”

For a long time, Damian said nothing. But then, his shoulders sagged—just a little.

“… I had an argument with my family.”

Jon didn’t push. He just nodded. “Yeah?”

Damian exhaled sharply. “It was… significant.”

Jon studied him, eyes soft. “You staying with them?”

“No.”

Jon tilted his head. “Where, then?”

Damian hesitated. “… Harley and Ivy’s.”

Jon blinked. “Huh. Okay, that’s actually kinda cool.”

Damian scoffed. “You would think so.”

Jon grinned. “Hey, they’re reformed .”

“… Mostly, but Marinette talked to them about letting me sleep on their couch for a while.”

Jon slung an arm over Damian’s shoulders. “Good to know you've got shelter then. Also, just so you know—you ever need a break from Gotham, you’ve got a place in Metropolis. Ma loves having guests.”

Damian stiffened slightly but didn’t pull away.

“… I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get that you’re not in the mood for a heart-to-heart, but you texted me to come here, somewhere completely different from our usual spots—which means something happened. And I know you. If you don’t talk about it, you’re gonna let it fester.”

Damian tensed, but he didn’t argue. He just stared out over Gotham, the city lights reflecting in his sharp green eyes. “… I am not ready.”

Jon nodded. “Okay.” He sat down, swinging his legs over the edge. “Then I’ll wait.”

Gotham was nothing like Paris. Where Marinette was used to the soft golden glow of streetlights and the distant hum of the Seine, Gotham was shadowed in neon reflections on rain-slicked pavement. The air smelled like rain, asphalt, and something vaguely metallic.

She tightened her coat around her as she exited the library after working on a few commissions, the warmth from inside vanishing the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk. Her phone buzzed.

Jonathan: Hey, I’m here. Blue hoodie. Red boots.

Marinette looked up and, sure enough, there he was—a tall, broad-shouldered guy leaning against a lamppost, hands shoved into his pockets. His dark hair was messy like he’d flown into Gotham and never bothered fixing it.

She approached cautiously. “Jonathan Kent?”

He turned, eyes bright and blue as the sky, and grinned. “Hello, Marinette.”

She folded her arms. “Took you long enough.”

Jon chuckled. “Gotham’s not exactly my usual scene.” He glanced around. “Are we gonna get mugged?”

Marinette smirked. “Only if you look like an easy target.”

“Good thing I’ve got invulnerability,” he said with a wink.

She rolled her eyes. “Show-off.”

~~~

Marinette took a sip of her coffee as Jon did the same with his tea as they sat at a table in a nearby cafe.

“Okay, so,” Jon started, blowing on his tea, “we both agree Damian is a stubborn, emotionally constipated mess?”

Marinette nodded. “Absolutely.”

“And we both want to help him?”

She took a sip. “Yep.”

Jon sighed. “So how do we do that when he won’t let us?”

Marinette set her cup down with a thoughtful hum. “Well, first of all, pushing doesn’t work. That’s what led to this mess, and I don’t want to have a repeat of it.”

“Same.” Jon groaned. “He just shuts down.”

Marinette twirled a loose strand of hair. “Then maybe… we don’t push him to talk. We just make sure he knows we’re here, even when he’s not ready.”

Jon kicked at the floor. “So… how worried are you?”

Marinette sighed. “More than I want to be.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah. Same.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the quiet ambiance of the establishment.

“He won’t talk to me,” Marinette admitted, voice quiet. “Not really.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, same here. He’s got a talent for keeping his feelings close to his chest.”

She frowned. “It’s not just that. He probably thinks he’s protecting us by keeping us at arm’s length. But he doesn’t realize how much it hurts to watch him shut down.”

Jon exhaled slowly. “He’s been like this since the fallout with his family, huh?”

Marinette nodded. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Jon offered a half-smile. “Maybe we don’t have to fix it. Maybe we just have to be here when he’s ready.”

She looked at him, then down at her hands. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

Jon put his hand on hers lightly. “We’ve got each other. And if anyone can handle Damian Wayne, it’s us.”

She snorted. “That’s a low bar.”

Jon laughed. “True. But hey, we’ll figure it out.”

Marinette smiled softly. “Yeah. We will.”

~~~

“I think we should form a club,” Jon declared during a video call between him and Marinette.

Marinette raised a brow from where she was sketching at her desk. “A club?”

“Yeah. The ‘We Care About Damian, But He’s A Pain In The Ass’ Club .”

Marinette snorted. “Do we get t-shirts?”

Jon grinned. “We should . Maybe hats, too.”

“Mm. Hoodies would be better.”

Jon pointed at her. “See? This is why we’re gonna get along.”

Marinette shook her head, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re enabling me,” Jon shot back.

She laughed, closing her sketchbook. “Fine. But if we’re making hoodies, I’m designing them.”

Jon leaned back, arms behind his head. “Deal.”

And just like that, an alliance was formed.

Chapter Text

Damian hadn’t meant to stay so long. What was supposed to be a quick overnight stay had turned into him spending the last week at Marinette and two of the Rogue’s apartment. Tonight, he found himself on the balcony surrounded by a few plants, staring at Gotham’s skyline. Gotham felt different from this area of the city–quieter, less suffocating. Looking out onto the skyline, he could almost pretend that the weight pressing on his chest wasn’t real. Almost.

Marinette leaned against the railing beside him, two cups of tea in hand. “You know, for someone who hates talking, you stare at the city like you’re going to break into song or vent ruefully like the city will talk back to you.”

Damian scoffed, taking one of the cups. “I do not hate talking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He exhaled through his nose, choosing to focus on the skyline instead of engaging in her teasing. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. After a while, Marinette sighed and nudged his arm lightly. “I’m not gonna push. Just… don’t disappear, okay? If you don’t want to talk to Jon or me, Harley and Ivy are always open, and you know they won’t judge.”

Damian’s grip tightened on the edge of the balcony. He wasn’t used to people waiting for him to open up—his family tiptoed, demanded, interrogated, expected . But Marinette just sat there, giving him tea and space to breathe.

“I won’t,” he finally said. “Disappear, I mean,” his voice barely above a whisper. 

Marinette smiled like she knew how much that admission cost him. “Good.”

His grip tightened slightly on the cup. He wasn’t sure why the plea to stay resonated so deeply. He had vanished before, on purpose and by necessity. But for once, someone asked him to stay—not as an obligation, but as a choice.

Amidst studying a corner table in Gotham Academy’s library, Damian didn’t flinch when the tiny red creature fluttered onto the table. He had long since gotten used to strange things in his life. Still, it felt strange to be around Marinette’s tiny god. Damian had long since come to terms with the existence of magic, but Tikki was different. She wasn’t an unknown entity to be neutralized—she was small, red, and incredibly perceptive in a way that unsettled him.

“You’re overthinking again,” she chirped, landing on the book he wasn’t actually reading.

Damian glanced at her. “That is an assumption.”

Tikki giggled. “It’s the truth.”

He sighed and leaned back. “You seem awfully invested in my well-being for a magical being I barely know.”

Tikki hovered closer. “I care because Marinette cares. And because you’re a good person, even if you don’t always believe it.”

The notion of ‘goodness’ had always been complicated for him. He had spent his entire life being measured by his actions, not his intent. He wasn’t sure he deserved the trust or faith that people like Marinette or Jon seemed to place in him.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he settled for a quiet “Hmph.”

Tikki just smiled knowingly. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Damian closed his book, crossing his arms on the table and resting his head on it. “I know.”

For the first time in a long time, he almost believed it.

~~~~~

Marinette’s walls were covered in notes, pinned papers, and strings of red connecting various points of information. In Damian’s opinion, it was a bit excessive—but effective nonetheless.

She tapped the board with her marker. “So far, we know that there’s a strange energy in Gotham.”

Jon, who was lounging on her desk chair, frowned. “But no confirmed source yet?”

Marinette shook her head. “Not yet. But I have a few leads.”

Damian folded his arms. “We should be cautious. There are too many unknown variables.”

Marinette shot him a look. “Cautious? From you?”

Jon snorted. “Yeah, that’s rich coming from the guy who was the Robin with a sword .”

Damian scowled. “That was calculated . I’m incredibly skilled with various swords; it cut down Gotham’s crime rate for a period.”

Marinette smirked. “Sure it did.”

Despite himself, Damian felt some of the tension ease. They had a long way to go, but at least he wasn’t in this alone.

~~~

“So, have you actually thought about what comes after graduation?” Marinette asked, sketching out designs in her notebook.

Damian, seated across from her, raised a brow. “You assume I do not have a plan.”

She looked up. “Well? Do you?”

He hesitated.

Jon sprawled on the couch and propped himself up on one elbow. “Wait—does Damian Wayne not have a plan?”

Damian huffed. “I had one.”

Marinette set down her pen. “And now?”

“…It’s complicated.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah, that’s what happens when your family implodes, and you run off to live with a supervillain couple.”

Marinette elbowed him. “Not helping.”

Jon held up his hands. “Just saying.”

Damian stared at the notebook before him as if the answer might appear between its pages. He had always known what came next—his future was supposed to be a series of calculated steps leading toward inevitable greatness. But now, the certainty was gone, and in its place was something he didn’t quite know how to navigate.

Damian sighed. “I need time to figure things out.”

Marinette smiled gently. “Then we’ll help. No pressure, no expectations. Just support.”

Jon grinned. “Yeah. You’re stuck with us, dude.”

Damian glanced between them. He felt a little less lost for the first time in a long while.

Late nights in Gotham were quieter than expected, the city settling into an uneasy stillness that was only broken by the occasional siren or distant chatter of rooftop vigilantes. Damian sat by the large window of the apartment he currently called home, the flickering neon sign from across the street casting jagged patterns along the walls. Marinette sat across from him, one leg tucked beneath her, sipping at the now lukewarm tea Ivy had brewed before slipping off to bed.

"这就是高谭市的和平？” (This is peace in Gotham?) Marinette mused, swirling her cup absentmindedly.

Damian exhaled sharply, arms folded across his chest. "相对而言。如果不考虑偶尔发生的爆炸或帮派战争，这里几乎是和平的。” (Relatively speaking. If you discount the occasional bombing or gang war, it’s almost peaceful.)

She smirked at his dry tone, setting the cup aside. "来你家之前，我想象你在庄园里，像故事书里的王子一样在哥特式的塔楼里沉思，但我没想到，在学校的最后几个月里，你会和哈雷-奎恩还有毒藤女住在一起。” (Before coming to your house, I imagined you at the Manor, brooding in a gothic tower like a storybook prince, but I didn't realize that you'd be living with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy for the last few months of school.)

"这是暂时的、” (It’s temporary) he muttered, looking out the window again. "和必要的” (And necessary)

Marinette didn’t press, but she studied him carefully. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since their last conversation. Something about the whole Batfamily confrontation had shaken him deeper than he was willing to admit.

"乔恩很担心你，你知道的” (Jon’s worried about you, you know) she said after a pause.

Damian scoffed but didn’t turn to her. "他太担心了” (He worries too much)

"这并不意味着他错了。我也很担心” (That doesn’t make him wrong. And I’m worried too.)

His fingers twitched slightly, but his expression remained impassive. "没什么好担心的 我有个计划” (There’s nothing to worry about. I have a plan.)

She sighed. " 你总是这样 但也许这一次，你不必独自承受” (You always do. But maybe this time, you don’t have to go through with it alone.)

Tikki was an enigma to him. For all of Damian’s years of training under assassins, strategists, and tacticians, he had never encountered anything like the tiny, floating goddess of creation hovering around the plants, nibbling on a cookie.

"You know, for someone so meticulous, you have a very messy way of handling your emotions," she observed, her voice light but piercing.

Damian narrowed his eyes at the little being. "I don’t mishandle my emotions."

"Mmhmm. And yet, you’re here, self-exiled from your own home, pretending this is all part of some grand strategy."

He bristled, but Tikki just giggled, floating closer. "You know Marinette sees it too. She won’t push you, but that doesn’t mean she’ll stop caring. And neither will Jon."

Damian turned away, arms still crossed. "Tch. I never asked for their concern."

"No, but you have it anyway," Tikki said simply. "That’s the funny thing about bonds. They exist whether you acknowledge them or not."

Jon leaned against the rooftop railing, watching Damian with a patient expression. "So, between you and me, what are the big post-grad plans?"

Damian was adjusting a throwing knife in his hands and didn’t look up. "Tch. I have options."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but which one do you actually want?"

Damian hesitated, and Jon knew he had struck a nerve in that brief pause.

"Marinette’s got her designs and business plans," Jon continued. "I know you’ve been wanting to go to med school and looking into independent projects, but you haven’t said a word about how you’re going to do it. And, you know, you don’t have to figure it all out alone."

Damian huffed, tucking the knife away. "I’ll decide when I’m ready."

Jon sighed but didn’t push. "Just… remember that you have people who care. Whether you like it or not."

Damian said nothing, but as he looked out over the Gotham skyline, the weight of those words settled heavily in his chest.

Chapter Text

Jon found him perched on the rooftop, Gotham’s smog-drenched sky stretching endlessly above them. The weight of the city clung to Damian’s shoulders, pressing into him like an old wound that refused to heal. Jon landed beside him with practiced ease, tucking his cape beneath him as he sat.

“They miss you, y’know,” Jon started, voice lighter than the heavy tension in the air. “Even Jason, and he complains about everyone.”

Damian huffed. “Doubtful.”

Jon nudged him with his shoulder. “Okay, he complains about everyone except Alfred. But seriously, Damian. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I know you. You wouldn’t have left just for the sake of leaving.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “They refuse to see the hypocrisy in their judgments. My mother’s sins are unforgivable, yet my father’s are merely… mistakes.” He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists. “They act as if my existence is something to be atoned for.”

Jon hesitated before speaking, his voice softer this time. “But you know that’s not true, right?”

Damian didn’t answer for a few moments. “I have lived with them for nearly a decade, and despite the fleeting moments of warmth, it was overshadowed by being in their shadows. If they want me to return to the Manor, just saying they miss me is not going to be enough.”

Tikki hovered in front of him, the soft glow of her form barely illuminating the balcony in comparison to Gotham’s light pollution. Despite her size, there was something immeasurably ancient in her presence, something that made Damian feel oddly exposed. She is a creature of warmth, and Damian, for all his careful composure, found her presence strangely soothing. She had an air of patience about her, ancient and understanding in a way that made it difficult to remain guarded.

“I can feel the conflict in you,” she said gently, her tiny voice carrying the weight of something larger than words. “You carry so much—so much responsibility, so many expectations.”

Damian exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was raised to believe in absolutes. Strength or weakness. Loyalty or betrayal. My mother instilled in me the necessity of control. My father… expects me to live by his ideals and his city’s rules. Neither of them leaves room for who I am.”

Tikki tilted her head. “And who are you?”

He frowned. “That is what I’m trying to determine.”

She hummed in thought. “The Ladybug Miraculous is about balance, Damian. Creation and destruction. Luck and misfortune. You’ve lived your life in extremes—perhaps it’s time to find the middle ground.”

For the first time in a long while, something in Damian’s chest loosened.

“I–I believe you are right, Tikki, but how do I find that middle ground when every time I venture out of this apartment, I’m surrounded by their literal and figurative shadows?”

"You think too much," she said evenly, fluttering near his shoulder as he stared out over the Gotham skyline.

"It is better than not thinking enough," he replied, his voice measured.

Tikki hummed. "Perhaps. But thinking too much can make things heavier than they need to be."

Damian glanced at her. "And what do you suggest?"

She smiled knowingly. "That you allow yourself to trust. And allow yourself to just be , with no expectations, no thoughts of the past or future, just enjoying where you are in the present. I know Marinette had a hard time learning how to do it, too. What always cleared her mind was exploring and patrolling Paris with her Miraculous. Perhaps you should give it a try, too."

The idea settled uncomfortably in his chest. Trust was not something easily given in his world. But Tikki had a way of making things sound deceptively simple.

There was a difference between holding and wielding the Miraculous. The first time he held it, it felt foreign. Though small, the yo-yo's weight felt heavier than any weapon he had ever wielded. Marinette stood beside him, watching carefully, her own yo-yo swinging idly from her fingers.

“You don’t have to do this,” she reminded him, though there was no hesitation in her tone, only understanding.

Damian’s fingers closed around the Miraculous, the cool material warming against his palm. He had spent his entire life being told who he was supposed to be. An assassin. A Wayne. A soldier in someone else’s war. But here, now, he had the chance to choose.

“I do,” he said, at last, meeting her gaze with something steady, something certain. “For once, I decide what I become.”

Marinette smiled, and in that moment, the choice felt right.

That night he officially donned the Miraculous, and the transformation was unlike anything he had felt before. It wasn’t the same as slipping into his Robin uniform—it wasn’t a role dictated by expectation or duty. This was something else entirely. Something that belonged to him.

Marinette had walked him through the first transformation, guiding him with an ease that only came from experience. He felt the shift in his bones, the pull of magic and purpose threading through him like fire and silk. When the glow faded, he stood still, exhaling slowly.

"Well?" Marinette prompted, watching him closely.

Damian flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders experimentally. "Strange," he admitted.

She smiled. "You'll get used to it."

He met her gaze, something steady settling inside him. "I intend to."

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t carrying the weight of someone else's expectations—he was carving his own path.

After a few seconds, Marinette prompted him again, watching as he inspected his suit. “How do you feel?”

Damian flexed his fingers, feeling the energy course through him. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Balanced,” he said.

~~~

For the first time in years, Damian Wayne wasn’t running from something—he was stepping toward it. The training was different from anything Damian had ever experienced. It wasn’t about efficiency or brutality. It was about finesse, precision, and most of all, creativity. Marinette moved like a dancer, every step and motion woven seamlessly into the battlefield. The way she fought wasn’t just skill—it was art.

“You’re thinking too rigidly,” she told him one evening as they sparred atop a quiet rooftop. “Ladybug magic isn’t about power alone—it’s about adaptability.”

Damian scowled, narrowly dodging the swinging of her baton. “Adaptability is just another word for improvisation.”

She grinned, landing gracefully on the ledge. “Exactly.”

He exhaled sharply, watching her with careful eyes. “I am not used to fighting without certainty.”

Marinette softened, lowering her yoyo. “Then maybe it’s time to learn.”

Jon was the first to notice the change. It was subtle—Damian carried himself differently, no longer coiled as tightly as before. The anger that had once simmered beneath his every word had dulled, no longer sharp enough to cut.

“I think you’re happy,” Jon commented one day as they sat on the edge of a clock tower.

Damian shot him a glare. “I do not experience emotions so trivially.”

Jon laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.” But there was a knowing glint in his eyes.

~~~~~

The next day, Jon was waiting for him after school, leaning casually against a streetlamp, hands stuffed into his pockets. His presence was easy, familiar, a stark contrast to the city that loomed around them.

"You look like you actually survived the day," Jon teased, falling into step beside Damian as they walked.

Damian scoffed. "Barely. Humans are exhausting."

Jon grinned. "Lucky for you, I'm half-alien. So that makes me half as exhausting, right?"

Damian rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. "I would argue you’re twice as exhausting, actually."

Jon laughed, nudging him playfully. "So, how's the whole 'normal student' thing going?"

Damian hesitated. "Strange. It is… different. Marinette makes it tolerable."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Marinette? You don’t usually mention her casually, that’s new."

Damian narrowed his eyes. "Do not start."

Jon just grinned wider.

The silence between them stretched, weighted yet not uncomfortable. Damian sat stiffly on the worn-out couch of Harley and Ivy’s apartment, staring at the steam curling from his untouched cup of tea. Across from him, Marinette sat cross-legged, her quiet presence a contrast to the colorful chaos of the apartment. She didn’t push, didn’t pry—just waited, offering space in a way few ever did.

“It was never a home,” Damian finally murmured, his voice edged with something too sharp to be nostalgia but too soft to be bitterness. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, choosing instead to focus on the coffee table holding his tea. “The League of Assassins. It was training, discipline, and expectations. My mother ensured I was the best. That I was prepared for my ‘destiny.’” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Then suddenly, I was not where I belonged. Not with her. Not with my father.”

Marinette tilted her head, absorbing every word with unwavering focus. “And now?”

“Now,” he echoed, scoffing softly and looking towards the ceiling, “I have nowhere.”

She frowned, leaning forward slightly. “That’s not true.”

Damian finally met her gaze, green clashing against blue, “I may not literally have nowhere to go, but—the mere thought of returning to Wayne Manor is far from appealing. I do not know if I want to live in a home where they are ready to point the finger at me for any little mistake.”

Marinette’s gaze shifted to one of concern. Her eyebrows furrowing together, a small frown on her face. Uncrossing her legs, she slowly made her way next to Damian, sitting close enough that their shoulders bumped against each other. 

When she spoke, she was like a narrator regaling a child with a story: “One of my best friends is Chloé Bourgeois, the daughter of the former mayor of Paris. We met in École Élémentaire, and at first, we were inseparable. But something changed, and for years afterwards, she was my biggest bully.” 

“She made my life miserable; talking to me cruelly, humiliating me every chance she got, ensuring that we’d always be in the same class year after year. She stole my designs once, and other times accused me of being a thief, planting evidence to make me seem even more guilty.” 

Before she continued, Marinette looked at Damian, watching him contemplate her words, mulling them over analytically. After a while, he spoke a simple phrase, only a few words: “Did you hate her?” Immediately, the young woman shook her head as she closed her eyes. 

“I don’t hate much of anyone, especially not her. I hated that my once-best friend bullied me so intensely. I resented that I was her main target. I was incredibly harsh on myself because I thought that I must have done something to deserve it. I laugh at that now, since we were in Cours Moyen 1 when this started. What could a ten-year-old possibly have done to have such a dedicated bully?”

“So you did not hold any disdain or ill-will towards her?” His gaze shifted down, his hands outstretched on his lap. Gently, she placed her hand on top of one.

“Not in the slightest, Damian. My Maman taught me about separating the person from the action . Someone may act a certain way, not because that’s who they are, but because at that moment they’re a combination of past experiences, fears, expectations, hormones, even a mood. Chloé’s parents divorced when she was young, and her mom moved to New York soon after. Her father was hurriedly building a political career on top of owning a hotel, and spoiled his daughter more than disciplining or spending genuine time with her. Because of that and what I believe are complicated feelings from seeing my relationship with my parents, it led her to react and treat others in a particular way.” 

“You say she is one of your best friends. How did that happen if she made your life hard for so many years?”

“It’s quite simple; she changed. I stood up to her repeatedly after I received my Miraculous. There were a few times where we talked about what happened to us, our dynamic shifted, and two years ago, she gave a heartfelt apology. Ultimately, although who she is is more or less the same, she showed genuine remorse and worked hard to earn the title of my friend.” 

Damian looked at her tenderly, making a slight blush appear on her cheeks but Marinette hardly paid attention to the heat on her face, as she held her friend’s hands in hers, their bodies turning to face each other on the couch. Gingerly, she guided him towards her room, and silently he followed. Closing the door and sitting on her bed, Marinette remained holding his hands, closing the space between them. 

“I’m sharing this because I may not know everything about your background and childhood, but I don’t need to. I met this version of you, someone, to me is a gentle giant. You’re calculating, precise, and have an intense appearance, sure. But I see you’re an artist, a budding historian with a massive love of reading, a devout pet lover, and a plant parent. Who do you think you are, Damian?”

He was silent for a few minutes but when he answered, his voice was as small as a young child’s, his accent coming in full force. “I think I am Damian al Ghul-Wayne. I was the fifth Robin, and now the current holder of the Miraculous. I am a student of Talia al Ghul and the League of Assassins, just as I am a student of Bruce Wayne and the Gotham Knights. I am a polyglot, a master swordsman and martial artist, and a vegetarian. I enjoy various art mediums, but I prefer drawing. I enjoy cooking, and I am determined to get a Monstera plant and have it produce a fruit. I am ambidextrous and want to be a pediatrician.”

Marinette looked at Damian with such a soft look that Damian could swear his heart skipped a beat. When she spoke, she also spoke in a quiet manner. 

“Hi Damian al Ghul-Wayne, I’m Marinette. You seem like an insanely cool person that I’d love to get to know you–”

All at once, Damian engulfed her in a tight hug. No words were exchanged between the two, and they stayed in that position for several minutes. If she felt tear tracks on her shirt where Damian was, that was nobody’s business, not even Damian’s.

Chapter Text

Damian sat at the kitchen counter in Harley and Ivy’s apartment, staring into the swirling depths of his untouched tea. The apartment smelled of soil and lavender, with plants creeping along every available surface. It was oddly soothing—this tiny jungle in the heart of Gotham. He had spent so much time in places draped in shadows, built from cold stone and sharp steel. This? This was different.

“So, ya gonna sit there all night lookin’ like someone kicked your puppy, or are ya gonna tell Auntie Harley what’s got ya all twisted up?” Harley quipped, swinging herself onto a stool beside him. She propped her elbows on the counter and grinned at him, but there was no teasing in her eyes—just an easy patience, the kind that had worn away at his defenses over the past few weeks.

Standing by the sink, trimming one of her plants, Ivy didn’t look up as she added, “If you’re staying here long-term, Damian, you might as well start talking. Otherwise, you’ll just keep brooding, and I like my Cacti to be the only thing exuding dark energy in this apartment.”

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. He knew they weren’t pushing. Not really. It wasn’t an interrogation like it would’ve been with his father or his siblings. They didn’t expect him to justify himself. They just wanted to listen.

“I left,” he said finally, voice tight, controlled. “And I know they don’t understand why.”

Harley hummed, spinning her teacup in place. “Lemme guess—Batman thinks it’s just some rebellious phase, Nightwing’s tryin’ to play peacemaker, Red Hood’s bein’ a pain in the ass, and the demon spawn—oh, wait, that’s you—is feelin’ some kinda way about all of it?”

Damian shot her a flat look, but there wasn’t much venom in it. Ivy, for her part, sighed. “Your father is many things, but emotionally competent is hardly one of them.”

He clenched his fists in his lap. “It’s a lot of things, actually. They speak about my mother like she is irredeemable. But they forgive Bruce as if his sins are lesser. As if I am somehow—” His voice hitched, and he hated that it did. “As if I am something that needs to be atoned for.”

Ivy’s movements stilled. Harley’s expression softened, a rare seriousness overtaking her usual playful demeanor. “Kid…” she started, but Damian shook his head sharply.

“I don’t expect them to embrace her,” he continued, voice lowering. “But for all her complexity, her decision and sacrifice to bring me to my father is the reason I’m with them in the first place. I am tired of being a reminder of something they refuse to reconcile.”

Harley reached out then, tapping the rim of his teacup. “I get it. That whole ‘you didn’t ask to be born’ thing, yeah?” She gave him a small smirk. “Not that I know the exact feelin’, but I’ve been in a spot where I felt like a walking mistake. S’not a fun place to be.”

Ivy nodded, setting down her shears. “You’re not your father. You’re not your mother either. You’re you, Damian. And if they can’t see that, then maybe it’s on them.”

Damian swallowed, staring down at his reflection in the tea. For once, he didn’t feel the need to argue.

~~~

Later that night, Marinette found him sitting on the balcony, looking over the city. She had a way of appearing when he least expected it—silent but never unwelcome. She sat beside him, hugging her knees to her chest.

“I talked to Jon a few hours ago,” she said after a while, watching the distant glow of the skyline. “He’s worried about you.”

Damian huffed. “Jon is always worried.”

She smiled faintly. “And he always will be.”

A breeze ruffled through the air, carrying the scent of damp pavement and distant jasmine. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Marinette asked, “Do you regret it? Leaving?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. He thought about the manor, the expectations, the ever-present weight of legacy pressing down on him. He thought about how, no matter how much he tried, there was always something not quite right—some invisible line he could never fully cross.

“No,” he admitted eventually, eyes closed. “I regret that they do not understand why I did it.”

She nodded, as if she had expected that answer. “You don’t have to carry that alone, you know.”

He glanced at her, brow furrowing. “And you believe you can share that burden?”

She met his gaze, unwavering. "You don’t have to say anything," she said after a moment. "But if you ever want to, I’ll listen."

Damian didn’t respond right away. The city hummed around them, a symphony of distant sirens and flickering lights.

"I have spent so much of my life proving myself," he admitted. "To my mother. To my father. To the League. To the Bat. And no matter what I do, it never feels like enough."

Marinette looked at him, her gaze steady. "Maybe because you were never meant to prove yourself to them. Maybe you were just meant to be yourself."

Damian let her words settle in his mind, the weight of them unfamiliar but not unwelcome. A few minutes passed and Damian let out a breath, something uncoiling in his chest. It was unfamiliar, this feeling of being seen without scrutiny and given space without demands. He wasn’t sure if he knew how to accept it yet.

But like Tikki keeps asking, he could try.

The apartment was quieter than usual. Harley had stepped out for a supply run, and Ivy was curled up in her favorite chair, reading one of her countless botany books. Marinette sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook in her lap, her pencil making soft, rhythmic strokes against the page. Damian lingered by the window, sitting with his arms crossed, staring at Gotham’s neon-lit streets as if they held answers he wasn’t ready to voice.

"You keep looking out there like it’s gonna tell you something," Ivy murmured without looking up from her book. "Cities don’t talk, kid. You gotta do the talking."

Damian didn’t turn around. "There’s nothing to say."

Marinette’s pencil stopped. She looked up, her blue eyes scanning him with quiet understanding. "Then why do you look like you're fighting a war inside your own head?"

A scoff left his lips, but no real bite was behind it. "You presume too much."

Ivy sighed, setting her book aside. "You don’t have to tell us everything, Damian. But keeping it bottled up isn’t going to help either. Harley and I—well, we know a thing or two about messy pasts. And Marinette? She’s more patient than anyone I know."

Damian hesitated, his fingers curling against his forearms. Finally, he exhaled and turned to face them. "Do you remember what I said a few days ago? My family sees Talia as a villain," he said, his voice measured but carrying the weight of something deeper. "They refuse to acknowledge that she is more than just her choices. And in doing so, they refuse to acknowledge parts of me."

Ivy’s expression softened. "Sounds like they don’t really know you."

"They know the version of me they want to see," he admitted, bringing his legs to his chest and resting his arms on them. "The one that fits into their world. But I was raised in another world before I ever stepped foot in theirs. And neither has ever truly felt like home."

Marinette closed her sketchbook. "Then maybe home isn’t a place," she said gently. "Maybe it’s the people who make you feel like you don’t have to choose between parts of yourself. I think that’s a real definition of home."

For a long moment, Damian didn’t respond. Then, with something that almost resembled acceptance, he nodded. It was not an outright agreement, but the first step in a conversation he hadn’t realized he needed.

~~~

An hour later, Harley returned, arms full of grocery bags, humming an off-key tune. "Okay, I got snacks, coffee, more tea but a variety this time, a whole bunch of that fancy chocolate Marinette likes—oh, and I snagged that weird cereal you like, Dami."

Damian frowned. "I do not have a preference for cereal."

"Uh-huh. Sure," Harley said with a grin, tossing him a family-sized box. "Then why’d ya eat half of Ivy’s last week?"

Ivy smirked from behind her book. Marinette stifled a giggle. Damian sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he sat down at the table, relaxing in the rare warmth of an evening spent with people who didn’t demand parts of him he wasn’t ready to give away.

The apartment was quieter than usual. The city hummed outside, the afternoon tense with humidity, the distant sounds of Gotham never truly ceasing, but there was a rare stillness within the walls of Ivy and Harley’s home. Damian sat at the dining table, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea Ivy had practically forced into him. Across from him, Marinette sat patiently, while Harley lounged on the couch, twirling a strand of blonde and pink hair around her finger.

“So,” Ivy said, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him with her usual sharpness, “we’ve heard about your mother, but you haven’t given as many details about your father.”

Damian didn’t answer right away. His grip on the cup tightened, the warmth seeping into his fingers. Marinette tilted her head slightly, reading him as quietly as she always did.

“He is… difficult,” Damian finally said, his voice even but strained. “Bruce Wayne. Batman.” He let out a breath, like just saying the name took effort. “To the world, he is Gotham’s golden son. To criminals, he is terror itself. To me—” He hesitated. “He is the man who decided he could shape me into something I was never meant to be.”

Harley let out a low whistle. “Yeesh, sounds like Daddy Bats needs a lesson in parenting.”

Ivy shot her a look, but Damian shook his head. “It is not that simple.” He exhaled, the weight of it pressing into his chest. “He took me in, but never truly accepted me. He constantly sought to refine my methods, upbringing, and very existence. To change.” His fingers drummed against the table. “I am either too much my mother’s son or not enough my father’s. There is no in-between.”

Marinette’s expression softened. “That’s not fair to you.”

A bitter smile twitched at Damian’s lips. “No, but when is it ever?”

~~~

That evening, Marinette found him on the balcony. The city stretched out before them, the sunset casting an orange glow against the clouds. She walked onto the platform carefully, settling beside him and leaning gingerly on the railing.

“You think about them a lot,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond immediately, but he didn’t deny it either.

“I can’t help it,” he admitted. “They are my family, no matter how fractured.”

Marinette swung her legs lightly, looking at him with quiet understanding. “Have you tried talking to them?”

Damian scoffed. “I have for years, but talking does nothing. My siblings are too caught up in their perceptions of me. Grayson, the golden son, was my Batman for a time, and we were considerably close because of that. He holds a grudge against my mother and sees me as the child I was when I first entered the Manor. Todd is the black sheep who cannot decide if he resents or tolerates me, plain and simple. Drake is the genius who acts like I am a child needing guidance. I am not that close with Stephanie, but Cassandra and Duke, I feel they see me the closest for who I am now. Even then,” He clenched his fists. “I have spent years trying to prove myself to them, but it is never enough.”

Marinette frowned. “And Bruce?”

Damian’s expression darkened. “Batman does not trust easily. And he trusts me least of all.”

Marinette placed a gentle hand over his. “That’s not fair to you either.”

Damian let out a slow breath, staring at the skyline. “No. It is not.”

When Ivy found him the next day, he was in the middle of cleaning the sole katana he still had in his possession. The sight alone made her roll her eyes, but she leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You know, kid, you’re allowed to be angry about it.”

Damian glanced at her but said nothing.

She sighed, stepping forward. “Parents mess up. A lot. And from what I’ve seen, Batman isn’t exactly winning any Father of the Year awards.” She tilted her head. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight of proving yourself to him.”

Damian’s hands stilled. “Then what do you suggest I do?”

Ivy smirked. “Stop trying to be what they expect and just be what you want. Trust me, kid—living for someone else’s approval is exhausting.”

Damian didn’t reply, but something in his posture eased—just a little.

Cassandra found him first. It was late, the streets of Gotham dimly lit as Damian walked, heading back to Harley and Ivy’s. She didn’t say anything at first—she never needed to. Instead, she watched, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his stance.

She stepped out of the shadows just enough for him to notice she wasn’t in her Orphan attire. Damian didn’t react outwardly, but she caught the way his fingers twitched at his sides, muscles tightening for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to relax.

“Following me, Cain?” he asked, voice even but laced with exhaustion.

Cassandra tilted her head, eyes scanning his posture. “No. Finding you.”

Damian let out a short exhale, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. He resumed walking, and Cassandra fell into step beside him, silent as ever.

They walked like that for a while, side by side, neither speaking. Damian knew better than to rush the moment—Cassandra spoke when she wanted to, and she listened even when no words were exchanged. Eventually, she stopped at an intersection, Gotham sprawling out before them, the city bathed in its usual mass of city lights and darkness.

“You leave,” she said at last, her voice soft but certain. “But you don’t know if you can stay gone.”

Damian stiffened, avoiding her gaze and waiting for the light to cross. “I have no reason to return.”

Cassandra gave him a look—one of those small, knowing ones that stripped away any pretense. He hated and respected it all at once.

“You do.” She pointed to his chest, directly where his heart sat beneath layers of fabric and mental armor. “You just don’t trust it yet.”

Damian let out a slow breath. “They expect things from me,” he admitted. “To be more. To be less. I do not know which.” He clenched his fists. “I do not know if they truly see me, Cassandra.”

She considered his words, then reached out, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Not with their eyes,” she said simply. “But maybe, here—” She then tapped his chest. “And here.”

Damian swallowed, looking away toward the streets below. Gotham breathed beneath them, alive, endless.

“They miss you,” Cassandra continued. “Even if they don’t say it right.”

Damian closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing himself to sit with that truth. He wasn’t sure if it made things better or worse.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter but no less firm. “I don’t know if I miss them back, but I missed your presence. Thank you for being here.”

Cassandra didn’t push. She only nodded, and for now, that was enough.

Duke caught him soon after. The Signal was on patrol around Gotham City Park, and Damian was walking through on his way back to Marinette’s. Two bags full of plant supplies dangled from his hands, and the strap of his messenger bag, with its familiar sway, tapped against his thigh every few steps.

A sharp motion from the vigilante ahead made him pause. Signaling for him to wait, and against the rapid drum of his own heartbeat, Damian obeyed, stepping toward the arch of a stone bridge that overlooked a dark, rippling lake. He set his bags down with practiced care, eyes scanning the stillness of the water and the shifting silhouettes of joggers and lovers moving along the trails beyond.

Thomas is taking his sweet time; I didn’t think I would be out here for nearly 45 minutes for him to change out of a sweaty suit. There’s probably a good reason he wants to see me; Marinette would want me to hear him out. Exhaling sharply, Damian pulled out his phone, thumb tapping out a quick update before slipping it away. He settled onto the bridge’s edge, pulling out his sketchbook and a pen, his focus shifting to the world before him. The bridge’s underbelly curved against the lake’s surface, mirroring the slow drift of birds and the quiet pulse of the city in the distance.

Ten minutes passed before he felt the presence of another sitting on his left. Both of them were sitting on the arch bridge, staring out at the people who ignored them and continued walking. The wind whipped past, carrying the distant sounds of sirens, animal life, and the water below.

“You know, you don’t have to figure it all out alone,” Duke said, breaking the silence.

Damian glanced at him before returning to his sketch. “I’ve been told many times, but I was raised to be alone.”

Duke snorted, a sharp and knowing sound. “Yeah, and look how well that’s working out.”

Damian frowned, grip on his pen tightened slightly, but his expression remained unreadable as his brows creased, concentrated on a corner of the page. “I fail to see your point.”

Duke turned to him, studying the younger boy’s sharp profile. “The family is messy, sure. But we show up for each other, even when we’re mad. Even when we don’t have all the answers.” He nudged Damian lightly. “That includes you, y’know.”

The words settled into the air between them, weighty but not oppressive. Damian held his gaze for a long moment before looking away. “Perhaps.”

Duke grinned. “That’s as close to an agreement as I’m gonna get, huh?”

Damian huffed, but the tightness in his chest eased, just a fraction. His sketchbook rested against his lap, abandoned for now. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why are you here, Thomas?”

Duke leaned back on his palms, stretching his legs out, careful of anyone possibly tripping on them. “Why do you think I’m here, Damian?”

Damian’s voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. “I want to know if you’re here because you want to see me or if certain individuals sent you in their stead.”

A sigh, shallow but telling. Duke didn’t answer immediately, just watched him, eyes taking in everything shadows couldn’t hide.

The 22-year-old peered intensely at his younger brother, who seemed content to ignore his gaze. The last five weeks had altered Damian in ways that weren’t immediately obvious. His hair, once sharply cut, had begun to curl slightly at the ends, softer now, looser. The stud earrings—an unexpected addition—made him look his age, not like the soldier he had been trained to be, but like a teenager carving out space for himself in a world that never quite let him breathe. And in this moment, with his shoulders not drawn as tight, with the weight of expectation momentarily shed, he looked… peaceful.

Like an older teenager just having some time outdoors, not the youngest Wayne and former Robin who ran away from the pressure his family put on him. 

“I’m here because I wanted to see you, and I’m glad I ran into you,” Duke said at last. “Bruce and everyone miss you. They’ve been scrambling for any sign of you outside your attendance records, but Cass and I had a long talk with them, and they backed off.” The soft scratch of a pen against paper halted. Damian turned to him, gaze sharp, searching for cracks in the truth.

“They’re not badgering you? No demands for answers, no attempts to track me down behind your back?” His voice was edged with skepticism. “How—”

“We gave them an ultimatum,” Duke cut in. “Either they got their act together and gave you the space to come back on your own terms, or Cass and I would quit the family business. Gave them a few days to decide. Since then, silence.”

Damian blinked, slow and deliberate. “Why would you do that?” His voice was low, almost disbelieving. “What makes them listen to you when I had to beg and scream for a fraction of the same consideration?”

Duke stood, picking up one of the bags and motioning for Damian to follow. For once, Damian didn’t argue. He slid his sketchbook back into his bag, grabbed the other, and fell into step beside his brother, their strides matching effortlessly.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Damian,” Duke murmured. His gaze drifted to the sidewalk ahead, the flickering glow of streetlights washing the pavement in pale amber. “I don’t like the way you were treated by everyone, me included. You didn’t—don’t deserve that.”

The wind shifted, sending a loose paper cup skidding across the path. Damian hesitated to follow it but watched it go.

“I know what it’s like,” Duke continued. “To have everything pile up until you can’t see past it, and no one seems to notice how much you’re struggling. After what happened to my parents, I bounced around in foster care. I didn’t care about school. Kept getting in trouble. And when people looked at me, it was like they already had my whole future figured out. Jail or Batburger—because apparently, that’s the only place that would hire me.”

The two walked in silence for a moment, the city breathing around them. Damian kicked at a loose pebble, watching it skip ahead.

Duke glanced at him, a quiet understanding settling between them. “You deserved better. And I want to make sure you get it.”

Damian listened in silence, his steps steady against the pavement. The weight of Duke’s words settled in his chest like stones sinking to the bottom of a river.

Duke scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “Point is, I know what it’s like when people think they have you figured out before you even get a chance to prove them wrong. But I had help. I had Bruce, Cass, Babs… hell, even Jason of all people.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t.”

Damian exhaled through his nose, gaze trained ahead. “I did not ask for assistance.”

“That’s the thing, man. You shouldn’t have had to.”

A beat of silence passed. The city stretched out before them, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. People rushed about their evenings, oblivious to the quiet reckoning happening on the sidewalk.

“You were a kid, Damian. You still are; you’re only nineteen,” Duke added after a pause. “And teenagers, let alone kids, shouldn’t have to beg to be heard.”

Damian clenched his jaw, grip tightening on his bag, but said nothing.

They walked a few more steps before Duke nudged him again, lighter this time. “You gonna tell me what’s in the bags?”

Damian glanced down at the bags between them, then back at Duke. “If you must know, I am expanding an indoor garden.”

Duke raised a brow. “Indoor garden?”

“Marinette’s place of stay has a balcony, but it is small. Most of the plants are inside.” He adjusted his grip on the bags. “She and her host family mentioned wanting to grow herbs for cooking.”

Duke grinned. “Look at you, being all domestic.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “It is simply an act of gratitude. She has been kind to me.”

Duke chuckled. “Right. Just gratitude.”

Damian huffed but let it go. The conversation felt… lighter now. Less like pulling at an open wound and more like something he could breathe through. Maybe Duke had planned it that way. Maybe it was just luck. Either way, Damian didn’t mind.

Duke tilted his head toward a café at the end of the block. “C’mon. I’m starving. You’re buying.”

Damian scoffed. “I am most certainly not.”

“Too late, already decided,” Duke said, grinning as he walked ahead.

Damian shook his head but followed anyway.

For the first time in weeks, the tension in his chest loosened just a little more. 

Chapter Text

"Gotham City, New Jersey, was founded in the 17th century by Captain Jon Logerquist. According to the retellings, Logerquist was a Swedish mercenary serving the Empire during the Thirty Years’ War. Seeking to flee from the religious wars raging throughout Europe, Logerquist and a small group of colonists fled to North America in pursuit of a new life, establishing a settlement in 1635. After a series of historical and political ventures, the area was named Fort Adolphus, consolidated with New Netherland, and renamed Gotham City…

Gotham, a city birthed from the murk of history, its name whispered in dark alleyways, remains one of the most mysterious urban landscapes ever created. The founding of Gotham was not merely an act of civic pride—it was a dark omen, a foretelling of the city’s eventual connection to forces beyond human comprehension. From its inception in the 17th century, the land was cursed with an inescapable shadow that refused to be lifted by any measure of light. Its name, first uttered by the Dutch settlers who found its swampy shores, was said to have been inspired by an ancient term meaning 'a place of fools,' though there are whispers it was drawn from something far older, something that predated the arrival of man himself." 

An excerpt from Franklin Alana’s "Gotham's Dark Heart: The Unseen Foundations of a Haunted City"

My dearest Damian, 

Recently, I told you about your father and gave you a brief overview of his home. There is always more to the story; things lost to history are only repeated through the mouths of those who first witnessed them and lived to pass them on. 

The history of Gotham is older than the city itself, its foundations woven with threads of forgotten magic, clandestine organizations, and ancient orders vying for control over forces long considered lost to time. While most recognize Gotham as a city plagued by crime and corruption, few realize the hidden battles waged in its darkest corners—fighting between those who seek power and those sworn to protect the balance. Three of these factions stand out as the most influential: the League of Assassins, the Order of the Guardians, and the long-buried legacies of lost magic and miraculous artifacts.

I have provided many books that explain this history and the theories surrounding what I have shared. I hope you have retained your fluency in Arabic and Mandarin, as that is the only way to be understood. I am aware you have overheard things regarding the things I mentioned. Be aware and be cautious, for these are not tales in any form. There will come a time when I cannot guide you, and what is written on the parchment will teach you in my stead. 

ستفهم ذلك ا في الوقت المناسب، ولكن الكثير من الحب والتوفيق لك.

تاليا

(You will understand this in time, but much love and good luck to you. Talia)

Founded centuries ago, the League of Assassins has always been shrouded in secrecy and myth. While it originated with his father, Sensei, and stretched as far back as the Ottoman Empire's age, Ra's al Ghul solidified its influence in the modern world. The League's mission has remained unchanged: to enforce its ideals of balance by eliminating those they deem threats to the natural order. Operating under the belief that civilization must be periodically culled to prevent collapse, they have toppled empires, eliminated rulers, and incited wars all in the name of their ideology.

Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon's Head, extends his life through the use of Lazarus Pits, pools of mystical energy capable of healing wounds and reversing death. However, these pools come at a cost—their power corrupts, driving those who use them into madness if overused. This immortality has allowed Ra’s to amass centuries of knowledge, honing the League into an elite force that can infiltrate, assassinate, and vanish without a trace.

Though powerful, the League is not without its internal conflicts. Factions within the organization vie for control, some wishing to embrace more modern methods while others remain fiercely loyal to the old ways. Talia al Ghul, the Demon’s Daughter, embodies this struggle, torn between her father's vision and the possibility of forging a new path.

Marinette frowned as Damian finished his explanation, arms crossed. "So the League isn’t just about killing for the sake of it. It’s about control. They believe they’re maintaining some kind of balance."

Damian nodded. "It is their justification. But make no mistake, their methods are brutal, and their loyalty is absolute."

~~~

"The occult practices that pervade Gotham's underworld are not mere folklore—they are an integral part of the city’s soul. The rituals performed in hidden basements and abandoned mansions go beyond simple spells; they are tied to ancient rites that date back to the city's earliest settlers. It is said that a mysterious cult, formed in the mid-18th century, sought to bind the city to dark powers in exchange for eternal dominion. From blood rites to whispered invocations under the cover of night, the practices of these shadowy figures have left a trace—an imprint on the very fabric of Gotham itself."

An excerpt from Nathan Graham’s "Rites of the Abyss: The Occult Practices That Shaped Gotham"

~

Opposing the League from the shadows is the Order of the Guardians, once a separate ancient sect that predates the League by several decades. The organization is believed to have been founded by mystics and warriors who fled persecution centuries ago. The Order exists to safeguard the world from supernatural threats, hidden knowledge, and dangerous artifacts. Unlike the League, which uses force to enforce its doctrine, the Guardians seek preservation and protection.

After meeting with both leaders, the Guardians and the League agreed to be two sides of the same coin, operating secretly to achieve a mutually beneficial goal.

Tikki’s small face was solemn, reminiscent of the ordeals she witnessed. "Marinette, history remembers destruction more than it does preservation. The Order’s greatest victories were the battles they prevented. Their secrecy is what kept them alive."

Plagg yawned, stretching lazily in the air. "Or maybe fate saw where they were headed and used Fu to stop them from going down a darker path. Wouldn’t be the first time so-called do-gooders got crushed by something above them."

Damian shot him a glare but continued. "Apparently, the Order once held great power within Gotham, operating out of underground sanctuaries hidden beneath the city. Legends tell of their leaders wielding enchanted weapons and Miraculous artifacts. However, as time passed and Gotham fell deeper into the grip of crime and corruption, the Order’s influence waned. Many of their secrets were lost, their hideouts abandoned, and their artifacts hidden away. Despite this, some believe they still exist in the margins of society, watching and waiting for the right moment to rise again. Others claim their last remnants are scattered, desperately searching for lost knowledge before it falls into the wrong hands.”

“They’re not wrong about that at least,” Marinette said, looking up from a notebook to Damian. “Although still heavily hidden in Tibet, the Order has made many attempts to use me to reintroduce themselves to the shadows of the modern world. While I was in Paris, I frequently butted heads with Grand Master Su-Han, a Celestial Gaurdian who might as well be an equivalent to what Ra’s al Ghul was.”

“Interesting,” Damian said, a perplexed look on his features. “And this Su-Han hasn’t shown his face since you arrived in Gotham?”

Marinette shook her head, “No. I haven’t seen anything. Which is strange given his persistent nature. Tikki, Plagg? Do you know why we haven’t interacted with him lately?” 

The Kwami looked at each other equally confused before Plagg spoke up. “Given the environment of Gotham, maybe he got spooked. This place reeks of some toxic magic, so it could act like a dampener if anything.” 

“That’s a good theory, I’ll see if there’s any theory or research to support that,” Damian said, riffling through the stack of books and loose paper on Marinette’s desk.

~~~

Though Gotham is often seen as a city defined by science and technology, its roots are deeply entwined with the arcane. The city's very land is said to have been an ancient battleground where supernatural forces clashed long before the arrival of settlers. Legends of forgotten Miraculous are scattered across Gotham, hidden in plain sight, waiting to be rediscovered.

Marinette’s fingers twitched at the mention of lost Miraculous. "So they might still be here? In Gotham?"

Damian nodded. "Yes. But finding them is another matter entirely. The existence of these artifacts has always been disputed, but those who have delved deep enough into Gotham’s forgotten archives know the truth. Hidden catacombs beneath Wayne Manor, ancient texts locked away in Blackgate, and forgotten chambers beneath Arkham Asylum all hold fragments of history waiting to be uncovered."

Tikki’s wings fluttered with unease. "The Miraculous of Gotham are unlike those you’ve encountered before, Marinette. They’ve been touched by the city itself—its darkness, its history. They won’t behave the way others do."

Plagg smirked. "Sounds like my kind of fun. I’d like to see it in action."

“I’m not so sure about that, Plagg, this may be harder than we thought,” Damian said before continuing to read. 

One of the greatest conflicts between the League of Assassins and the Order of the Guardians occurred nearly four centuries ago, during Gotham’s early settlement. Historical records speak of a catastrophic event known only as the “Vanishing Night,” when an entire sect of the Guardians disappeared without a trace. 

It is believed that the League, seeking dominance over Gotham’s supernatural energies, launched a brutal purge against the Guardians, wiping out key figures and seizing their relics.

Among these relics was Gotham’s lost Miraculous. Unlike the more well-known Miraculous from other parts of the world, these were uniquely shaped by Gotham's darkness, forged in blood and secrecy. There are three known Miraculous of the sixteen. The Shadow Serpent granted unparalleled agility and the ability to move undetected. The Iron Raven bestowed foresight and strategic brilliance. The Obsidian Wolf was said to imbue its wielder with unbreakable resilience and the ability to command fear itself.

To my only son, 

The conflict between the League of Assassins and the Order of the Guardians has never ceased. Even as modern-day Gotham sees Batman and his allies fight for justice on the streets, the remnants of these ancient orders continue their battles in the shadows. The League still seeks to reshape the world in its image, while the Order, though weakened, fights to ensure that knowledge and magic remain protected from those who they believe misuse them.

You, Damian al Ghul-Wayne, find yourself in this volatile balance. As the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul and the son of Batman, you embody the clashing ideologies of these two forces. Your very existence is a living symbol of their ancient struggle, a struggle that may yet determine Gotham’s future. I realized this when you were a child and decided it would be best to allow you to see the world in a way I never could. 

أتمنى أن تجد في قلبك القدرة على التفهم على الرغم من علاقتنا المعقدة.

والدتك، تاليا

(I hope you find in your heart the ability to understand despite our complicated relationship. Your mother, Talia)

Marinette exhaled, her mind racing. "So what happens next?"

Damian met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "We find out what the League is after. And we make sure they don’t get it."

Marinette knew Gotham was dangerous, but she hadn’t expected the sheer magnitude of crime intertwined with its history. The more they researched, the more they uncovered—whispers of lost talismans, hidden connections between the city’s underworld, and miraculous power. Every discovery brought them closer to understanding their roles in the League and the Order.

As Marinette and Damian pieced together the fragmented history, Tikki and Plagg offered insight that even the Batcomputer could not.

“The Miraculous of Gotham were different from the ones you know,” Tikki explained, floating near Marinette’s shoulder. “Their magic was wild, shaped by the city’s suffering and resilience. They weren’t just tools but living testaments to Gotham’s soul.”

Plagg scoffed, circling Damian lazily. “And that’s why they were lost. Too much power in a place like this? People fight over it. People die for it.”

Damian frowned, arms crossed. “Then we need to find them before anyone else does.”

Tikki’s voice was soft but urgent. “If the League ever finds them again, they’ll use them to rewrite Gotham’s fate.”

A weight settled over them. The fight against crime was one thing, but this? This was bigger. This war was centuries in the making, and the past was clawing its way into the present.

Plagg smirked, nudging Marinette’s cheek. “You know, kid, for all your heroics, I didn’t think you’d be getting wrapped up in a conspiracy with Batboy here.”

Marinette huffed. “It’s not like I planned this, Plagg.”

Damian’s lips twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression. “Regardless, this is our mission now. The Miraculous can’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Marinette nodded, exchanging a glance with him. For all their differences, they were on the same page about this. And somehow, she didn’t mind working with him. Maybe, just maybe, they made a good team.

"No city can maintain the delicate balance between light and shadow without some cost, and Gotham has paid that price in ways not fully understood. Some believe the city's foundations rest on an ancient well of magic, a power that defies logic and reason. Scholars have speculated that Gotham’s architecture was deliberately built in alignment with forgotten celestial bodies, harnessing energy from forces that even its earliest architects could not control. Some see the rise of Batman as the city's curse manifesting in human form, a being borne of magic and fate, fighting against the very forces that birthed him. Could Gotham itself be the key to unlocking an unimaginable power? The answer might lie in the city's most secretive corners…

In the dead of night, when the streets of Gotham grow quieter and the air becomes thick with mystery, one might feel an unsettling presence lingering just out of sight. What if Gotham’s dreary skyline, unrelenting fog, and frequent downpours are not coincidental? There are whispers that the city’s very essence is intertwined with forces that govern the supernatural world, hidden beneath the layers of asphalt and brick. These forces are not only the cause of Gotham’s eerie atmosphere but also its resilience. Perhaps the true nature of Gotham lies not in its towering skyscrapers or criminal underworld, but in the unseen magic that flows through its veins like an ancient current, coursing beneath its streets and into the hearts of its most desperate souls." 

An excerpt from Qasim Douglas’ "Gotham’s Veil and Hidden Magic: Miracles and Cursed Beneath the City Streets"

One night, while the Gotham Knights were out on patrol and in different parts of the world on various missions, the dim glow of the Batcomputer cast long shadows across the cavernous space of the Batcave. Marinette sat cross-legged on the floor, a series of books and ancient scrolls spread out before her. At the same time, Damian leaned over a terminal, cross-referencing information on a separate screen. Their kwamis, Tikki and Plagg, flitted around them, occasionally offering insights—some more helpful than others.

"This city is ridiculous," Plagg grumbled, floating lazily over Damian’s shoulder. "Everything is built on old secrets and worse decisions. If Gotham had a Miraculous, it would be pure chaos."

"You know it did," Tikki reminded him gently, settling on Marinette’s knee. "And it still might. That’s what we’re trying to uncover."

Marinette sighed, rubbing her temple. "I knew Gotham was complicated, but between the League of Assassins, the Order of the Guardians, and these lost Miraculous, we might as well be trying to untangle centuries of lies."

Damian exhaled sharply, his fingers halting on the keyboard. "That’s exactly what we’re doing."

She smirked. "So serious. Do you ever take a break?"

"Gotham doesn’t allow breaks," he replied curtly, but there was no bite to his words, just a quiet acceptance of the city’s weight.

Tikki fluttered closer to him, tilting her head. "Even heroes need moments to breathe, Damian. If you push too hard, you’ll miss the signs right in front of you."

Plagg snickered, stretching out dramatically in the air. "Listen to the ladybug, Demon Spawn. She’s smarter than you."

Damian’s eye twitched. "You call me that again, and I’ll make sure all the cheese Marinette has mysteriously disappears."

Plagg gasped, horrified. "You wouldn’t dare."

"Try me."

Marinette giggled, shaking her head. "You two act like you’ve known each other forever."

Damian leaned back and gave her a rare smirk. "Maybe I have a tolerance for small, troublesome creatures."

Tikki giggled, while Plagg dramatically groaned. "Oh no, he’s warming up to me. The horror."

Marinette leaned forward, her blue eyes sparkling. "But seriously, what do we actually know? We have hints that the Order hid Gotham’s lost Miraculous, but no confirmation. And if the League of Assassins wanted them, they must’ve been powerful."

Damian nodded. "The Shadow Serpent, the Iron Raven, the Obsidian Wolf. Artifacts tailored to this city’s nature—stealth, foresight, and resilience. The League’s records mention them, but the specifics are frustratingly vague. Not to mention it’s only three out of sixteen, considering these are powerful by themselves, I can’t begin to imagine what the other thirteen do."

Tikki’s antennae twitched thoughtfully. "The Order must have hidden them well. They wouldn’t have let the Miraculous fall into the wrong hands if they resisted control."

Plagg looked unimpressed. "Or they screwed up, like humans tend to do, and now they’re just waiting for some poor soul to dig them up."

Damian’s gaze flickered toward Marinette. "Then we need to find them first."

She met his eyes, something unspoken lingering between them. They were different, from different worlds, cities, and pasts, but their missions aligned at this moment. Their responsibilities bound them to something greater, something ancient. And, whether they acknowledged it or not, their fates were intertwining with each passing day.

Marinette smiled, feeling an odd sense of comfort in the seriousness of his words. "Then let’s make sure we don’t fail. Together."

Tikki beamed, and even Plagg gave a slight, begrudging hum of approval. The four of them, an unlikely team, had set something in motion. And Gotham’s lost history was about to awaken once more.

~~~

They spent hours combing through texts, bouncing theories off one another, their synergy growing in ways neither expected. Damian wasn’t used to working alongside someone who matched his intensity, but Marinette, for all her light-hearted teasing, took this mission just as seriously as he did.

"You’re surprisingly methodical," Damian noted as she sketched out a timeline of recorded Miraculous activity in Gotham, her pen moving in quick, precise strokes.

Marinette arched an eyebrow at him. "Surprisingly? Did you forget I’m a designer and a strategist? Every detail matters."

He glanced at her work and had to admit—it was meticulous. "I can respect that."

Plagg yawned, curling up on one of the old books. "You two are exhausting."

"And yet, you’re still here," Tikki teased, nudging him.

Plagg huffed. "Only because I’d hate to miss the drama when everything inevitably goes wrong."

Marinette rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Plagg."

"Anytime."

As the hours passed, Damian relaxed like he rarely did. Marinette’s presence was grounding, her sharp mind a challenge he welcomed. Though neither voiced it, they felt the shift between them—an unspoken trust forming, something more profound than mere friendship or partnership.

A week later, they sat on the floor of Marinette’s room, stacks of books between them, looking out a window, Gotham’s skyline stretching before them. The kwamis had taken to perching on a nearby surface, content to watch as their wielders pieced together history.

Marinette leaned back, stretching. "I must admit, it’s nice working with someone who takes this as seriously as I do."

Damian hummed in agreement. "I’ve literally been to Hell and traveled around countless countries and planets; Most people underestimate how much effort research action takes."

She nudged him playfully. "Not me."

"No," he admitted, chuckling lightly and bumping her shoulder. "Not you."

Tikki and Plagg exchanged a knowing glance but said nothing. Some things, after all, were better left for their humans to figure out on their own.

And as Marinette and Damian continued their work—unraveling Gotham’s mysteries, challenging each other, sharing quiet moments in the dead of night—one truth became increasingly apparent.

They were no longer just two heroes on the same mission.

They were no longer friends, working on a common goal.

They were becoming something more.

Chapter Text

The manor was quieter than he remembered. Or perhaps he had grown used to the noise of the city, the hum of a smaller home with fewer ghosts.

Although Damian sent a text beforehand, he cautiously let himself in and stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Alfred move with practiced efficiency. The old butler hadn’t looked up, but Damian knew he had been noticed when he set foot inside.

“I was wondering when you’d grace these halls again,” Alfred said, voice calm, but warm in a way that made Damian’s throat tighten. He set a teapot on the stove, the rhythmic clinking of china filling the silence. “Would you like your usual, or have your tastes changed?”

Damian swallowed. “The usual.”

Alfred nodded.

Damian sat at the counter, hands folded in front of him, watching as Alfred prepared the شاي بالنعناع . There was a small plate of biscuits beside the pot, the same ones Alfred had always set aside for him when he was younger—before everything, before the weight of being Robin became unbearable.

When the tea was poured, Alfred finally met his gaze. “You look well, my boy.”

Damian shifted in his seat. “I—” He hesitated. “I trust you’ve been in good health?”

A flicker of something knowing passed over Alfred’s face, but he merely hummed. “You should come by more often, Master Damian. Regrettably, I am not as spry as I used to be, but I believe I have enough years left to enjoy a proper conversation with you.”

Damian exhaled, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding slipping from his shoulders. “Perhaps I shall.”

Alfred’s lips twitched into a smirk. “I shall hold you to it.”

“They won’t know that I was here, would they?” Damian asked in a small voice. Alfred gingerly took the younger man’s hand in his own. Wrinkles and calluses warm against Damian’s. 

“You know I can keep a secret, Damian. If you require silence, they shall hear nothing from me. If you need anything else, be sure to send the message my way.”

Damian's smile matched the weight lifted from his shoulders after hearing the statement: “Thank you, Alfred. You have always been there for me.”

~~~

The cave smelled the same. Damp stone, motor oil, and the faint lingering scent of blood that no amount of cleaning could fully erase.

Damian moved with sure steps, past the cases that displayed old suits, past the rows of weapons and training mats, until he reached the dimly lit area where the animals were kept.

A low, familiar rumble filled the air.

Before he could brace himself, a massive weight slammed into him. Damian staggered but didn’t fall, arms instinctively wrapping around the thick fur of his bat-dragon, Goliath. The creature let out a sound somewhere between a chuff and a whimper, its wings trembling slightly as it pressed its head against Damian’s shoulder.

Damian swallowed against the tightness in his throat, fingers digging into Goliath’s fur. “Yes, yes, I know,” he muttered, voice quieter than before. “I took too long.”

Goliath growled lowly, then nudged Damian’s face with his snout, nearly knocking him over.

“Tt.” Damian huffed but didn’t pull away.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred watching from the steps, a small, knowing smile on his face.

“Master Richard attempted to look after him in your absence,” Alfred noted. “The poor boy tried his best, but I’m afraid Goliath was rather inconsolable.”

Damian let out a breath, pressing his forehead against the beast’s massive head. “I won’t leave him for too long again.”

Goliath let out a softer sound, curling his wings around Damian in response.

It was late by the time he went to his old bedroom.

The manor had too many memories and ghosts lingering in its corners, but tonight, Damian didn’t feel suffocated by them.

He barely made it to his bed before Titus launched himself onto the mattress, tail wagging wildly as he shoved his massive head against Damian’s side. Alfred the cat perched on the dresser, watching with narrowed eyes, while Batcow—who was, as expected, too large for the room—stood just outside the doorway, letting out a low, expectant moo.

Damian sighed. “I see none of you have developed an ounce of restraint in my absence.”

Titus let out an excited bark.

Damian gave in, running a hand through the Great Dane’s fur, allowing himself to sink into its familiar comfort.

For the first time in what felt like ages, the emptiness in his chest didn’t feel so vast. Perhaps he could return here more often; the older teen wasn’t quite ready to be there full time again, growing far too used to the ambience of being with Ivy, Harley, and Marinette, but if only for his grandfather and pets, so could he see them regularly. 

He ignored the ache in his heart when he remembered he had a father and four other individuals who would return and notice his presence despite already being away. It was a start, but a small step is better than no step at all.

Chapter Text

Research was something they could focus on—something that required precision and logic rather than the messiness of emotions or bumbling mysteries. Marinette and Damian sat across from each other, the coffee table littered with notes, old texts, and schematics. Their final project required intense work, but they had long since outpaced their classmates in preparation.

"The fabric calculations don’t align with the weight distribution," Marinette muttered, tapping her pencil against her head and adjusting the blueprint. "If we don’t modify the stitching pattern, it won’t hold under strain."

Damian glanced over, considering her analysis. "Tch. You’re right. The weave density needs reinforcement along the load-bearing areas. I can adjust the calculations."

Marinette smiled. "See? This is why we make a good team."

He gave her a sidelong glance but didn’t argue. It was easier to exist in these moments, where problems had clear solutions, and the weight of personal struggles could be momentarily set aside.

~~~

The steady scratch of pens against paper filled the space between them, a rhythm of calculation and refinement. Marinette stretched across the coffee table, fingers skimming through a stack of reference books as Damian recalculated the structural integrity of their prototype.

“You know,” she mused, scribbling adjustments in the margins of her notes, “if we combine reinforced embroidery with a tensile support layer, we might be able to reduce overall weight without sacrificing durability.”

Damian’s eyes flicked up, considering her words. He tapped his pen against the page. “It would require extensive testing. If we miscalculate, the seams could still fail under prolonged stress.”

Marinette grinned. “Then we’ll just make sure we don’t miscalculate.”

A scoff, but no denial. He trusted her instincts.

She nudged a half-empty coffee cup aside, leaning closer. “Hand me the ruler?”

Damian passed it to her without looking up from his notes, absorbed in his equations. His fingers brushed against hers in the exchange, a fleeting touch neither acknowledged.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. The world outside their bubble faded, replaced by the focused intensity of creation.

Marinette chewed on the end of her pen. “If we adjust the tension points here…” She circled a section of the blueprint. “We could distribute impact more evenly.”

Damian leaned in, their heads nearly touching as he analyzed her marks. “It’s a viable adjustment,” he admitted. “But the stitching will need to account for lateral strain.”

A grin tugged at the corners of her lips. “Which means we can apply my reinforcement method after all.”

“Tch.” He shook his head, but there was a quiet smirk beneath the exasperation. “Fine. We’ll test it.”

Marinette tapped her pen against the table. “Told you we make a good team.”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied her for a fraction longer than necessary before returning to his work.

It was easy like this—where logic ruled and emotions were nothing more than variables to be ignored. Yet, something undeniably human remained in the quiet, unspoken spaces between calculations and blueprints.

~~~~~

The apartment was dimly lit, the warm glow of the desk lamp casting soft shadows across the room. Papers, sticky notes, and fabric swatches were strewn across the table—evidence of weeks of work, countless revisions, and sleepless nights.

Marinette sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees. Her eyes flicked between the screen and Damian, who stood in the center of the room, posture sharp, voice controlled as he ran through their closing statement.

“—and with our cost-effective strategy and sustainable production model, we believe this venture has the potential to revolutionize the fashion industry while maintaining financial viability.”

A beat of silence followed.

Marinette pursed her lips. “It’s perfect,” she admitted, setting her laptop aside and stretching. “But you’re still too stiff. You sound more like you’re arguing in a courtroom than presenting in class.”

Damian arched a brow. “I prefer precision.”

She rolled her eyes and stood, stepping into his space without hesitation. “Then let’s fix that.”

She reached out, smoothing the fabric of his button-down, tugging lightly at the hem. “Relax your shoulders,” she murmured, pressing a hand against his arm.

Damian obeyed, though his gaze remained locked onto her, intense and unreadable.

“Better.” Marinette looked up, smiling. “See? You don’t have to intimidate the panel into agreeing with us.”

Damian hummed, hands settling lightly on her arms. “It would be faster.”

She snorted. “And much less fun.”

Her hands lingered on his chest, fingertips brushing the collar of his shirt. Something quiet was in the air between them, something warm and steady beneath the exhaustion.

“I’m proud of us,” she admitted softly. “No matter what happens tomorrow.”

Damian’s expression softened, and in the moment's stillness, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her hands.

“Likewise,” he murmured.

The auditorium was packed. Their teacher sat front and center, flanked by a panel of industry professionals—entrepreneurs, financial analysts, and investors brought in to evaluate each project.

Marinette took a steady breath, adjusting the mic clipped to her blazer. Beside her, Damian stood poised and unreadable, the perfect image of confidence.

She knew better, though. She caught the subtle twitch and tap of his fingers at his side, the way his weight on his feet shifted ever so slightly.

She reached over, a quick brush of her pinky against his. A small anchor. A reminder.

Without looking, his pinky curled around hers in response, brief but grounding.

Then, the screen behind them flickered to life, and it was time.

Marinette stepped forward, voice clear, smile poised.

“Good afternoon. My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and this is my business partner, Damian Wayne. Today, we are excited to present our final project: a sustainable, ethically sourced fashion brand prioritizing innovation and accessibility…”

They moved as one, their rhythm seamless—Marinette leading with design philosophy and consumer engagement strategies, Damian driving home financial projections and competitive advantages.

The panel's questions were met with sharp, confident answers. They anticipated concerns, addressed weaknesses, and countered doubts with well-researched solutions.

By the time they finished, the energy in the room was palpable.

As they stepped down from the podium, Marinette exhaled slowly, glancing up at Damian.

“We killed it,” she whispered.

Damian allowed the smallest of smirks to tug at his lips. “Obviously.”

~~~

When they stepped outside the lecture hall, Marinette spun to face Damian, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“We did it. I can’t believe we pulled that off.”

Damian barely had time to respond before she launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck. He caught her easily, a quiet chuckle escaping as he lifted her slightly off the ground.

“You doubted us?” he murmured against her hair.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, grinning. “Not for a second.”

Her hands slid to his face, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw. There was a heat in how he looked at her, a quiet intensity simmering beneath the surface.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

She kissed him.

It was slow and lingering, full of the weight of their work, the sleepless nights, the shared ambition, and the trust that had built between them.

When they finally pulled away, Marinette’s breath was uneven, her hands still resting on his collar.

“We should celebrate,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Dinner? Something fancy?”

Damian tilted his head, considering. “Or,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “we could go home, order takeout, and spend the night doing absolutely nothing.”

She grinned. “Tempting.”

His hands settled on her arm again, grounding. “Decide quickly, beloved. I refuse to stand in this hallway any longer.”

Marinette laughed, moving his arm around her shoulders as they walked out together. “I could go to a restaurant. After the few months we’ve had, it’d be nice to treat ourselves like that.”

“Good choice, I already made us reservations at one.” 

Marinette gasped, looking at Damian in astonishment. “How could you possibly have made reservations so soon?”

The taller teen looked at her amusingly, a smirk playfully displayed on his face. “I made them roughly two weeks ago to celebrate, just in case we decided to go out after our presentation.”

They had won more than just a grade today. Hidden from view, Tikki and Plagg wore matching grins at their holders, finally progressing in their obvious affection for each other. 

The restaurant was warm and golden-lit, the scent of spices wrapped around them like an embrace. Intricate latticework adorned the walls, filtering the glow of hanging lanterns, and the soft melody of an oud played in the background. The air carried the rich aroma of cinnamon, cumin, and slow-roasted lamb, mingling with the faintest trace of saffron-infused tea.

Marinette eyed the menu with cautious skepticism. “This place looks like it charges by the syllable,” she muttered, trying to decipher the poetic descriptions of each dish.

Across from her, Damian smirked, resting his chin against his hand. “Do you want me to order for you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think I can’t handle it?”

“I think,” he countered smoothly, “that you have an aversion to overcomplicated food descriptions and would rather eat a plate of hawawshi from a street vendor.”

She huffed, but the accusation wasn’t entirely wrong. “Fine. But if I hate it, you’re switching with me.”

“Noted.”

Damian placed their orders in fluent, effortless Arabic, his voice low and assured, rolling over each word like he belonged in this setting more than anywhere else. Marinette found herself staring, heart skipping a beat at its casual elegance and cadence.

As the waiter disappeared, Marinette traced the rim of her glass, watching the flickering candlelight dance in its reflection. “So… what now?”

Damian arched a brow. “Now, we wait for our food.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant after this. The project’s done. We don’t have business class tying us together anymore.”

A beat of silence. Then, Damian tilted his head slightly. “Does that worry you?”

Her fingers stilled against the glass. “No. I just… I liked working with you.”

Damian studied her, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, with quiet certainty, he said, “We have something else. Our other research will no doubt keep us busy for much longer than an academic year. But we don’t need an assignment to keep spending time together.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration, but something steadier—unchanging. Marinette felt the warmth of it settle in her chest, a quiet reassurance she hadn’t realized she needed.

Before she could find a response, their food arrived, vibrant and fragrant. Marinette’s plate held koshari, the mix of lentils, rice, pasta, and spiced tomato sauce layered beautifully. At the same time, Damian’s mahshi came cooked to perfection, the stuffed vegetables tender and beautifully served on top of spiced tomato stock. A plate of warm, freshly baked aish baladi bread sat between them, along with small dishes of tahini and pickled vegetables.

She eyed her dish cautiously, scooped a forkful, and took a cautious bite.

A thoughtful pause. Then—

“…Okay, it’s good,” she admitted, her eyes widening slightly.

Damian’s smirk returned. “I told you.”

She waved her fork at him. “Don’t get cocky, Wayne.”

“I don’t need to. I’m simply right.”

Marinette kicked him lightly under the table.

He caught her ankle with his, trapping it in place without missing a beat. The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.

She fought the grin tugging at her lips.

Maybe she didn’t mind fancy dinners with him after all.

The restaurant emptied into the cool Gotham night, city lights flickering against rain-slick pavement. They walked side by side, hands brushing occasionally but not quite intertwining.

Marinette exhaled, watching her breath curl in the air. “I can’t believe we’re almost done with lycée.”

Damian hummed in agreement. “It’s surreal.”

She glanced up at him. “You have plans for after graduation?”

His jaw tensed slightly. “Some.”

She nudged him. “You’re being vague on purpose.”

He sighed. “I have options.”

“And?”

“And I haven’t decided how I’ll go about it yet.”

Marinette considered this, then linked her arm through his without hesitation. “Well, whatever you choose, you’ll be brilliant at it.”

He looked down at her, something softening in his gaze. “…Likewise.”

She smiled.

They walked the rest of the way home like that—comfortably tangled, the city buzzing around them, but the space between them quiet and sure.

Chapter Text

Marinette sat curled up on the plush couch of Harley and Ivy’s apartment, nursing a cup of tea while watching the city lights blink beyond the balcony doors. The soft hum of a jazz record played in the background, a soothing contrast to the usual chaos of her thoughts.

Harley plopped down beside her, dramatically tossing an arm over Marinette’s shoulders. “Alright, kiddo, spill. You’ve been mopier than a Gotham pigeon in a thunderstorm.”

Marinette let out a weak laugh, shaking her head. “I’m not mopey.”

Sitting across from them in an armchair, Ivy arched a skeptical brow. “You’ve been staring into your tea like it holds the meaning of life, and that’s usually Damian’s thing. What’s wrong?”

Marinette sighed, staring down at the swirling liquid. “Graduation’s coming up.”

Harley sat up straight, gasping. “Oh my god, is this about your gown? ‘Cause if so, I swear, we can bedazzle that sucker up—”

“No, Harley.” Marinette laughed softly, then exhaled. “It’s… my parents won’t be there.”

The words lingered in the air for a moment.

Ivy leaned forward, her sharp green eyes softening. “That’s… hard.”

Marinette nodded, fingers tightening around her cup. “I just keep thinking about how they should be here. How they should see me walk across that stage, how we should go out to dinner after, how they would be proud.”

Harley reached out and squeezed her hand. “They should. But just ‘cause they ain’t doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

Marinette swallowed the lump in her throat. “I know. And I love that you guys are coming, really. It means everything to me.”

Ivy stood up, walking over and sitting beside Marinette on the couch’s armrest. “We’re proud of you, Marinette. You’re brilliant, resilient, and stronger than you realize.”

Harley nodded furiously. “And not to brag, but ya kinda have the two coolest pseudo-aunts in Gotham backing you up.”

Marinette sniffed, a wobbly smile breaking through. “That’s true.”

Harley nudged her playfully. “Damn right it is. And ya know what? We’re gonna scream the loudest when they call your name. Embarrass the hell outta ya.”

Marinette groaned, covering her face. “Oh no.”

Ivy smirked. “Oh yes. Harls will probably get us kicked out for it.”

Harley draped herself over Marinette’s back. “We’ll make a whole banner. I’ll title it: ‘Our little menace is all grown up!’”

Despite herself, Marinette laughed. The heaviness in her chest didn’t entirely disappear, but it lightened, just a little.

“Thanks, guys,” she murmured.

Ivy kissed the top of her head. “Always, kid.”

Harley grinned. “Now, let’s talk post-grad celebrations! How do you feel about causing a little mayhem?”

Marinette rolled her eyes fondly. “Absolutely not.”

Harley pouted. Ivy chuckled. And for the first time since the thought came to her, Marinette felt like everything might just be okay.

In the middle of May, weeks before graduation, Damian sat in a nearby park in the city’s evening, sketching in a pocket notebook he brought with him. The streetlamps cast long shadows against the stone pathways. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

He had agreed to meet them here.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He turned just as Dick Grayson strolled forward, wearing a broad grin that contrasted the deep sentiment in his eyes. Behind him, Jason Todd followed, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, his usual air of indifference softened just slightly. Tim Drake, ever the observer, hung back a step, his sharp gaze studying Damian like a puzzle he had yet to solve. And then, with a casual bounce in her step, Stephanie Brown appeared, arms crossed, her smirk teasing yet warm.

For a brief moment, they all just stood there.

"Well?" Jason finally broke the silence. "Are we supposed to hug or some shit?"

Damian rolled his eyes. "No."

Richard laughed, clapping a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder. "Then I guess we’ll just have to settle for embarrassing you in a few weeks. We’ve already got banners and confetti, and I may or may not have convinced Alfred to wear a ‘Proud Grandpa’ pin."

Damian groaned. "Grayson—"

"It’s happening," Richard said cheerfully. "You’re lucky Babs and Stephanie vetoed the idea of a full-blown parade."

Stephanie grinned. "Oh, we didn’t veto it because we didn’t want it—we vetoed it because we figured you'd be insufferable if we actually threw one. But don't worry, Damian, we have plenty of other ways to humiliate you."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, wouldn’t want to overshadow your big day."

Tim finally stepped forward, arms crossed. "You okay?"

Damian hesitated, the weight of the moment settling on him. "I’m fine."

"Which means you’re overthinking something," Tim countered. "Is it Bruce?"

The tension that Damian had been ignoring curled around his spine. He glanced away, jaw tightening. "He hasn’t responded."

A beat of silence.

Then, Jason scoffed. "Tch. Classic."

"Damian…" Richard’s voice was gentler. "I know it sucks, but you don’t need his approval. You never did."

Damian exhaled sharply. "I know. It’s just—"

"It’s not about needing it," Tim finished for him, eyes narrowing. "It’s about wanting it. And that’s not weakness."

Damian didn’t respond immediately, but nodded slightly, the knot in his chest loosening just a fraction. He knew his father. He knew what to expect. And yet, some part of him—the part that had spent years fighting for a place in Bruce Wayne’s world—still held onto a sliver of hope.

His eldest brother nudged him. "Listen, you’ve got us. And Alfred. And, from what Duke told me, a very scary girlfriend who would probably throw hands if anyone tried to ruin this for you."

Damian smiled slightly. "That is accurate."

Stephanie gasped dramatically. "You admit she’s scary? Oh my God, I’m writing this down."

Jason grinned. "See? You’re covered." Then a beat, the taller man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look—about everything, kid…"

Damian arched a brow. "Everything? That’s rather vague."

Jason huffed. "Yeah, well. I’m not great at this crap, but—look. We weren’t always the best brothers to you. You were a little hellspawn, yeah, but you’ve changed a fuckton and… we should’ve tried harder to see and recognize that. You had to fight for your place in this family in a way none of us did. And it’s on us for makin’ you feel like shit because of it."

Damian blinked, caught off guard.

Tim nodded. "You deserved better from us. I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve—"

"I do not need coddling," Damian interrupted, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. "But… I appreciate the sentiment."

Richard ruffled his hair. "We’re proud of you, Dami, for all of it. Even when I stopped being Robin, I couldn’t let go of what it meant to be a vigilante; you see this world differently, and we shouldn’t have treated it like a bad thing. You were right to say we didn’t trust you. I’m sorry for that."

Damian swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I—"

Stephanie looped an arm around his shoulder, squeezing him briefly before letting go. "Look at you, being all mature and reflective. Who knew the baby bat had emotions?"

Damian scowled, but it lacked any real bite. "I will revoke your invitation to my graduation."

"Please, like I'd let you. I’ve already printed and laminated the message."

He didn’t finish the thought, but they seemed to understand anyway. For the first time in a while, Damian let himself believe in their sincerity.

They stood there momentarily longer, the unspoken understanding settling between them. Then, as if on cue, Richard slung an arm around Damian’s shoulders, steering him towards his car.

"Alright, Little D. Let’s get you back to your place so you’re ready to graduate. You only do this once."

Damian sighed but didn’t resist. "Thank the stars for that."

Laughter followed them as they walked back together, the weight of expectation still lingering—but somehow, no longer unbearable.

~~~~~

The following late afternoon, Damian found himself standing beside Cassandra Cain and Duke Thomas at a small cafe, waiting for their food. He couldn't care less about his siblings' whereabouts, but for now, it was just the three of them—watching, waiting, and existing in a rare moment of quiet.

Cass tilted her head toward him. "You okay?"

Damian exhaled. "Everyone keeps asking me that."

Duke grinned. "Probably because you always pretend you are, even when you’re not."

Damian shot him a look. "Tt."

Cass smirked, nudging his shoulder. "We see you. Even when you hide."

He sighed but didn’t argue. "It is… overwhelming."

Duke crossed his arms. "Yeah, I bet. But hey—big day, right? You’ve got your brothers and sisters, Alfred, your girl. Even if Bruce doesn’t show… you’ve got people."

Damian thought about the small, chaotic, infuriating, and deeply loyal family that had become his own. His chest ached—but in a way that felt less like loss and more like something else.

Something worth holding onto.

He looked back at Cass and Duke. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "I do."

Cass smiled, looping her arm through his. "Then let's go celebrate."

The countdown had begun. Graduation was only two weeks away, and the air buzzed with anticipation. Students scrambled to finalize their plans, teachers handed out sentimental parting words, and the school halls carried the electric charge of impending change.

For Marinette and Damian, the moment was surreal.

Marinette stood in front of her closet, her cap and gown hanging on the door like an omen. Her fingers traced the embroidered school emblem, her mind spinning with a bittersweet thought: her parents wouldn’t be here to see her walk across that stage.

She inhaled sharply, pushing away the sting behind her eyes. Instead, she focused on the mirror, adjusting the delicate gold chain around her neck—a graduation gift from Harley and Ivy. They had been her rocks, cheering her on in a way that made her feel seen. Even if her parents weren’t here, she wasn’t alone.

A knock on the door broke her thoughts.

“Marinette?” Damian’s voice was smooth, but there was an undertone of something she couldn’t quite place.

She pulled herself together and opened the door, smiling at him. “Hey.”

He stepped inside, looking effortlessly composed as always, though Marinette could tell something was weighing on him. His hands were tucked in his pockets, his gaze flicking to her graduation gown momentarily.

“Are you ready?” he asked, but the question had more meaning than the ceremony.

Marinette hesitated before answering. “I think so. Feels like it’s happening too fast, though.”

Damian hummed in agreement but didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he moved to sit on her bed, his usual sharp posture slightly slouched. She took that as an invitation and sat beside him.

“You’ve been thinking about something,” she said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Spill.”

He exhaled, and for a moment, he looked almost unsure—a rare sight. “I reached out to my family.”

Marinette blinked, surprised. “Really?”

A nod. “Grayson responded first, of course. He’s coming, along with everyone else. Pennyworth will be there, too.”

She smiled. “That’s good, Damian. You should have them here.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping against his knee. “Father… hasn’t responded.”

Marinette frowned, her heart squeezing for him. “I’m sorry.”

Damian’s jaw tightened slightly before he shook his head. “I expected it.”

But even if he had expected it, she could see that small part of him—no matter how much he tried to deny it—that had still hoped for something different. She reached out, taking his hand in hers, threading their fingers together.

“Well, you’re still going to have a whole group of people cheering for you,” she reminded him. “Even if he’s not there, you’re not alone.”

Damian glanced at their hands, then at her, the tightness in his expression easing slightly. “Neither are you,” he murmured.

Her throat tightened. “I know. Ivy and Harley are coming. They’re—” She swallowed. “They’re excited.”

“They should be,” he said simply. “You’ve done something incredible.”

Marinette let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “It’s just high school.”

“No,” Damian corrected. “It’s everything you’ve fought for. You deserve this moment.”

She exhaled softly, feeling the weight of his words settle into her chest, grounding her.

After a long pause, she squeezed his hand. “You do too, you know.”

The silence between them stretched, comfortable and understanding. Eventually, Damian spoke again, his voice lower and more confident. “No matter what comes next… We’ll face it together.”

Marinette looked at him; in that moment, any uncertainty about the future didn’t seem so overwhelming. She nodded, letting herself believe in that promise.

Together, they would step into the unknown.

The soft hum of the video call connection barely registered in Marinette’s ears as she sat on the edge of her bed, fingers curled tightly around her phone. The room was dimly lit, the glow of her laptop screen casting long shadows against the walls. She had been putting this off, but now there was no more running from it.

The call connected, and her parents' familiar, slightly grainy faces filled the screen. Tom and Sabine smiled warmly, their eyes filled with the usual love and pride that should have made Marinette feel lighter. Instead, it made the weight in her chest sink deeper.

“Ma chérie!” Sabine greeted first, voice as gentle as ever. “You look so grown up.”

“Almost a graduate now,” Tom added, his grin wide. “Can you believe it?”

Marinette tried to smile, but it wobbled at the edges, tears threatening to leave her eyes. “Yeah… It’s happening.”

Her mother’s gaze softened, as if sensing the shift in Marinette’s tone. “We are so proud of you, my love.”

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on her phone. “I just wish…” She hesitated, but there was no point in pretending. “I wish you could be here.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint buzz of the connection. Her parents’ expressions flickered with regret, the same regret she had avoided for months.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sabine murmured, her voice laced with emotion. “We wish that, too.”

“We tried everything,” Tom added, a deep sigh escaping him. “The bakery, the passports, the flights—”

“I know,” Marinette interrupted quickly, shaking her head. “I know you did, and I figured as such. It’s just… graduation is supposed to be this big moment, and even though you told me before, I held out hoping you’d be there.”

Her voice cracked, and she hated the way her eyes burned, but she couldn’t stop it. She had spent so much time focusing on finishing school, her projects, and moving forward, but now, on the eve of one of the biggest milestones of her life, the absence of her parents felt unbearable.

Sabine’s face softened with understanding. “I know it’s not the same, but we will be watching, Marinette. We will be celebrating you from here, with the biggest cake in your honor.”

Tom nodded, his usual cheer unwavering. “And you better believe we’ll have a party waiting for you when you visit.”

Marinette let out a small, shaky laugh. “A giant cake just for me?”

“Of course,” her father declared proudly. “The biggest one we’ve ever made.”

Despite the ache in her chest, warmth spread through her. “I’d like that.”

“And you won’t be alone,” Sabine reminded her gently. “Mlles Harley and Ivy will be there, right?”

Marinette nodded, wiping at her eyes quickly. “Yeah. They’re making a big deal out of it.”

“Good,” Tom said firmly. “You deserve people who will celebrate you properly.”

The call continued for a while longer, filled with small reassurances and stories from home, until finally, Marinette said her goodbyes. As the screen faded to black, she sat there momentarily, staring at her reflection in the darkened glass.

She wasn’t alone. Not really.

Taking a deep breath, Marinette set her phone aside and stood up, straightening her shoulders.

Tomorrow, she would graduate. And no matter what, she would make her parents proud.

~~~~~

Marinette adjusted her cap, fingers trembling slightly as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The day had arrived, yet it felt surreal. Her parents weren’t here. That absence weighed on her chest, threatening to steal the joy of the moment. But she wasn’t alone.

A knock at the door made her turn. Ivy and Harley stood there, Ivy with a soft, knowing smile and Harley practically vibrating with excitement.

"Ready, kid?" Harley grinned. "You’re about to make history!"

Ivy stepped closer, smoothing down Marinette’s gown. "Your parents are so proud of you."

Marinette inhaled sharply, tears pricking at her eyes. "I hope so."

Harley slung an arm around her. "No doubt about it. But lucky for you, you’ve got us to scream your name when you walk across that stage."

Marinette laughed, warmth blooming in her chest. "Thank you. Both of you."

As they walked to the ceremony, Marinette let the excitement settle in. This was her moment, and she wouldn’t let the past take it from her.

She had a family—maybe not the one she expected, but one that had chosen her all the same. And that meant everything.

The sun shone brightly over the academy’s sprawling courtyard, casting a golden hue over the rows of neatly arranged chairs and the stage adorned with banners. The crowd's murmurs—proud families, excited friends, and weary teachers—created a steady hum in the background. It was the perfect day for a graduation ceremony.

Damian stood among his classmates, his cap and gown pristine despite the breeze threatening to ruffle them. He had always envisioned this day with a certain level of detachment—another milestone, another expectation met. But as he glanced toward the gathered audience, a flicker of something deeper stirred in his chest.

They were here.

Richard, front and center, grinning like a fool and holding up a handmade sign that read ‘Go Baby Wayne!’ complete with tiny bat symbols. Jason stood beside him, arms crossed, attempting to look unimpressed but failing spectacularly with the slight smirk tugging at his lips. Tim was also there, a knowing look in his eyes, as if he could already anticipate Damian’s complaints about the attention.

Cass stood beside Alfred, both of them offering him proud nods. Duke threw up a thumbs-up, and even Barbara and Stephanie had joined, their smiles warm as they waved. And then, Harley and Ivy sat right next to Richard and Jason. The former donned surprisingly appropriate attire—Harley’s only concession to her usual chaos was a bright red bow in her blonde pigtails.

And in their midst, Marinette.

She was dressed immaculately, a soft smile gracing her lips as she met his gaze. She had saved him a seat at their celebration dinner, had helped him adjust his cap this morning, and had been there through the long nights of projects and late-night conversations. She wasn’t just his partner in class. She was his .

For a moment, everything else faded. The speeches, the crowd, the expectations—none of it mattered. He wasn’t just standing on the precipice of graduation. He was standing among his family .

The ceremony itself was a blur. The principal spoke, the valedictorian gave a speech, and names were called. When his own was announced, the cheers were unmistakable—loud, raucous, entirely too much. He rolled his eyes at Richard’s obnoxious whistle and Harley’s over-the-top “That’s my boy!” but a small, nearly imperceptible smile tugged at his lips.

When the ceremony was over, the graduates flooded the courtyard to greet their loved ones. Damian barely had time to adjust his cap before he was caught in an enthusiastic hug from Richard.

“You did it, little brother!” he beamed, squeezing him tight before letting go. “Man, I am so proud of you.”

Jason clapped him on the back. “Not bad, little D. Thought you might combust before making it this far.”

Tim smirked. “Survived four years of high school and no big scandal? I’d say that’s character growth.”

“Tt,” Damian huffed, though there was no real irritation in his tone. “You are all insufferable.”

Cass hugged him next, brief but firm. “You did good.”

Duke grinned. “And now you’re officially a graduate. What’s next, world domination?”

Harley and Ivy approached next, Ivy with a knowing smile and Harley practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, my little terror, I knew you’d be amazing! Ivy, tell ‘im how amazing he is!”

Ivy nodded. “You’re amazing.”

Harley wiped away a fake tear. “I’m so proud! ”

Marinette approached him, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes warm as she tilted her head up at him. The golden light of late afternoon cast a glow over everything, softening the sharp lines of his face and the ever-present tension in his posture. In this moment, he was not Gotham’s heir or a warrior raised in shadows—he was simply Damian, a young man standing on the precipice of change.

Time seemed to slow as she came into view. It highlighted every portion of her, from her glistening blue eyes, her bright smile, and the light steps she took, the gown seemingly essentuating her body’s beauty in the dress the young designer made herself. 

"You did it," she said, voice gentle yet full of conviction. Even her voice sounded especially heavenly,

"I did," he admitted, voice softer than before.

She reached for his hand without hesitation, her fingers threading through his, offering warmth and steadiness—a reminder. "Told you we’d make it."

His grip tightened, just slightly. "Yes. You did."

There was no need for grand speeches, no excessive sentimentality. The moment, the people, the feeling in his chest—it was enough.

Damian Wayne felt truly at home for the first time in a long time.

The package arrived in the dead of night.

Damian found it waiting on the balcony, its wrapping pristine yet unmarked—no postage, no insignia, just an elegant black box sealed with gold wax. His instincts flared, muscles coiling as he inspected it for traps. There was no poison, noticeable scent, or explosive mechanisms, but an undeniable familiarity in the craftsmanship. He recognized the delicate yet deliberate creases in the folds of the paper, the way the wax bore an imprint he hadn’t seen in years.

His mother’s personal seal.

Talia.

Exhaling through his nose, he broke the wax and lifted the lid. Inside, cushioned by silk, rested an ornate object unlike anything he had seen before. It was a small metallic brooch shaped like a raven’s wing. Intricate etchings of runes decorated the wings, and their metal gleamed in his room's dim light. The intricate design immediately stood out—deliberate, ancient, and filled with an energy that seemed to hum beneath his fingertips.

Next to it lay a folded parchment. Damian carefully unfolded it, instantly recognizing his mother’s elegant, sloping script:

ابني الحبيب,

(My Beloved Son,)

You are more than just the blood of your father and I. You are a force of will, a storm yet to be reckoned with. It is time you embraced the parts of your legacy long buried beneath the shadows of men who would shape your fate.

This artifact belongs to you now. It is part of a greater power that has existed in Gotham long before the first stone of Wayne Manor was laid. Your city is older than it appears, its foundations hiding secrets even your father has failed to uncover.

This is but one piece of something greater. If you wish to understand, follow the map beneath this letter. Seek the places where the city forgot itself. The lost temples hidden beneath its bones. The relics that even the League once coveted but could never claim.

I give you this not as a command, but as a challenge. Uncover what has been buried. Prove that you are more than a mere successor to another man’s mission. This is your fate to decide.

لا تخيب ظني.

تاليا الغول

(Do not disappoint me. Talia al Ghul)

Damian’s grip on the parchment tightened slightly before he forced himself to relax. He set the letter aside and lifted the brooch from its silk resting place. The moment his fingers brushed against it, a spark pulsed through him—a whisper of something ancient, something alive.

He narrowed his eyes. Miraculous magic.

But from Mother? That was impossible. How did she get her hands on one?

Carefully, he reached beneath the silk lining, finding another slip of paper. This one, unlike the elegant letter, was crude—rushed. The ink smeared as if written in haste.

احذروا الظلال التي تحرس المنسيين.

لم تكن العصبة أول من سعى وراء هذه الهدايا، ولن تكون الأخيرة.

(Beware the shadows that guard the forgotten. The League was not the first to seek these gifts, and they will not be the last.)

Damian inhaled slowly. His mother had given him something of value, but she had also given him a warning.

The past was waiting to be unearthed. And he had just been handed the key.

Next to him, Damian felt Tikki’s curious gaze as he held the brooch in his hands, feeling the weight of something far greater than metal settle against his skin.

He needed to show this to Marinette and Plagg. Tomorrow, their search for the other miraculous would have to begin.

And whatever they found—whatever secrets Gotham had buried—they would claim them before anyone else could.

Chapter Text

Previously: 

Damian’s grip on the parchment tightened slightly before he forced himself to relax. He set the letter aside and lifted the brooch from its silk resting place. The moment his fingers brushed against it, a spark pulsed through him—a whisper of something ancient, something alive.

He narrowed his eyes. Miraculous magic.

But from Mother? That was impossible. How did she get her hands on one?

Carefully, he reached beneath the silk lining, finding another slip of paper. This one, unlike the elegant letter, was crude—rushed. The ink smeared as if written in haste.

احذروا الظلال التي تحرس المنسيين.

لم تكن العصبة أول من سعى وراء هذه الهدايا، ولن تكون الأخيرة.

(Beware the shadows that guard the forgotten. The League was not the first to seek these gifts, and they will not be the last.)

Damian inhaled slowly. His mother had given him something of value, but she had also given him a warning.

The second package came a day later. Delivered in the same way, one hour there was nothing but plants and supplies on the balcony, the next something arrived like a ghost. No noise, no courier, no trace. Damian found it waiting on the balcony, sealed with gold wax that sent ice down his spine. He peeled it open like a wound.

His mother’s seal. There was nothing in the package besides a map and a message, the ink was smeared, rushed:

”أنت أكثر من دم أبيك. هذا هو إرثك غوثام تخفي معابد لا يمكن للرابطة أن تخترقها أبداً أسرار لا يعرفها حتى باتمان. اذهب واعثر عليها أثبت قيمتك“.

(You are more than your father's blood. This is your legacy. Gotham hides temples that the League can never penetrate, secrets that even Batman doesn't know. Go find them and prove your worth.)

Damian’s fingers trembled slightly. Beside him, Tikki floated closer, eyes wide.

"I feel something here," she whispered. "It reminds me of a dormant Miraculous. Like the one you received yesterday."

"From my mother ." His voice was flat, disturbed.

The weight in Damian’s chest deepened. His mother had given him a mission. Or a warning. Or both.

"We have to find these temples," he said. "Before someone else wakes what’s sleeping beneath this city."

Deep in the night, the city seemed to groan. Deep beneath Gotham’s towers and grime, something ancient stirred. And elsewhere, in the Batcave’s shadowed depths, Tim Drake frowned at a flickering glyph on a screen.

"That’s not League tech," he whispered.

Behind him, Nightwing narrowed his eyes. "Then what the hell just woke up in our city?"

They didn’t know the name yet. But fate was already moving.

~~~

Barbara Gordon tapped into every surveillance feed she could access, eyes darting across screens. The footage of the new vigilantes was blurry but unmistakable.

“They're definitely not metas,” she murmured. “Or if they are, they’re the kind we’ve never cataloged.”

Bruce’s voice crackled through her comm. “Keep tabs. Do not engage.”

“Too late,” she said. “The boys have already decided to pursue them.”

~~~

Gotham was on edge.

Even for a city that never slept, something felt different—like the buildings themselves held their breath. Rain fell harder. Shadows stretched farther. And somewhere between the heartbeat of a Bat and the rhythm of a prayer, chaos was learning how to walk in tandem with destiny.

Damian stood on the rooftop of an older apartment complex, the city sprawling beneath him like an ancient battlefield. 

His suit shimmered in the light: a rich crimson base adorned with gold-rimmed black circles across his chest and limbs. Sleek and form-fitting, it moved like a second skin, designed for silent acrobatics and swift retribution. A golden sash cinched at his waist, embroidered with Arabic calligraphy and Chinese hanzi—symbols of balance, fortune, and duty.

Black leather boots hugged his calves, and golden cuffs encased his forearms. The hem of his elbow-length sleeves bore intricate arabesque detailing, glinting when he moved. A maroon cloak, light as silk, draped from his shoulders, hood down, the trim catching flecks of golden light as if the stars had stitched it themselves.

The red, black, and gold mask framed his face like war paint. Regal. Resolute.

"I’ve never worn this suit in this capacity. I feel ridiculous," he muttered.

Behind him, Marinette laughed softly. Her suit, with sleek obsidian layers and silver claw-like embellishments, now bore a deep violet scarf, making her presence feel both regal and deadly.

"No, you look powerful," she said, stepping beside him. "And a little terrifying. Which, for Gotham, is ideal."

"You flatter me, Hēi lánhuā," Damian said, allowing the hero name she chose for herself to settle.

"Rabu Alhazi suits you," she murmured, her voice softer now. "You said it meant the Lord of Luck, right? Despite that, I think your control issues will hate what that means."

He chuckled, looking at the ground. "I don’t believe in luck."

"Exactly. That’s what makes this fun."

~~~

A blur of black and silver danced between the towering spires, landing soundlessly on a gargoyle’s shoulder. Marinette adjusted her grip on the edge, her Miraculous humming against her pulse. She let out a slow breath, the thrill of the hunt sending a shiver down her spine.

“Spot anything?”

A streak of red and gold landed with controlled precision from a rooftop a few meters away. Damian straightened, putting his yo-yo on his hip before glancing at her. The glow of the Ladybug nestled at his collarbone pulsed faintly.

“老钟楼附近有动静,” (There’s movement near the old clock tower) he murmured. “很微妙。几乎太微妙了” (Subtle. Almost too subtle.)

Marinette’s lips curled into a grin. “听起来我们找到了一条可以拉的线” (Sounds like we found a string to pull.)

The two figures moved in tandem, slipping through the city like whispers in the wind. The Bat Family ruled Gotham’s rooftops, but these two had perfected the art of remaining unseen in the shadows—even by the World’s Greatest Detective himself.

They reached the abandoned clock tower in minutes, lurking just out of sight. It was a relic of Gotham’s golden age, long since left to decay. But Marinette could feel something tugging at her Miraculous, an ancient familiarity thrumming beneath her skin.

Damian crouched beside her, scanning the darkness. “你感觉到了吗?” (Do you feel that?)

She nodded, her suit’s tail moving curiously behind her. ““有东西在这里 或者至少......它的一部分。” (There’s something here. Or at least… part of it.)

They moved inside with quiet precision. The forgotten tower's rusted but still massive gears loomed above them, casting long, eerie shadows in the moonlight. The dust in the air swirled as they stepped forward, and Marinette felt the pull intensify.

Then, a whisper.

It was not a voice but a sensation—a memory not her own. White briefly flickered in her vision, and Marinette faltered in her steps. She felt herself witnessing something from the past.

A man in a dark coat. A hand clutching something small, glowing faintly before being hidden away. A symbol—a sigil etched into stone.

When the memory cleared, Damian was kneeling beside her. A hand placed softly on her back, and he inhaled sharply, his own Miraculous vibrating, the feeling traveling from his ears and downward against his chest. 

As Marinette looked up from the ground, she nodded to the teen to show she was okay. At the reassurance, Damian looked away, focusing on something in front of them. Following his gaze, Marinette saw the sigil she saw in the memory.  

“有人在我们之前来过这里” (Someone was here before us.) His voice was low as if stating a secret. 

Tracing the sigil with her clawed fingertips, feeling the etching deep in the stone.“他们知道自己在做什么” (And they knew what they were doing.)

Before they could dig deeper, the distant sirens' wails snapped them back to the present. Heavy, methodical, precise footsteps echoed from the streets below.

Damian tensed. “We need to move.”

Marinette smirked. “Race you?”

She didn’t wait for a response. With a nimbleness that belied the weight of her thoughts, she launched herself through the broken window, catching a ledge before flipping effortlessly onto the neighboring building. Damian followed a heartbeat later, his agility precise and controlled.

They wove through Gotham’s skyline, the city stretching beneath them like a beast at rest. From below, the Bat Signal carved its light into the sky. The night’s patrol had begun.

“They’re out in full force,” Marinette noted, nodding toward the distant silhouettes of Gotham’s protectors.

“They always are,” Damian replied. “But, they’re no longer the only ones hunting.”

Bruce stood over the monitors, brows furrowed. The latest footage from a silent alarm tripped in the security systems showed blurry figures—one in a crimson blur, the other cloaked in a black-like liquid shadow.

"You seeing this?" Tim asked from his seat at the computer, sipping a lukewarm coffee.

"It seems that Black Cat found a partner. I think it confirms that they're not League," Bruce said.

"No. But they’re trained. Efficient. And feel familiar."

Dick dropped down beside them, his face unusually serious.

"I ran into them two nights ago. Didn't see anything identifying on them, but the girl laughed as she leaped past me. Not maniacal. Confident. They’re not causing any trouble. They’re... picking their battles."

"What battles?" Bruce murmured.

"Magic ones," Duke’s voice answered, standing beside Tim.

They all turned.

"What did you say?" Bruce asked, sharp.

"Nothin’. Just a theory I’ve been working on with Tim," Duke said smoothly, hands up in a cautionary measure. "Gotham attracts the wrong kind of attention. Always has. Maybe it’s finally catching up with us."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Well, that’s poetic."

Duke only raised an eyebrow. “My powers include photokinesis and umbrakinesis. It may literally be for manipulation of light and darkness, but in this city, it also picks up on its symbolic aspects.”

Bruce considered the words for a minute. “We need to gather more information. Next time there’s an encounter, Tim or Barbara, I want you to analyze all you can about them. Tell us what you see, in person and over the comms.”

~~~

Nightwing lands beside the signal first, his silhouette cast against the lens. The beam slices through the dark clouds—and then flickers.

Not off.

Distorted.

The Bat Signal begins pulsing in a staccato rhythm—not Morse or any known code, but more like a heartbeat or breath.

Commissioner Gordon stood on the rooftop, coat flapping violently in the wind. “You sure this is worth it?” he asked, watching Batman’s silhouette tower beside him.

Batman didn't answer. He was watching the city—not for crime, but for ghosts.

Then it happened.

A glint of red against the darkness. Not a shadow but something leaping. Something impossibly fast. And coming towards them.

“Did you see that?” Gordon asked.

“I saw,” Batman muttered. His jaw clenched.

Hēi lánhuā lands lightly on the edge of the GCPD building, hair pulled into twin buns, cat eyes twitching on her head. Her boots click against stone. Beside her, a blur—a figure in red with gold accents and a hood drawn low.

Rabu Alhazi, the newest in mysterious Gotham activity.

Commissioner Gordon gasps. “Who the hell—”

In the Gotham Clocktower, Oracle watches through every available feed, tapping rapidly.

The two mysterious figures don’t speak.

Instead, the red-themed figure raises his hand. A ladybug-shaped charm spins in his palm. It glows faintly, pulses once, and the Bat-Signal stops stuttering.

Then, the pair disappears in a flash of red-and-gold sparks—vanishing without a trace.

Nightwing, stunned, mutters:
“They’re not just vigilantes. That really was magic.”

~~~

Two hours later, in the Batcave, via video call and mirrored screens, glowing code streamed across Oracle’s monitor.

Barbara adjusts her glasses, zooming in on footage. She’s tracking the duo’s tech-absent trail and the strange distortions they leave in their wake. Nothing about them fits Gotham’s known variables.

No League of Assassins. No Lazarus signature.

“They’re using some kind of distortion field—like an EMP cloaking net but smarter,” Barbara said, typing rapidly.

“Magic then?” Tim suggested from behind her. He had his cowl off, sipping lukewarm coffee and looking bleary-eyed.

“I don’t believe in magic,” Jason grunted, crossing his arms. “But I believe in weird .”

Bruce stood still, watching replay footage from a rooftop camera—frames showing a streak of red, a shimmer of gold trim, and a yo-yo swinging through shadows.

“They’re not amateurs,” he said. “No wasted movement. Martial arts, but hybrid. That girl—she knew we were watching. She waved at the camera.”

Barbara stopped typing. “She waved?”

Jason whistled. “Damn. Ballsy.”

Tim looked concerned. “You think they’re working against us?”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. “No. But they’re not with us either.”

“Bruce,” she said eventually. “They tampered with the signal using some kind of... charm. It’s like the city reacted to it.”

Silence. Then:

“Track everything. If they can manipulate our symbols, they’re either a threat—or a test.”

Barbara freezes the frame on the masked boy—the precise stance, the tension in his jaw, the microsecond he looked at the camera—straight through it.

She feels her stomach sink, eyes narrowing.

“…He moves very familiarly.”

Chapter Text

Red Robin sprinted across rooftops, following the phantom trails of the mysterious vigilantes. He hadn’t told Bruce. Not yet. He needed proof first. But the way Rabu Alhazi moved—fluid, precise, with acrobatics that reminded him of someone he once trained with...

He leapt forward—and was stopped mid-air by a flash of red string wrapping around his ankle.

He tumbled, landed hard, and looked up into two masked faces.

"Red Robin," the red magic user said, voice low.

Tim’s eyes widened. "What the hell—"

Hēi lánhuā knelt beside him, her claws clicking gently on the concrete. "We’re not your enemies."

"Then what are you?"

"The only hope this city has against what’s brewing underneath," he said.

After their encounter with Red Robin, their next lead took them to an underground passageway beneath Gotham Cathedral. It was a place forgotten by time, carved into the city's bones. As soon as they slipped inside, a chill settled over them, thick with the weight of something old.

Damian traced the wall with a gloved hand. “The League had maps of hidden sites across Gotham,” he muttered. “But this one was never listed.”

Marinette ran her fingers over the stone, the sensation of something just out of reach tickling her senses. Then—

A spark.

She pressed down, and the wall shifted. A section of stone groaned as it slid away, revealing a small alcove. Inside, a tiny, delicate box rested atop an ancient cloth.

Damian and Marinette exchanged a glance.

“After you,” she whispered.

Damian stepped forward, carefully lifting the box. The moment his fingers brushed it, a pulse of energy flared through his Miraculous, his heartbeat syncing with something unseen.

They had found another piece of the puzzle.

And the game was only beginning.

~~~

Looking around the alcove, Marinette’s staff glowed faintly, illuminating the cryptic writing on the stone wall. The language was older than Gotham. Definitely older than any of France’s republics. She traced her fingers along the etching.

"This speaks of balance," she said. "Of twin guardians—one tied to fate, the other to chaos."

Damian hovered nearby, eyes narrowed. "We found this under Gotham. Do you think our being here is a coincidence?"

"Plagg did tell me that I would find a Ladybug to match my chaos here."

He stepped closer. Their faces were inches apart.

"If you're chaos, then what does that make me?"

She smiled, eyes glinting. "Destiny."

~~~

Two hours later, while the rain lightly pattered the ground, Marinette and Damian sat on the rooftop of an abandoned apartment complex.

Marinette sat cross-legged. She held a dumpling in one hand, a napkin-wrapped bao bun in the other.

“I stole food from the villain's gala on the way here,” she said proudly.

Damian gave her a look. “I bought mine. From that vendor on Mott Street. Like a normal person.”

“Yeah, but mine tastes better because it’s stolen,” she smirked.

He shook his head, amused. Then his expression darkened.

“You remember how Batman looked at us?”

Marinette sobered. “He knows we’re not random vigilantes. He knows we’re... different.”

“I can feel it,” Damian said quietly. “At the least, he might suspect someone trained by him.”

Marinette looked away. “We may have to make a choice soon. Stay hidden… or come clean.”

Damian’s jaw set. “We’re not ready yet. Not until we know what we’re fighting and have more of the Miraculous at our disposal.”

Lightning flashed above. Thunder cracked.

Marinette slumps against the fire escape, her legs dangling over the edge.  “I don’t like how close they’re getting,” she murmurs.

“You don’t like being seen.”

“I don’t like being known .”

Damian says nothing.

Below them, the sounds of Gotham never cease—screeching tires, arguing lovers, jazz bleeding through a broken window. The city is a heartbeat with a thousand pulses.

“You regret it?” he asks suddenly.

“The suit? Our mission?” she asks, glancing at him.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

She shakes her head slowly. “No. But I’m scared. Not of the Bats. Of what we’re getting ourselves into.”

Damian stares ahead. “We don’t have the luxury of fear.”

She tilts her head. “That’s a lie. You’re terrified.”

He flinches. That’s how she knows she’s right.

A week later, detransformed the pair finds themselves at the Old Gotham Cemetery. It’s nearly midnight, but the duo feels restless. 

Their feet crunched over broken gravestones and moss-covered roots. Plagg hovered anxiously near Damian’s ear.

“I’m telling you,” the kwami whispered. “This place feels wrong. Like something old died here... but didn’t leave.”

Damian looked at his phone, which had a picture of the map on the screen. “The coordinates lead here, under this angel statue.”

He pried the base open, revealing a trapdoor with ancient etchings. Mandarin. Arabic. Sanskrit.

A dark staircase spiraled down.

The air shifted as they entered. Cold and electric.

At the bottom, they found it.

A black leather cuff with a silver stinger charm. Damian reached out—then hesitated.

Tikki whispered, breaking the quiet. “That one… that Miraculous belonged to the Scorpion. It hasn’t had a holder since the Second War of Independence.”

The second his fingers brushed the charm, a button in the ground made its presence known with a slow, grinding moan, leading to a door opening slightly. 

Inside is a shrine. Timeworn tapestries line the walls, depicting a black cat, a ladybug, and a phoenix bound in gold chains. At the center: a locked glass dome.

Marinette touches it. The dome releases with a hiss, revealing—

A ring with twin fish carved into a blue sapphire.

Another Miraculous.

But unlike the others, it hums with rage.

A whisper slithers out:

“She who bears this, watches the flow of destiny. Bound to undo or unleash fate. Continuing to circle until breaking strait.”

Damian grips her arm. “We shouldn’t take it.”

“But we must.”

She contemplates before putting the ring on her finger, next to Plagg’s. Luckily, it remains dormant. They can try to activate it when they get back to the apartment.

In that instant, a loud boom is heard. Immediately, the pair summoned their Kwami and transformed. 

Smoke. Hushed yelling. Flash grenades.

The Batfamily.

Nightwing. Batgirl. Red Robin. Red Hood.

~

“Put it down!” Nightwing barked. His escrima sticks crackled with blue electricity.

“Hands where we can see them,” Batgirl called.

“Or don’t,” Red Hood added. “Makes it more fun.”

Hēi lánhuā stepped in front of Rabu Alhazi. Her staff held out like a sword.

Rabu Alhazi’s voice was low. “We don’t want a fight.”

“Too bad,” Jason said, firing a rubber round. Rabu Alhazi deflected it.

Red Robin’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. That stance… that’s Bat-style . Who are you?”

“We’re protectors,” Hēi lánhuā said. “Not your enemies.”

“We’re the ones protecting Gotham,” Batgirl said sharply. “You don’t get to run rogue ops under our noses and expect us to trust you.”

Rabu Alhazi hesitated. Looking briefly at his siblings, his face sets in a stern emotion. “We’ll talk when we’re ready.” 

Hēi lánhuā tenses beside him, fingers twitching toward her staff.

But before anyone can move, the twin fish ring activates . A pulse of dark blue energy rips outward. The chamber groans, and the old catacomb begins collapsing.

The vigilantes dodge—but the masked pair are gone. Again.

Only this time, unbeknownst to the Bats, the pair leaves something behind:

A scrap of parchment with a single line of an ancient prophecy.

“When the Lord of Luck and the Mistress of Chaos awaken the Veneris Mater , the chain of fate will begin to unravel.”

Once safely inside the chaotic calm of Harley and Ivy's sanctuary, Marinette and Damian stared at the small box on the table like it might sprout teeth. The old velvet-lined jewelry case looked innocent, but both of them could feel the wrongness humming through the air like electricity in a storm. The Kwami around them hovered anxiously over them, curiosity a solemn blanket in the room. 

"Open it," Marinette said, her voice low, uncertain.

Damian gave her a look sharp enough to draw blood. "It could be a trap."

She smirked faintly. "Like that’s ever stopped you."

With a reluctant breath, Damian flipped the latch and opened the lid.

A faint, golden glow spilled out and danced across their faces. Nestled inside was a fragment of something ancient: a shattered Miraculous. The material still hummed with latent energy, pulsing like a heartbeat trapped in stone.

Marinette's breath hitched. "This shouldn’t be in this state."

Damian hovered his fingers above it. "Then why is it?"

The air answered with silence.

Tikki and Plagg appeared behind them, unusually solemn.

"This was once the Scorpion," Tikki whispered. She hovered solemnly over the Scorpion’s shard while Nooroo examined the jewelry.

"The Scorpion wasn’t just a wielder," Nooroo said. "She was a seer. A guardian of balance. Her fall started a war that almost erased our presence in America."

"This city," Marinette whispered. "It’s saturated with energy. Gotham was one of the final pillars. That’s why everything here feels... heavier."

Damian paced, then stopped abruptly. "There’s something else. A temple beneath the old rail lines. It’s on the map. We check it at dawn."

"We’re not alone in this hunt," Plagg warned. "Someone’s waking them up."

Damian’s eyes sharpened, considering their findings. “What about the Twin Fish? When Marinette grabbed it, it mentioned something about watching the flow of destiny.”

This time, Fluff floated to the pair and began to speak. “Noema, the Kwami of the Twin Fish, was used by oracles who foresaw the fate of empires, guiding rulers and warriors alike with their visions. When in action, she allows the wearer to enter and manipulate dreams. Providing visions of the future or trapping enemies in illusions. It’s an incredible power that worked beautifully in tandem with Skora, the Scorpion. When both were lost it led to a great wave that buried the rest of the miraculous in Gotham.

Marinette nodded slowly. “So Gotham was the source for these Miraculous. That’s why there’s so much energy here. It’s not just the crime. It’s the resonance .”

Tikki whispered, “And it’s not just you two awakening them.”

In the Gotham Clock tower, the Batfamily regrouped.

“They’re not ordinary,” Nightwing said.

“Something’s wrong,” Tim added. “That girl—she didn’t fight like one of us. She fought like someone trained elsewhere. Someone ancient.”

Bruce stood in silence. The relic’s image burned in his mind.

“I’ve been reviewing the footage from the cameras and what you’ve all shared with me. I’ve seen that symbol before,” he murmured. “In Ra’s al Ghul’s archives.”

Barbara turned sharply. “You think this has to do with the League?”

“No,” Bruce said. “Worse. This is older. Deeper. This goes beyond the League.”

He looked out a window, where the Bat-Signal still glowed—now echoed by a swirling red light in the clouds.

“They’re not just vigilantes,” he said. “They’re part of something… mythic.”

Chapter Text

Dick watched them from a rooftop, his mask hiding a concerned scowl. Bruce stood beside him, arms crossed.

"They’re hiding something. And it’s big."

"Bigger than the Lazarus pits?"

"Maybe older."

An hour later, Red Hood intercepted them. "Nice threads. But you're dancing in someone else’s graveyard."

The Lord of Luck bristled. "Stay out of it, Hood."

"Try and stop me."

~~~

Three rooftops away, Red Robin watched through binoculars. "They’ve got artifacts we’ve never seen. Magic I can’t decrypt."

Batgirl landed beside him. "They’re not just vigilantes. They’re relic hunters. Whatever they’re after, it’s changing the city."

"So what do we do?"

Batman’s voice cut through the channel. "We stop them. Before Gotham forgets who her protectors really are."

But as the Batfamily descended, the sky above the city pulsed. A soft ripple of energy, ancient and wild, burst outward from an abandoned tunnel beneath Gotham’s bones.

~~~

The Bat-Signal split the clouds. Gotham waited.

But instead of Batman, a blur landed on the GCPD rooftop—red and black, shadows flickering.

Nightwing stepped from the shadows, arms folded. "You’re not Bruce."

"And you’re not subtle,"  Hēi lánhuā snapped back, twirling her baton.

"You’ve been running around Gotham. We need to know why," Red Hood said, stepping up beside him.

Rabu Alhazi crossed his arms, a frown apparent on his lips. "You don’t need to know why. Just stay out of our way."

Oracle’s voice crackled into Red Robin’s comms. "They’re... anomalous. I can’t trace their tech. They’re using something ancient ."

"Some interference then," Tim muttered as quietly as he could. The Black Cat’s ears twitched, her face moving silently in his direction. 

"We don’t have anything like that in our database."

"Exactly. That’s the problem."

~~~

Later, as the sun gradually peaked through clouds above Gotham’s rust-streaked skyline, Marinette and Damian sat silently on a fire escape.

She watched as the sun rose. "Do you think your mother’s trying to help you... or manipulate you?"

He didn’t answer for a while. Then: "With her, there’s no difference."

She looked at him. Really looked. "Then we stay two steps ahead. Always. We find the other Miraculous, and we decide what to do with them. Not her. Not the League. Not Batman."

"Agreed," Damian said as he stretched. "But we’re not just playing defense anymore. We take the offensive."

“Okay, spill, shortcake.” Harley leaned on the kitchen island like a detective in a noir movie. A hat and fake mustache complete the look. “You two keep comin’ back twitchy with dead-girl eyes. Where’ve you and Tall-Dark-And-Pouty been disappearing to and returnin’ at 3 am?”

Marinette blinked. “Studying.”

“For what , exactly? School’s been over for three weeks,” Ivy arched a brow. “You come back covered in soot and smelling like ancient moss.”

Damian stood in the corner, watching an electric tea kettle, and didn’t dignify the comment.

Marinette gave a nonchalant shrug, but there was something guarded in her stance. “We’ve been… investigating.”

"Investigating what? Gotham’s cryptid dating pool?" Ivy asked, more curious than skeptical. 

Marinette paused. “Something deeper. There’s something underneath Gotham. Under the crime, under the bones. It’s old and humming and wrong.”

Harley and Ivy exchanged a look, and then Harley leaned forward, eyes softening just a bit.

“Don’t get buried in it, sugar. Gotham’s good at swallowing bright things whole.”

“I know,” Marinette said quietly. “That’s why I’m burning through the dark from the inside.”

After a few moments, Ivy raised a brow. "You’re stirring leyline energy. I can feel it in the plants. That’s not detective work. That’s metaphysical excavation."

Damian grunted. "We’re investigating something that was broken called a Miraculous. And my mother may be involved."

Harley blinked. "Wait—I’ve heard of those. Aren’t they like... bug jewelry?"

"God-tier bug jewelry," Marinette corrected. "And it's... a very complicated history."

Harley had been the one talking for the most part, fast and bright, but Ivy cut in quietly—words blooming like dusk-colored orchids.

“You don’t have to tell us everything,” she said, voice low, grounded. “We know what it’s like to use what you have and still need more.”

The duo didn’t meet her eyes. Marinette’s hands were clenched in her lap, her skin still humming with adrenaline from the last few weeks. She felt cracked open and hollow.

“I have a nice greenhouse loft in Cherry Hill, on the northwestern part of the city,” Ivy continued. “I go about once a month, but I’ll have some keys made, and she’ll be all yours.”

Marinette looked up—slow, disbelieving.

Ivy smiled, faint but sincere. “Let us know when you’re there, and we’ll ask no other questions. All we’ll do is check in and bring food if you need it.”

Damian blinked. “You’re giving us a plant fortress ?”

Ivy turned toward him with a raised brow. “I’m giving you space to survive. I know college will start in a couple of months, you’ll probably want your own space since I know going back to the Waynes is out of the question.”

The loft didn’t look like much from the outside—another weather-stained building tucked between a warehouse and an abandoned bakery.

But the keys Ivy gave them were warm to the touch. Alive.

The pair stepped inside, and the air shifted .

Humidity wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. Every inch of the greenhouse pulsed with life—thick-leafed ferns stretching toward soft grow lights, lavender and thyme sprouting along the floorboards, and flowering vines trained up the walls in curated chaos.

There was a worn couch under an arched window, and a reading nook half-buried in ivy. The bed was tucked into a corner alcove, sun-drenched and overgrown, with silk sheets that smelled faintly of jasmine.

It was warm. Safe. Green.

Marinette exhaled for the first time in what felt like days .

Tikki landed softly on the kitchen counter, blinking in awe. “This place feels like the inside of a tree.” Silently, Damian agreed, his attention turned to the plants that seemed to turn in his direction as if reaching out for him.

Plagg curled up on a hanging swing near the orchids. “Finally. Somewhere that doesn’t reek of blood and vengeance.”

Marinette dropped her bag and wandered barefoot onto the mosaic-tiled floor, touching the edge of a potted rose bush that bloomed in spiral patterns.

“Thank you, Ivy,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Three nights in, she hadn’t slept. Damian had given her some space and returned to Harley and Ivy’s apartment. Attention turned towards the remaining locations on the map that they hadn’t looked at and the last few months of their research. Initially, he hesitated about leaving her alone, but Tikki appeared adamant about learning as much as she could with him, and Plagg promised to let them know if things got bad. 

Things got bad quickly after they left, but Marinette was hesitant about calling them back so soon. 

The magic in her chest wouldn’t still. Gotham’s chaos was less oppressive here, but it still clung to her like smoke in her lungs.

At midnight, there was a knock on the door—two slow, one fast.

Harley.

She cracked the door open, expecting noise and glitter. But Harley just held a steaming thermos and a plastic container of homemade veggie empanadas.

“No questions,” she said. “Promise.”

Marinette took the food and blinked hard. Harley pulled her into a loose but warm hug and then vanished into the night, leaving behind only the faint scent of popcorn lip balm and rain.

~~~

He came a few hours later. He didn’t say he would; he just appeared on the balcony as the sun rose.

She found him leaning against the railing, shirt half-buttoned, his hair still wet from a shower. He looked… worn . Angry in the way only the vulnerable can be.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming here.”

He shrugged, arms crossed tight. “I needed to breathe.”

The silence that followed was sharp and aching.

Then Damian looked around—really looked—and his eyes softened just slightly.

“This place suits you,” he murmured.

Marinette tilted her head. “Because it’s full of thorns?”

“No,” he said, barely audible. “Because it grows, even here.”

He left not long after but touched her cheek on the way out—brief and reverent. She felt the ghost of it for hours.

The journal was bound in leather cracked by time, etched with faded gold ink that still shimmered faintly under certain light. Ivy found it buried deep beneath the roots of an ancient tree in Gotham's oldest park—one she’d always felt was angry, wounded.

“I’ve never seen this seal before,” she muttered, flipping through brittle pages. It wasn’t written in Latin or any language she knew, but it felt like nature trying to scream.

Later that night, Damian and Marinette poured over it. The script shifted on the page as they tried to read it, bending to match their comprehension like it wanted to be understood. There were maps of Gotham long before steel and smog, when the land still breathed. There were diagrams of leylines, where the ground had fractured from unnatural power. And there were warnings—cryptic and urgent.

"This city’s always been sick," Marinette whispered. "No... It’s been poisoned."

Damian frowned. "That would explain a lot about the city."

~~~

The glow from the broken Miraculous flickered erratically, casting odd shadows on the walls of Marinette’s room in the apartment. The young woman was meditating in an open spot, the Scorpian miraculous directly in front of her. Damian hovered nearby, his head buried in the sketches in his notebook. Tikki floated beside Marinette, her tiny brow furrowed.

“I don’t recognize it,” the kwami murmured. “Its signature is… off.”

Marinette didn’t respond right away. Her eyes were fixed on the fragment resting in the velvet-lined box. Her fingers twitched—not out of hesitation, but recognition. There was something about the fractured design, the way its energy vibrated at a strange, discordant pitch.

She leaned closer. Closed her eyes.

The smell of old stone, burned incense, and sea salt—memories not her own —flashed behind her eyes. A vision, a whisper, a memory passed down through the Guardian line. She opened her eyes again, her breath shallow.

“This isn’t just broken,” Marinette said slowly. “It was dismantled.”

Damian looked up sharply. “Sabotaged?”

“No. Disassembled. On purpose.” She ran a hand along the edge of the box. “Tikki, this was the Scorpion’s right? The one Nooroo spoke of. I remember now—Begrudgingly, Su-Han showed me scrolls with her sigil burned into the margins. She wasn’t just a wielder. She hid Miraculouses. She changed their forms to protect them.”

Tikki’s eyes widened. “How do you know that? That history was lost with the Order here.”

Marinette looked at her kwami—no, at her friend—with something calm and firm. “Not lost. Just waiting for someone who knew where to look.”

And suddenly the box didn’t seem so small. It was a breadcrumb left by the past—for her .

~~~

Marinette sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor that night, Plagg asleep in her lap, and her ring faintly humming.

She could feel it again—the thrum of Gotham's core, like a dark heartbeat buried deep under concrete and cobblestone. Her grip on the Cat Miraculous had always been balanced by humor, wit, and creative chaos.

But now? The chaos was different. Heavier. Gotham didn’t hum. It growled .

She held her hand up and a flicker of shadow-light was conjured, only for it to fracture mid-air and splinter into thin tendrils that crawled up her wrist. She gasped and retracted it, her hand shaking as if to rid itself of the pain.

“You okay?” Damian’s voice, low and wary.

She didn’t lie. “No.”

When she looked up at him, there was something wild in her eyes—not fear, not quite. More like… pressure. Like the magic inside her was starting to fight her , not flow through her.

“I think this city’s responding to the way the Miraculous works. It’s twisting their resonance.”

Damian frowned. “Twisting you ?”

She met his gaze steadily. “Trying. But I’m not breaking. I’m adapting.”

A few days later, Marinette led Damian through the old sewer catacombs beneath Gotham’s first cathedral. The air smelled like rust and forgotten gods.

“There,” she said, pointing to a wall that looked no different from the rest.

Damian tilted his head. “It’s blank.”

She knelt beside it, placed her hand against the stone, and whispered a name only the Guardians would know. The wall shimmered—and vanished, revealing a narrow tunnel filled with carvings that moved in the flickering light.

“Perks of being a Guardian,” Marinette said. “They etched history into magic. You can’t see it unless you remember it.”

Damian stepped in beside her. “And you remember things no one taught you.”

She gave a small smile. “That’s what it means to be the first Guardian after the Order disappeared almost two centuries ago.”

The rooftop was slick with humid rain. Gotham's summer had teeth—mean ones.

Red Hood’s bullet clipped the corner of the chimney inches from Marinette’s cheek, shattering brick into her braid. She didn’t flinch. She was past flinching.

The fight started with sharp words and spiraled fast. He was hunting an arms ring and must have  thought she was part of it.

“Wrong girl,” she'd snapped, kicking his gun from his hand before vaulting over the skylight.

But Jason didn’t stop.
Didn’t want to stop.

He was aiming for trouble tonight.

Damian appeared to her left, yo-yo yanking him into the fray. No words exchanged. Just movement, like they’d practiced a thousand times in silence. Parry, leap, twist, cover. But then Red Hood hit a weak spot—just under Damian’s ribs—and Marinette's eyes flared with magic.

Not green. Not blue.
Something… darker.

The rooftop trembled.

“Hēi lán–” Damian’s voice was a warning, but it was too late.

A rooftop explosion cut them off. Marinette grabbed his wrist, instincts overriding logic. They dove off the edge just as a fire bloomed behind them.

Straight into the canal.

The water was black as motor oil. Freezing despite the warmth of the city.

She hit first—Damian, a half second later, arm still looped around her waist. His grip never loosened.

They clawed their way out three blocks down. Damian dragged them to the loft without a word. She was shivering so hard her teeth clacked. Her transformation broke mid-run—claws retracting, mask peeling off like dead skin.

Chapter Text

After the near-miss with Red Hood—the ambush that should’ve killed her regardless of the miraculous’ magic—Marinette Dupain-Cheng found herself in the bathroom of Ivy’s greenhouse, shivering under flickering fluorescent lights, half-soaked and bone-tired.

She and Damian had plunged into the Gotham Canal to avoid further injury. The water had been black with industrial runoff. Now detransformed, her pants were stiff from cold water, her shoes kicked off, and her shirt clung to her like a second skin. Ivy’s tub steamed behind her, untouched.

But she didn’t move.

Instead, she sat on the tile, back pressed to the sink cabinet, knees pulled to her chest like a lifeline. Gotham’s pulse was in her teeth. Her fingernails had gone dark—not from dirt, but from the residue of corrupted magic. The kind that stuck.

Tikki hovered close, dimmer than usual.
Plagg paced the air like a shadow.

“It’s getting worse,” Plagg muttered, eyes narrowed. “You’re holding too much energy. Gotham’s environment is seeping into you—chaos, rot, grief—it’s all in you now.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The Cat Miraculous buzzed violently against her ribs, almost like it was trying to escape. The magic was… bending, not snapping. But close. So close.

Marinette leaned forward until her forehead pressed against the mirror above the sink. The glass was cold. It steadied her, somehow. But her reflection? Her reflection scared her.

She looked tired. Older than eighteen. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were too wide. Hair wet and tangled with grime.

But it wasn’t just the exhaustion. Something was wrong inside .

Her skin glowed faintly at the edges, like the residue of a solar eclipse. 

And beneath all that?
Something that wasn’t her .
Something feral. Untamed. Cracked with starlight and shadow.

She blinked once—twice—and for a flicker of a second, the girl in the mirror smiled back with someone else’s grin.

Her stomach flipped.

Tikki floated down and touched her shoulder. “You’re not just a holder. You’re the Guardian. The box is connected to your pulse. The more off-balance you are… the more it starts to bend.”

“I can feel it,” Marinette whispered. “The city’s in the Miraculous. It’s corrupting it. Or…or, changing it. I can’t tell anymore.”

She’d always been able to tell when magic shifted, when holders wavered. It was like a sixth sense. But now?

Now she couldn’t even tell if she was safe to touch.

Plagg's ears twitched. “I think the Cat Miraculous is reacting to more than just Gotham. It’s reacting to you. Something inside you is shifting.”

The mirror vibrated faintly under her touch. A crack bloomed across the bottom right corner, subtle but present.

She exhaled.

She didn’t look at the kwamis when she spoke. Her voice was soft, choked.
“Tell Damian…”
A pause. She exhaled, breath fogging the mirror.
“If it starts to consume me… don’t let me fall.”

She didn’t mean physically.

She meant the fall that Guardians feared above all else—the descent into madness. Into imbalance. Into becoming the very thing she was supposed to protect the world from.

The box had whispered to her once: Magic without a tether becomes hunger.

Tikki floated closer, her voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. “He already knows.”

Marinette hugged herself, her grip on her arms tight with fear.

Tikki brushed her shoulder like a promise.
“That’s why he won’t leave your side.”

And it was true. Damian had fought Red Hood for her tonight—not out of protocol, not even out of anger. Out of fear . The kind of fear you don’t voice. The kind that grips your ribs and refuses to let go.

He’d wrapped his arms around her before they’d hit the canal.
Held her tighter than necessary.

He knew she was unraveling.

“Tell Damian,” she said again, softly.
“If it starts to consume me… don’t let me fall.”

Tikki hovered close, voice affirmative and quieter than a prayer.
“He already knows, Marinette.”

Marinette’s head lifted, just slightly.

Tikki touched her again.
“That’s why he won’t leave your side.”

~~~

Damian stood just outside the bathroom door, hands clenched at his sides. Hair damp and sticking to his neck and forehead. He hadn’t changed. His side bled beneath his shirt, but he didn’t move.

He’d heard it all. Tikki floated through the door and landed on his shoulder. 

“She’s burning through herself,” she murmured. “That’s what that magic does. Especially when it’s anchored to something as old as grief.”

“She’s stronger than that,” Damian said automatically.

“I’m not doubting her strength, Damian. I’m doubting yours.”

That made him look up, sharp.

“Are you going to be ready,” Tikki said, voice low and thorned, “if she starts to forget what side she’s on?”

~~~

An hour later, Marinette and Damian found themselves curled on a couch in the loft. No lights were on, and no music or background noise was playing. Just the pair nursing their wounds and stewing in their thoughts, physical and emotional. 

Marinette's lip was bleeding. Damian had a gash over his brow. They sat in silence until the tension cracked.

“I can’t lose myself to this city,” she said. 

He took her hand. “Then I’ll anchor you. Even if it tears me apart.”

She leaned into him. “I don’t want to be a god. I just want... to be enough."

He kissed her then. Slow. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that says we might not make it, but right now, we’re real.

“You’re scared,” Damian said.

She didn’t deny it. “Not of the darkness. Of what I might become in it.”

“You’ve walked through the dark before,” he murmured, stepping closer. “But now you’re not alone.”

She looked at him—really looked—and then reached out, pulling him in by the lapels of his coat.

“If I fall,” she whispered, “I’m dragging you with me.”

He smirked, kissed her temple, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Then we fall together, زهرة القمر.” (Moonflower.)

Marinette sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug filled with warm tea. Her palms trembled slightly, the aftershocks of the last encounter catching up to her now that adrenaline had worn off.

Damian watched from the doorway. “You’re shaking.”

She didn’t respond right away. The steam rose in gentle spirals between them. A crack in the air. A silence made of glass.

“It’s nothing,” she said finally. “Just cold.”

“You are not a good liar.” His voice was low, unreadable, but he crossed the room in three strides. His hand brushed her shoulder, his fingers grazing the skin just above her pulse. “You burned a rooftop clean tonight with a pulse of energy that wasn’t yours.”

She shook her head. “It was mine. Just… warped.”

“No,” he said, kneeling in front of her. “It was Gotham. It’s threading itself through you. And you’re letting it.”

Marinette met his eyes. “I don’t know if I can stop it.”

Damian’s hand closed over hers. “Then we stop it together.”

Chapter Text

After a long night, Marinette and Damian perched on the fire escape of the greenhouse.

He handed her a bao bun he’d bought from a late-night cart.

“You ever miss being normal?” she asked.

“I wasn’t born with that luxury.”

She smiled sadly. “Me neither, although I didn’t know at the time. Maybe that’s why we’re here. Gotham didn’t want protectors. It needed survivors.”

He looked at her, something soft flickering in his eyes. “You’re more than a survivor. You’re chaos incarnate, the Mistress of Chaos.”

“And you,” she said, nudging his shoulder, “are the Lord of Luck. رب الحظ. It suits you.”

The bell above the little secondhand bookstore chimed as Marinette stepped in. The stark contrast from the season’s heat to the store’s cold made a chill run up her arms. 

Damian was already there, sitting in the corner, a book cracked open and a cup of coffee half-gone. The light through the frosted windows hit him just right—sharp jaw, lashes shadowed, utterly still in the chaos of the city.

Marinette sank into the chair opposite him. “You’re early.”

He didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

She kicked him gently under the table, and he finally glanced up, eyes softening just enough.

“Any... incidents?” he asked quietly, setting his book down.

Marinette shrugged, but her fingertips twitched. “There was a cat. It followed me two blocks. Kept staring. The air felt... wrong.”

Damian frowned. “The aura again?”

She nodded. “It’s Gotham. It’s like it’s trying to pull something out of me.”

He reached over, gently covering her hand with his. “It won’t take you. I won’t let it.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let herself breathe.

At the insistence of Harley, they silently approached the Gotham Museum of Antiquities. Not because they had to—not tonight—but because their aunt, in everything but blood, was adamant they do something boring together to get away from the chaos of their search. They slipped in. Quiet. Unnoticed.

They didn’t talk much as they wandered the dim exhibits. The hush between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Marinette paused in front of an ancient bronze sculpture, her fingers brushing the glass.

“I’ve seen this before,” she whispered.

Damian leaned in. “In Paris?”

She shook her head, voice haunted. “In a dream.”

He tensed, eyes narrowing. “Magic dream or subconscious dream?”

She turned toward him, lips slightly parted, caught between fear and wonder. “I don’t know anymore.”

Something buzzed low in the air. The lights flickered. For just a moment, the bronze figure shimmered—not with reflection, but memory. Plagg stirred inside her jacket. Marinette gripped Damian’s hand tightly.

“We’re not alone,” she murmured.

~~~

It wasn’t until a week later that Damian understood what she meant. 

It was a Wednesday, and Gotham’s Natural History and Art Museum held its free-entry night. They wore civilian faces—Damian in a dark green short-sleeve, Marinette in a navy dress with her hair tucked up into a beret—to outsiders, they played the part of two rich, bored young adults admiring pre-war murals and Gothic sculptures.

She stood in front of a painting, fingers ghosting over the frame a few inches away. “This one’s wrong,” she said softly.

Damian tilted his head. “Wrong how?”

“There’s something beneath it. A glyph. Painted over. They must’ve known.”

It was the fourth time that week she’d sensed something hidden in a mundane place. A warehouse wall, an alley gutter, a century-old statue. Gotham was a city built on haunted secrets, and she could feel them like splinters.

He leaned closer, voice just above a whisper. “You told me you weren’t hearing things recently.”

“I lied,” she said. Her hand brushed his. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You don’t scare me,” he said. “But this city might.”

The greenhouse loft Ivy gifted them was their secret temple. Glass ceiling panels filtered warm sunlight, casting mosaics of green on the worn floor. Vines curled around beams. Ivy’s plants thrived here, whispering secrets in the early light.

Marinette stood barefoot on the tiles, hair still wet from a shower, arms outstretched like she could drink the warmth into her bones.

Damian leaned against the kitchen island, quietly watching her. A kettle hissed behind him.

“You’re glowing,” he said.

She turned slowly, smile soft but sad. “That’s not always good.”

“It is to me.”

She walked over, pressing her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her without question, fingers threading into her damp hair. The heat between them wasn’t just romantic—it was grounding. Necessary. Desperate, in the gentlest way.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered.

“You won’t, Hayati . Not while I still breathe.”

They sat on the edge of the old opera house, feet swinging above the street. They weren’t in costume tonight, just two souls dangling in the smog-streaked sky.

“You ever think about running?” Marinette asked suddenly.

“All the time,” Damian admitted. “But I never get far.”

“Because of your family?”

He shook his head. “Because of you.”

She turned, surprised. “What?”

“You’re the only person who sees both versions of me. And stays.”

Her heart skipped. Her powers flared—barely visible—but a shimmer passed over her eyes. Damian saw it and gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“You make me want to stay human,” he said.

“And you make me want to stay sane.”

They kissed—quietly, desperately—like the world would unravel beneath them if they didn’t.

It started with ice cream.

Damian had rolled his eyes when Marinette dragged him to a little hole-in-the-wall gelato shop tucked between two crumbling brick buildings in Old Gotham. The place was oddly warm and full of mismatched furniture and chaotic art, clearly someone's passion project and completely opposite of his usual sterile preferences.

She ordered lavender honey and pistachio. He got vanilla. She teased him about being predictable.

Halfway through the cones, a ripple of energy pulsed from Marinette’s hands. Her spoon cracked in half. The lights flickered. Her breath hitched.

Damian noticed immediately.

"You're unraveling again," he said quietly, moving his hand under the table to grip hers. He could feel the tingle of magic under her skin like static, wild and searching.

"I'm trying," she said softly, staring at the gooey mess of lavender cream. "But Gotham doesn’t want peace. It wants power and stability. And I’m… absorbing that desire."

"We’ll figure it out," he said firmly. "Together."

~~~

A week later, they went to the Gotham Botanical Gardens, hoping for calm. Marinette had insisted she could manage and that she was okay.

They made it to the koi pond. She was laughing at one of Damian’s dry quips when the air twisted again. An older woman passed them, and suddenly Marinette gasped and grabbed her head, eyes flashing blue-gold.

Damian caught her before she collapsed, shielding her from view with his jacket.

A vision. A memory. Not hers.

She whispered, voice hoarse, “She is the descendant of a wielder. The Western Goat. The Mountain’s Crown. The Garden was a sanctuary once…”

"You're pulling pieces from people now?" Damian whispered back.

She nodded weakly, and when their eyes met, she looked scared for the first time in weeks.

~~~

He carried her piggyback style to the greenhouse loft that night.

The place Ivy had gifted them was half overgrown and half industrial—skylights that caught the moon, ferns creeping over iron banisters, hanging herbs strung up like talismans. In the lofted corner, a hammock, newly constructed was strung above a faded rug, surrounded by books, half-eaten snacks, and small charms Marinette had started leaving behind as wards.

She lay in the hammock while Damian carefully removed her shoes and held a mug of ginger tea in her hands.

"You always take care of me after I break, mon nounours," she said. (My Teddy Bear)

“You don’t break,” he said. “You bend. You burn. And then you rebuild."

She smiled at that, and he leaned forward, brushing a kiss to her forehead, then another to her temple.

"You don’t have to hold the world alone, my يا قمر.." (Moon)

"I know," she whispered. "That’s why you’re here."

~~~~~

The next day, they snuck into an abandoned observatory to watch the stars. Damian brought a book of constellations, and Marinette brought mooncakes and a thermos of rose milk.

They lay shoulder to shoulder on the cold marble floor, fingers intertwined, wrapped in a blanket stolen from the Batcave.

“I think I’m scared of what I’m becoming,” she murmured.

“I’m not,” he said. “But I am scared of losing you to it.”

"You won’t." She turned her head to him. "Even if I fall again—"

"I’ll catch you," he said definitively, and then softly, finally, like it was a vow: “And I’ll piece you back together.”

Chapter Text

In an abandoned library sunken beneath Gotham, swallowed by time and rot. Marinette’s flashlight beam skimmed across broken shelves and decaying scrolls. The air was thick, musty, and wet like breath from the earth itself.

Damian walked beside her, blade in hand, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t some pillar of magic. It’s a temple.”

A low hum pulsed from the walls, like water vibrating through stone.

“It’s resonating,” Marinette whispered, the hand harboring their recent discovery brushing over glyphs etched into old brick—symbols too fluid to be Latin, too precise to be graffiti. Her fingers froze over a carved mosaic: twin fish swirling in a circle of broken blue tiles.

The ground beneath them groaned, and the wall cracked open. Dust burst from the seams, and nestled within the opening was a small black box—rounded like a clamshell, with silver koi winding along its edges.

Damian picked it up and opened it slowly.

The moment the box opened, the air grew heavier—wet, almost… alive.

And then they heard the whisper.

A flicker of light swirled from the ring, materializing into a sleek, a kwami reminiscent of a koi-fish—fins shimmering like waterfalls, its voice like tide against sand.

“I am Noema,” she said. “Guardian of the Stream Between Thoughts. Who has called me?”

Marinette stepped forward, heart pounding.

“I did.”

~~~~~

Late evening as rain pattered outside, the pair, their Kwami and latest discovery, found themselves back at the Greenhouse Loft.

Noema swam lazily through the air like water itself was her home. Marinette watched her, eyes following the glowing trail it left behind.

Damian stood by the window, tense.

“You’re not like the Kwami of the other Miracle Box,” Marinette said softly.

Noema turned, luminous eyes settling on her. “I am not meant for war. I belong to memory, reflection, and equilibrium. Those who wear my ring must face themselves twice.”

“Twice?” Damian echoed.

Noema nodded. “One must see the truth of their soul, and the one they hide. Twin selves, like twin fish—always chasing, never catching. Wear me, and your past will speak. Your present will listen.”

Marinette fiddled with the ring and paused, hesitation flickering in her chest like a heartbeat.

“I’ve held so many secrets. What if I don’t like what I see?”

“You don’t wear me to like,” Noema said, floating closer. “You wear me to know .”

At once, the magic flowed like cool water up her arm, over her skin, into her eyes.

And she saw her own reflection on the nearest surface—except it blinked before she did.

They trained together in the Loft’s open space, once moving chairs, tables and a couch—Marinette now wearing two rings, her form semi-transparent at times, illusions shimmering behind her. Plagg’s magic flowed through her like a blanket, where Noema’s magic allowed her to leave echoes, visual thoughts made real for a moment—projections of fears, memories, and unmade decisions.

Damian moved like a dancer with blades, parrying a flicker of Marinette’s doppelgänger.

“Do they ever stop?” he asked, breathless.

She shook her head. “Not until I’m fully in control.”

He stepped closer, holding her wrist. “Then let’s control it. Together.”

They fell into rhythm—his yo-yo moving like a sword cutting through illusions, her body weaving between truths and half-truths. Every movement required trust. Every illusion forced them to confront something real.

At one point, an image of Hawk Moth flickered into being, then one of Bruce standing over Damian’s childhood self.

“Noema’s not just showing me my fears,” Marinette said, voice strained, tears brimming in her eyes. “She’s showing me yours too.”

They stood there, silence threading the space between them like a vow neither of them could name yet.

~~~

The loft was overgrown in the most intentional way—trailing vines overhead, lemon balm and lavender filling the air, and moonlight pouring through the wide skylights.

Marinette sat curled on the floor, back against the soft moss-cushioned wall. The ring glowed faintly on her hand.

Damian entered quietly, towel slung around his neck, hair still wet from the training.

“I saw it,” Marinette said, not looking up. “The day you left the League. Noema showed me your hesitation… the way your mother held you close until she pushed you away.”

He froze.

“You weren’t afraid to leave. You were afraid it wouldn’t change anything.”

Damian sat beside her. “I thought I buried that.” His accent coming in heavier, voice dropping low.

“She unearths what we bury,” Marinette whispered.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he took her hand gently, rubbing his thumb over the ring.

“I’d still choose you,” he said after a beat. “Even if it doesn’t change the ending.”

And she kissed him—slow, quiet, not rushed by heroics or guilt, but because they were two people alone in a city too loud, too haunted. And for once, they had nothing to fight but the silence.

In the Wayne Manor library, Bruce sat behind his desk, flipping through an old ledger recently unearthed from the ruins beneath Old Gotham. His brow furrowed.

Alfred entered quietly.

“You’ll want to see this,” Bruce muttered, setting the page down. An illustration of the Twin Fish Ring—sketched centuries ago in a monk’s hand, annotated in languages no longer spoken.

“These relics aren’t just magic,” Bruce said. “They’re woven into Gotham’s origin.”

He looked out the tall window toward the horizon.

“And they’re waking up to the hunters after them.”

Returning to the Gotham Antiquities Museum at midnight, the air was thick with dust and dormant power. Marinette held her breath as a hidden drawer slid open, revealing a crimson, horn-shaped brooch nestled in velvet. Bara’s Miraculous—the Ram’s Crest.

Damian’s gloved hand hovered beside hers. “You’re trembling.”

“I feel it waking up,” Marinette whispered, voice reverent. “It’s angry.”

As if summoned, a fiery flicker bloomed in the shadows—and with it, Bara emerged. She pawed the air, her golden eyes locking with Marinette’s.

“I’ve been waiting for a guardian who doesn’t run from fire.”

Damian stepped between them instinctively, hand twitching toward his belt.

“No,” Marinette said gently. “She’s not a threat. She’s just… older than we’re used to.”

Their eyes met. Damian stepped back, nodding. Trusted her.

Things had gone sideways.

There had been a heist at a museum. A rogue using corrupted remnants of a Miraculous. Marinette’s senses had been fractured the moment they entered as civilians—the pulse of old magic singing in her bones like it knew her name. Damian had tried to get her out, but she stayed. Too long.

Now, unable to transform less they risked exposure; they were soaked in grime, grazed by shrapnel, and standing in a deserted alley as storm clouds closed over the city like a fist.

“You should have listened,” Damian snapped, voice sharper than his blades. “You’re not invincible, Marinette. You’re unraveling.”

“I know that!” she shouted back, her voice cracking. “I know what’s happening to me. But if I back down every time the magic shifts, then what’s the point of being the Guardian?”

“You’re not supposed to throw yourself into the fire every time something calls your name!”

Thunder rolled overhead. Marinette’s hair was plastered to her face, her jaw tight. Behind her, Plagg floated quietly, concern etched across his tiny features. Tikki hovered near Damian, unusually still.

“You don’t understand,” Marinette said, low now, trembling. “It’s not just about what I’m protecting. It’s who I become if I stop. If I hesitate.”

Damian stepped closer, rain dripping from his lashes. “Then let me help. Let me carry some of it.”

“You can’t. You’ll burn.”

“I don’t care if I burn.”

Lightning forked above them, illuminating the tension that hung between them like a taut string.

“That’s the problem,” Marinette whispered. “You don’t care what it does to you. Just like I don’t care what it does to me.”

They stared at each other, soaked and seething and aching in all the places they couldn’t name.

Then she broke.

“I’m scared, okay? I’m terrified I’ll lose myself before I can finish this. Before we find the others. Before I get to—before I get to have anything with you. We start at GU in only a couple of weeks, Damian, I want to experience it with you!”

Something cracked open in him. “Then stop pushing me away.”

A beat of silence.

Then Damian kissed her—hard, desperate, like he was afraid she’d vanish with the next roll of thunder.

Marinette clutched the front of his shirt, kissing him back with the weight of every secret she never said aloud. The Miraculous on her hand began to glow, blinding, pulsing with wild energy.

So did his.

Rain hit the pavement in sheets as their powers surged.

From Marinette’s Miraculous, a web of black and silver energy rippled outward. The chaos-magic twisted back into harmony, coiled like a panther waiting in shadow. Her eyes burned with feline gold.

From Damian’s, a red shimmer like refracted light spread up his spine. Luck folded around him—measured, ancient, and unfathomably precise. His eyes turned luminous green.

They staggered back from each other, panting, thunder crashing.

Plagg whispered, reverent: “They’re not just holders anymore…”

Tikki finished the thought: “They’re the source.”

~~~

They stood in silence, still catching their breath, hands laced together.

“I didn’t know,” Damian said quietly, brushing wet strands from her cheek, “that unlocking something would feel like… you.”

She smiled faintly. “Me neither.”

But the storm had quieted. And the city held its breath.

Chapter Text

They stood there, soaked and shaking, while Gotham churned around them—alive, restless, watching.

Marinette’s breathing slowed first. The glow around her hands dimmed into soft embers. She stared at Damian like she didn’t know whether to run or fall into him again.

“Did you feel that?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse. Fragile. Still electric.

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched at his sides. “I saw threads. Probabilities. Things I never could see.”

Their eyes met—hers still smoldering gold, his still burning green.

Marinette whispered, “Something’s changed.”

“No,” Plagg muttered, materializing beside her with wide, haunted eyes. “ Everything’s changed.”

Across town, Barbara stared at her screen in mute disbelief. Her algorithms were glitching—no, scrambling . Even her predictive models were dissolving into gibberish.

Then, finally, a single word filtered through the mess of static and scrambled prophecy:

"Convergence."

She leaned forward, narrowed her eyes.

“Bruce,” she called through the comms. “You need to see this. Something just lit up the grid and the Gotham anomaly map.”

A long pause.

Bruce’s voice came through low. “Tell me what we’re looking at.”

She exhaled. “From what the cameras caught, it’s Damian and Marinette. They’re not just wielding power. They are power.”

Later, in the quiet sanctuary of their greenhouse, Marinette sat with her knees pulled to her chest, a blanket wrapped around her damp shoulders. Plagg’s ring shimmered faintly on her finger. Still warm.

Damian paced in front of her, unusually silent, fists clenching and unclenching. He’d changed into dry clothes but still looked… tense. Like the air was too thick to breathe.

Finally: “You didn’t tell me it could do that.”

She looked up at him, eyes dark and tired. “I didn’t know it could.”

“Then what was that?” he asked, voice rough. “That surge . That connection. That—”

“Bond,” she said softly. “I think it bonded us.”

He stared at her. “Permanently?”

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she wasn’t sure. As usual, no one had trained her for this.

Cass had always been attuned to energy—the shift in footsteps, the tremble in breath, the language of silence.

She was on patrol when she felt it.

A sudden thrum in her chest, like a heartbeat not her own. A weightless drop in her stomach. Like a change in the storyline of the world.

She pulled her grappling hook, eyes narrowing at the skyline.

Something is wrong. Or new.

She texted Damian just three words:
“You feel it?”

The reply came seconds later.
“It’s us.”

In the darkest corner of the greenhouse loft, Plagg and Tikki sat on a windowsill, watching their humans sleep curled around each other—Marinette’s hand tangled in Damian’s shirt, his fingers resting over her waist.

Plagg was unusually serious. “This isn’t what Master Fu prepared us for.”

Tikki nodded. “This isn’t what anyone prepared us for. They broke the boundaries. Merged roles.”

Plagg hovered slightly. “If they’re the source, they’re not bound by the rules anymore.”

“Which means no one can predict what happens next,” Tikki said.

A beat.

Plagg smirked. “Good. I hate rules.”

Damian’s phone buzzes. Once. Twice.

He doesn’t answer.

They’re still at the loft, silent and stunned from last night’s events. Marinette’s still glowing faintly beneath her hoodie. The marks on Damian’s hands haven’t faded yet—sigils, delicate but sharp, pulsing like his heartbeat.

Then a letter reaches the door of Harley and Ivy’s apartment in handwriting that could belong to only one person.

Bruce.

Come home, Damian. Both of you. Now.

The grandfather clock swings second to second. Marinette steps into the room first, jaw set, her shoes landing on the polished wood with the quiet weight of someone who knows she’s about to set off a storm. Her eyes are sharp, shadowed by exhaustion but crackling underneath with something… not entirely human anymore.

Just behind her, Damian emerges, his posture calm but guarded. His hand is near hers—not quite touching, but close enough that their magic still arcs faintly between them. Sparks of black and gold dance in the space between their fingers, vanishing before they hit the air.

The Manor’s living room is unusually still. Bruce is by the fireplace, the flames flickering gold across the hard lines of his face. Tim stands with a tablet, clearly trying to look impartial, but the furrow in his brow says otherwise. 

Jason leans against the wall, one eyebrow already on the rise. “That wasn’t a kiss,” he mutters, nodding at them like they’re a ticking bomb. “That was a magical seismic event .”

From the stairs, overlooking the room, Steph lets out a low whistle. “You two kiss and somehow activate every dormant sigil in Gotham. Like, who does that?”

Cass doesn’t speak, but her eyes track the way Marinette’s hand twitches, watching the power that coils there like smoke. She tilts her head. She's listening— reading.

Duke shifts uneasily by the far windows, the city glowing behind him. “Even the underground wards near the Tricorner at Gotham Harbor lit up. GCPD scanners picked it up as a low-frequency quake.”

No one says what they’re all really thinking.

Until Bruce speaks. “What did you two cause?”

His voice isn’t angry. It’s low, edged, sharp as a weapon—controlled but deadly.

Damian doesn’t flinch. “We unlocked something.”

Marinette lifts her hand. The energy dances between her fingers like ink made of shadow and moonlight. 

Black energy streaked with iridescent light coils upward from her palm, spinning like a galaxy drawn in ink and moonlight. It’s beautiful , terrifying, and… sentient . The air in the room bends slightly toward it.

“It started before the kiss, building for months. The kiss was the spark. But what we carry ? What we are now? It’s bigger than us.”

“If you want to know,” she says carefully, “then we have to explain from the beginning.”

Jason squints. “Okay, but how bigger? Like end-of-the-world bigger, or just accidentally-summoned-a-demon bigger?”

Marinette looks down, breathing slowly. They don’t understand yet. She briefly restrains from pinching the space between her eyebrows. “Do you know why the Ladybug and Black Cat were never meant to fall in love?”

“Wait. What?” Steph blinks.

“Because together,” Marinette continues, ignoring the confusion, “we rewrite fate. We bend it.”

Damian’s voice is grim. “The Miraculous are more than artifacts or relics. They’re threads in the fabric of reality. Separate, they stabilize. Together... they change everything.”

Tim glances down at his tablet, frowning. “There’s a spike in arcane resonance across multiple ley lines. That kind of energy attracts attention .”

“It definitely has,” Damian says quietly, looking at Marinette. 

They nod, and Marinette’s gaze finds Bruce’s. “If we’re going to survive what’s coming… You need to hear everything. From the beginning.”

And then—Bruce nods.

The room shifts.

The Batfamily doesn’t relax, but they listen.

Because now, the battlefield isn't the streets of Gotham. It’s history, myth, lineage—and Marinette and Damian just kicked open a door no one knew still existed.

~~~

Two hours later, Bruce pulls Damian aside, alone.

“You’ve been changing. She’s part of it. But this-this is bigger than what you’re trained for.”

Damian doesn’t blink, meeting his father’s eye with a defiance reminiscent of his younger years. “I don’t want to be trained for it. I want to stand with her.”

“Then you both need to know what you’re really standing against. Because from what you told us, Gotham’s waking up. The wrong kind of people must have felt that surge.”

He looks his son dead in the eye.

“Next time you unlock that kind of power, there won’t be time for kissing in the rain.”

The rain had finally stopped, but the world outside still smelled like thunder.

Marinette sat cross-legged on the floor of the greenhouse, sketchbook open, pencil idle between her fingers. A single candle flickered beside her, casting long shadows that danced across the tangle of vines and flowering herbs. Her thoughts were louder than the silence.

Damian stood a few feet away, facing the glass, his reflection blurred by moisture. The red shimmer of his Miraculous had dulled, but the air around him still pulsed with restrained magic, like he was holding back a dam break.

“You’re doing it again,” she said softly.

He didn’t turn. “Doing what?”

“Looking like you’re about to run, but pretending you’re just... standing still.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. “I’m not running.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

A long silence stretched between them. A silence packed with everything they hadn’t said since the surge. Since the kiss.

Since the bond.

She turned the page in her sketchbook. It was a drawing of him. Not in the Robin suit. Not in the Ladybug suit. Just Damian. Barefoot. Hair grown out from the last four months and curling around his ears. Reading by the greenhouse window. Half in shadow, half in light.

“I felt you,” she said finally, her voice a fragile thread. “When it happened. Like… like I could hear your heartbeat in my bones.”

He finally turned.

The look in his eyes wrecked her.

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” he said. “Not even in the Lazarus Pit. Not in the League. Not even during near-death.”

She swallowed, throat tight. “Are you afraid of it?”

“Yes.”

He walked over slowly, each step deliberate. The air thickened, electric again.

“But not because it’s dangerous. I’ve lived with danger,” he murmured, now standing close enough to touch. “I’m afraid because it makes me want something I don’t know how to protect.”

Marinette looked up at him, and her heart ached .

“I’m not asking you to protect me,” she said. “Just don’t lie to me. Not with your silence. Not with your distance.”

He looked at her like she was made of stars and razors—beautiful and sharp enough to carve him open.

“I see every possible outcome when I touch you,” he whispered. “And I choose you. Every time.”

And then he kissed her.

Not like the last time—where magic exploded and fate cracked at the seams. This time it was human. Soft. Terrified. Precious.

She kissed him back, slow and certain, threading her fingers through his hair.

The Miraculous didn’t glow. The powers didn’t surge.

But something deeper settled.

Trust.
Truth.
Want.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his. “We’re not normal anymore.”

“We never were,” he said, barely audible.

“But this,” she said, placing his hand over her heart, “is real.”

They fall asleep shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing.

Outside, in the shadows beyond the vines, something ancient stirs. A symbol—one not seen since the first Guardians—glows faintly on the rooftop across the street.

The Hunt is on.

Chapter Text

Previously:

Rain hit the pavement in sheets as their powers surged.

From Marinette’s Miraculous, a web of black and silver energy rippled outward. The chaos-magic twisted back into harmony, coiled like a panther waiting in shadow. Her eyes burned with feline gold.

From Damian’s, a red shimmer like refracted light spread up his spine. Luck folded around him—measured, ancient, and unfathomably precise. His eyes turned luminous green.

They staggered back from each other, panting, thunder crashing.

Plagg whispered, reverent: “They’re not just holders anymore…”

Tikki finished the thought: “They’re the source.”

The rain had stopped, but the storm had only just begun.

In the greenhouse—lush with tangled vines and still dripping with the remnants of Gotham's recent slew of downpours—Marinette sat with her back against the glass, staring at the Miraculous ring on her hand. It pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Across from her, Damian was pacing. His jacket had been discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up. His movements were precise but uncharacteristically restless. His Miraculous shimmered like a forge’s ember under his skin, visible through the veins in his forearms.

"Plagg, Tikki," Damian said, voice tight. "Explain."

The kwami hovered above the desk, twitching with nervous energy. “You want the short version or the holy-ancient-magic-might-collapse-reality version?”

Tikki floated beside Marinette, her tiny brows furrowed. “Plagg.”

He sighed, then settled on a potted fern. “Alright, kittens. Here's the thing: You weren’t supposed to bond like that. ”

“Like what ?” Marinette whispered. Her voice was thin. Too fragile for the magnitude of what she already suspected.

Tikki answered this time, voice reverent. “Like the First Two. ”

Silence.

Damian stopped pacing. Marinette sat up straighter.

“You mean the original holders,” Damian said. “The first Black Cat and Ladybug.”

Tikki and Plagg nodded in unison. Plagg muttered, “The ones who weren’t chosen. The ones who were born with the power inside them. Before the tools, before the kwami, before the Order.”

Marinette’s mouth went dry. “But I was chosen. I wasn’t born with it.”

Plagg's gaze was solemn. “You were. You just didn’t awaken until you were chosen. Same for him.”

“Then why now?” Damian asked, his voice colder, demanding clarity. “Why would it trigger during a kiss?”

Tikki floated closer, eyes shimmering like distant stars. “Because your hearts aligned. You weren’t just bonded by emotion. You synchronized across fate, across timelines. The storm unlocked what was already dormant. It didn’t give you anything—it just released it.”

Marinette stared at the pulse of silver-black webbing that had laced her skin when the energy exploded.

“I felt everything,” she murmured. “Every version of myself. Every thread of choice. Every life I didn’t live.”

Damian’s voice was low. “I saw it too. Every path I’ve never taken. Every failure. Every future.”

“You merged, bound,” Plagg said, awed. “Your magic interwove. You’re not two wielders anymore. You’re one convergence. ”

Tikki added, “That hasn’t happened since the fall of the first Temple.”

Marinette looked up sharply. “That’s not in any of the Scrolls.”

Plagg scoffed. “Of course not. They buried that history. Too dangerous. Too powerful. The last time the bond was awakened, it unraveled the balance of magic. Whole kingdoms rose and fell chasing it.”

A shadow passed over Damian’s face. “So we’re a threat.”

“ Only if you fight each other,” Tikki said. “Together, you’re the reset the axis. When the Miraculous becomes unstable, the bond appears to realign fate.”

Damian muttered under his breath. “Tied to each other. Interdependent.”

“Symbiotic,” Marinette corrected, meeting his eyes. “But not controlled. We choose this.”

The room pulsed with a low hum—energy echoing the weight of their words.

Just then, the skylight creaked.

Tikki glanced at Plagg. “It’s beginning.”

Plagg groaned. “Oh joy. The ‘awakening’ phase.”

Damian stiffened. “What does that mean?”

Tikki floated upward, her voice echoing slightly. “You’ve awakened something older than the kwami. The ley lines beneath Gotham responded. Others will feel the shift. Some will be drawn to you.”

Marinette whispered, “And some will try to stop us.”

“Exactly,” Plagg said. “Now you're catching on.”

Far away, in a forgotten temple beneath the Alps, an ancient scroll unfurled on its own. Candles burst into flame.

A Celestial Guardian, cloaked in gray, lifted her head sharply.

“The Source has returned,” she whispered.

Her fingers trembled over the scroll as it changed.

Names began to write themselves.
Two names. Bound. Burning.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Damian al Ghul-Wayne.

Beneath them, the script shimmered: The Second Pair. The Bridge and Knife. Convergence Class.

She exhaled. “And so it begins again.”

Chapter Text

The next day, the Batfamily is gathered around the massive wooden table, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. Bruce, Tim, Jason, Steph, Duke, and Cass are silent, waiting for Marinette to continue.

Damian stands beside her, his eyes dark with an unreadable mix of emotions—frustration, confusion, and the faintest trace of guilt. This isn’t the story he’s used to telling. It’s not the one he’s comfortable telling.

Marinette clears her throat, lifts a hand to her hair, and pushes it behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly as she runs them over the edge of her ring. The atmosphere hums with the memory of the power she unlocked moments before—her fingers itching with the ghost of it.

Bruce finally speaks. “I’ve been mulling over what you shared yesterday. You’re telling me... this order , this legacy ... it’s tied to Damian?”

Damian doesn’t flinch at Bruce’s penetrating gaze. Instead, he steps forward slightly, his voice cold, his words sharp. “The Miraculous aren’t just artifacts of power—they are the tools that maintain balance. But they’re also weapons meant to reshape reality itself, formed by ideas, concepts, or emotions coming into existence. The Ladybug and the Black Cat are the oldest and most dangerous of them all.”

Steph scoffs. “Wait, so, Damian’s been carrying around the Ladybug for all this time? Does that mean you’re the new chosen one or some crazy stuff like that?”

Damian looks at her, his expression impassive. “I didn’t choose this. No one chooses the weight of it.”

He pauses, eyes lingering on Marinette for a moment before continuing. “The Miraculous jewels were created long ago by a being who understood that fate, made physical, could be twisted, broken, and rebuilt. The Ladybug and Black Cat are destined to bring change... but not always the kind that should be brought.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, his fingers tapping absently on the tablet in front of him. “And you’re telling us that Ra’s Al Ghul knew all of this?”

Damian nods, his jaw tight. “The League of Assassins. They must have been searching for the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculous for centuries. It’s not just power they seek—it’s control over time, fate, and reality itself to reach their ultimate goal.”

Jason’s voice cuts in, low and incredulous. “So, basically, the League or whoever is involved with it now, wants to make their own timeline and erase everything else?”

Damian doesn’t flinch at the statement, but there’s something almost haunted in his eyes as he replies. “We believe so. And if my studies prove anything, they have been waiting. We made known our connection to the Miraculous, which paints a target on our backs.”

Cass, who has been quietly absorbing everything, speaks up, a rare sharpness in her voice.

“What does that mean for us? For Gotham?”

Damian looks at her, his voice quieter. “It means that when the time comes, I will have to make a choice that affects those I care about and the beings coming after the Miraculous.”

Marinette, who has been silent for the majority of this exchange, finally steps forward, her voice calm but firm. “This isn’t just about Damian. The Ladybug and Black Cat are bound. Together , they hold the power to undo what’s been done—rewrite what should never have been. Ra’s al Ghul... he knew that too.”

Bruce’s gaze narrows as he considers the weight of what they’ve just shared. “So, you’re telling me that if the League–or anyone else for that matter–gets their hands on this power… we’re not just dealing with a terrorist? We’re dealing with a god of sorts.”

Marinette glances at Damian, and for a moment, their eyes meet—two beings bound by fate, by magic, and now by this family . “It’s worse than that,” she says softly. “Ra’s laid the groundwork for it centuries ago. He’s already tried to harness the power of the Miraculous before, and that backfired , because they were never meant to be controlled . And when the time comes… if we aren’t ready, all of this—this family, this city—could unravel.”

There’s a long pause as the Batfamily processes everything. Finally, Bruce speaks again.

“Then we get ready.”

~~~~~

Later that night, after the revelations had settled in their bones, the Batfamily retreated to the Batcave for a late-night strategy session. The air was thick with the lingering tension of what they had just learned.

Damian is suited up in the attire of the Ladybug, moving through his training routine in silence. The others are scattered around the cave—Tim sitting in front of a computer terminal, tracking League movements, Steph fiddling with her gadgets, Jason pacing.

But Marinette stands at the edge of the training room, watching him. Her suit is subtly glowing, the power still fresh in her veins. Her focus is on Damian, on the sharp, calculated movements of his body—a perfect mirror of the turmoil inside him.

She approaches, her steps quiet, and when he notices her, he doesn’t stop his training.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice colder than it needs to be.

Marinette crosses her arms, watching him carefully.

“I’m not going anywhere, mon cœur.” (My heart)

He slows his movements, eyes narrowing. “We have to be ready. They won’t wait for us to become ready.”

“I know,” she replies, her voice softer. “But you can’t do it alone.”

Damian’s eyes flicker with something—regret? Uncertainty? It’s fleeting, but it’s there.

“This isn’t about me, قلبي” (My heart) he mutters. “This is about what I’m bound to, what I carry.”

Marinette steps closer, her voice quieter now.

“It’s about both of us. What we’re bound to. You carry the Ladybug, Damian. But I carry the Black Cat. Together, we can keep the balance.”

Damian looks at her, the weight of his words almost too much for him. “I’m not asking you to carry the weight of it all, Marinette. I’m not asking you to carry me .”

Her response is simple, but it carries the depth of everything they’ve been through:

“You don’t have to ask, 亲爱的人..” (My Beloved)

The moment stretches between them, the air thick with their shared burden. They both know they can’t afford to be vulnerable, to be weak—not with other players out there, not with Gotham teetering on the edge of something worse.

For the first time in a long time, the weight of their destiny doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

The next evening, the Batfamily gathers around the dinner table. Bruce is the first to speak, his voice measured but serious. “We need a plan.”

Damian doesn’t meet his eyes, instead staring at his plate. “We know the League is already making its move. We need to strike before they do.”

Tim looks at his tablet, frowning. “The League’s been unusually quiet, but I’m picking up scattered reports. Something’s going on in the mountains of Nepal. It’s definitely connected.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Nepal? We know that’s not their location. Come on, we’re dealing with a world-class villain here, not some remote mountain hermit.”

Damian's eyes narrow, his hand gripping the edge of the table. “You don’t understand. Ra’s has always been two steps ahead of us. He’s been orchestrating this for centuries. Every move he makes is calculated. My mother or whoever is in charge now must be doing the same.”

“Then we calculate better,” Bruce says, his voice final.

The tension in the room is palpable, but Marinette remains calm, her hand resting just beside Damian’s. She meets Bruce’s eyes—steady, unwavering.

“They must be meeting with the Order of the Miraculous. It’s been centuries since they came together, but it should give Damian and me time to find the rest of the Miraculous. But we can’t waste it.”

Bruce finally nods. “Agreed. Let’s prepare. The clock’s ticking.”

And as the conversation continues, the family finds themselves united in purpose.

The mansion is quieter than usual tonight, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the grand hallways. The Batcave is only a few floors down, the hum of its machinery vibrating faintly through the walls, but in the silence of the Manor, everything feels still—too still. Bruce stands in front of one of the large windows, his silhouette cut sharply by the moonlight. His back is straight, his arms crossed, and his jaw set with a determination that seems almost like steel.

Damian stands across from him, leaning slightly against the wall, his posture defiant but guarded. The weight of the conversation hangs heavily between them, and it’s clear Damian has no intention of making the first move.

Bruce doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he lets the silence drag on—his piercing gaze focused on his son, waiting. Waiting for him to explain himself. To reveal what’s been locked behind the walls Damian has built around himself for so long.

Finally, Bruce’s voice cuts through the quiet, deep and steady. “You’ve been carrying the Ladybug Miraculous for months. And you never thought it was important enough to tell us? To tell me ?”

Damian flinches only slightly, but his gaze remains steady. “It wasn’t your business. I didn’t choose this, Father. It was thrust upon me.” His voice is cold but cracks with an edge of frustration. “I didn’t think you would understand. You never have.”

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “You should have told me. This isn’t just about you, Damian. This is about the safety of Gotham. About the balance of power you’ve been holding onto for so long, without even telling us .”

Damian’s eyes narrow, anger flaring in his chest like a dormant fire suddenly stoked. He takes a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides.

“You think I didn’t understand that? You think I’ve been sitting here idly, doing nothing while Gotham teeters on the edge of chaos? Every moment I’ve spent here —with you, under your rules—I’ve been holding back, constantly wondering if I’m strong enough to face what’s been forced onto me.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens.

“And yet you never trusted me enough to share this with me. To prepare the family.”

Damian turns away sharply, his fists digging into his palms as he exhales slowly. “What would you have done? Held a secret meeting and kept it from everyone else even longer? You don’t trust me, either. You always treated me like I was some… experiment, some dangerous asset that needed constant supervision.”

Bruce’s voice lowers, softer now, though the edge of anger remains. “I trusted you. I trusted you with everything you needed to be a part of this family. But you chose to keep this from me. From all of us.”

For a long, breathless moment, the room is thick with tension. Damian’s breath comes heavy, his shoulders shaking with barely restrained emotion. His fists tighten again, the skin of his knuckles pulling taut.

Bruce doesn’t speak again. He stands still, observing his son. His eyes, however, betray him— he’s struggling, too . The sharpness of the situation is becoming clear to him. The weight of his own past mistakes. His failure to trust.

Suddenly, there’s a soft knock on the door. Both Bruce and Damian’s heads snap toward it. A moment later, Marinette steps in, her eyes already flicking from Bruce to Damian.

She’s quiet at first, the intensity of the moment not lost on her. She’s always known how strained their relationship has been, but tonight—tonight is different.

She takes a step closer to them, her voice gentle but firm. “This isn't helping. Neither of you are going to get anywhere like this.”

Bruce looks at her, his brow furrowing. “Marinette, this is—”

She interrupts him with a sharp shake of her head, her eyes never leaving Damian. “Damian has been holding this inside for a long time. I know it’s hard for you to hear, Monsieur Bruce. But he didn’t have the tools to tell you. He didn’t have the words. This... this isn’t just about the Ladybug or any of the Miraculous. This is about trust. This is about family .”

Damian’s shoulders stiffen, the weight of Marinette’s words landing on him. He doesn’t look at her, but he hears her clearly.

Bruce, caught off guard by Marinette’s intervention, hesitates before replying. “But this—this-this is a dangerous power. I need to know what’s at stake, Marinette. I need to understand how deep this runs. This isn’t something we can just—”

Marinette takes another step toward Bruce, her voice now calm but carrying an undeniable weight.

“You’re right. It’s not something you can just ignore. But Damian needs you to listen— really listen . Not just as the Bat, but as his father. As someone who believes in him.”

Bruce opens his mouth to argue, but something in her words stops him. The sharpness of the truth cuts through his defenses, and for the first time tonight, he sees the cracks in his own judgment.

Damian exhales slowly, his eyes finally meeting Bruce’s— honestly meeting them . There’s something raw there, something vulnerable that Damian doesn’t usually let anyone see.

“I didn’t want to burden you, Father. I didn’t want you to see me as weak.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “But… I need you to see me. To see us . This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about all of us.”

Bruce’s expression softens, and he steps forward. There’s still hesitation in his eyes, but it’s clear—he’s finally listening . “I’ve been too focused on the danger, the what-ifs ,” Bruce admits, his voice quieter. “I should have trusted you. I should have seen that you were ready. I’m sorry, Damian. I should have done better, and I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Damian’s eyes flicker with something almost unrecognizable—relief, perhaps. Maybe even forgiveness. But it's fleeting.

Then, slowly, Damian steps toward his father, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just about being ready. It’s about being seen. But I think…in time–I think I can start trusting you again.”

Marinette watches the exchange, her heart heavy but hopeful. She steps back, allowing them the space to truly begin their journey of reconciling. The weight of the years between them won’t vanish overnight, but this? This is a start.

As Bruce places a hand on Damian’s shoulder, finally reaching out the way a father should, the moment feels like it might just be enough to mend the distance they’ve both been keeping.

Damian doesn’t smile, but the edge in his eyes has softened. And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The chamber is cold and ancient, its stone walls scarred by the passage of time. The faint green glow that pulses from the cracks in the rock seems to breathe, as if the chamber itself is alive. At the center of it all, Talia al Ghul stands, her presence as imposing as the very darkness surrounding her. Cloaked in midnight, she surveys the room with an unsettling calm. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction as the ripples in the pool before her shimmer and settle.

The pool, an amalgamation of Lazarus Pit waters and arcane magic, reflects the images of Marinette and Damian caught in a moment of vulnerability in the rain—the kiss that unlocked their true potential, that bound them together in a web of fate.

Talia hums, her voice a soft whisper that barely disturbs the air. She’s not surprised by what’s unfolding; she’s been waiting for this. Her lips curl into a satisfied smile.

"At last... it begins."

Behind her, figures cloaked in ashen robes kneel, their faces hidden beneath veils woven from silver thread. These are the most revered Guardians from the Order of the Miraculous—travelling from their residence in Tibet, these individuals have aligned with the League, seeking other avenues to reach the goal the two organizations once agreed on. Their allegiance is fickle, but their purpose remains unchanged: to control, to manipulate, to twist fate to their will.

Talia turns toward one of them, her voice low, barely more than a murmur, but the weight of her words is undeniable.

"The last time the twin anchors awakened, it fractured the East. This time, we shape the fracture."

A whisper travels through the shadows, cutting through the air like a knife.

"The girl holds too much. Her soul strains under the Cat's corruption."

Talia’s smile deepens, her gaze fixed on the pool. She watches the images flicker and distort, the connection between Marinette and Damian growing stronger.

"And the boy? What of him?" she asks, her voice still smooth, like the silk of a serpent's skin.

Another voice, equally soft but filled with a reverent fear, answers.

"The boy... wears the Lady like a blade. He'll tear the timeline to keep her whole."

Talia's smile widens, her satisfaction radiating like a star.

"Then let them."

She walks past ancient relics, relics of a time when the Miraculous were whole, before the Order and League were torn apart. A scroll, bound in tiger bone thread and resting under obsidian glass, pulses with dark energy. The scroll holds the secrets of the Triad of Fate—the Shadow, the Strategy, and the Strength—three forces intertwined, representing the core of their twisted vision.

One of the veiled priests, watching her with a mix of reverence and fear, speaks in hushed tones.

"They have begun the Binding."

Another hisses softly, the sound of it unsettling.

"That makes her the Bridge. And the boy... the Knife."

Talia’s fingers dance over the scroll, the tiger bone thread glowing faintly under her touch. She pauses, her mind already calculating the next move, the next step in the complex game.

"The Knife is mine to wield," she murmurs, the words heavy with intent. "The Bridge... must be severed."

He doesn’t sleep anymore—he traverses . And now the dreams are violent.

The nights since their kiss have become restless, and Damian can’t escape the weight of the visions haunting his mind. The dreams come faster now, more violent, more real. The fire crackles in his chest, the heat of the flames twisting into an unbearable pressure. He’s standing in a field of burning ruins, the air thick with smoke, the ground cracked open like a wound in the earth.

He sees her—Marinette. She stands in the center of it all, her form wrapped in blackened robes. Her eyes are silvered, distant, empty. The Kwami that once surrounded her lie broken and silent, their bodies shattered beyond recognition.

He takes a step forward, but the ground beneath him cracks, sending him tumbling into darkness. As he falls, the sound of his grandfather’s voice intertwines with that of his mother’s, a cruel symphony of words.

"You can love her, or you can save her. You will not do both."

Damian wakes with a start, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath ragged. He claws at the sheets, trying to shake the weight of the dream from his mind. His body is soaked in sweat, his skin cold to the touch. The darkness lingers, and for a moment, he’s trapped in the aftershocks of the vision.

Tikki hovers near him, her tiny body trembling with fear. Her voice is a soft whisper, barely audible in the thick of the night.

"Something is pulling at her, Damian. And now... it’s pulling at you."

Damian’s gaze flickers to the small Kwami, the weight of her words sinking deep into his bones. He knows the threat is real. The danger they face is bigger than anything they’ve faced before. The Ladybug Miraculous, the Black Cat Miraculous—they are more than just powers. They are anchors, tying them to something ancient, something dangerous.

And if the visions are anything to go by, the stakes are higher than he ever imagined.

Tikki hovers closer towards his face, her glow dim and flickering, as if the dream touched her too. She doesn’t speak right away. She just watches him—those tiny, ancient eyes filled with something close to fear.

“She’s slipping,” she finally says, voice barely above a breath. “Whatever that vision was… it’s not just a warning.”

Damian rubs his eyes, his hands trembling despite his efforts to still them. “She was gone,” he whispers. “Not dead. Worse. Hollow.”

“She’s carrying too much,” Tikki says, curling in on herself. “The Cat’s chaotic magic was never meant to be in contact with toxicity and corruption like this. The physical strain is becoming too much.”

Damian’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t respond.

Because he knows.

He’s felt it in the way Marinette clutches his hand too tightly, how her smile is slower to come, how she disappears to places even Plagg can’t trace. Her laughter has grown quieter, edged with something brittle.

He rises from the bed and pulls a shirt over his shoulders. The manor is silent, thick with the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks—too slow, too intentional.

He’s not alone.

Damian moves fast, a blade drawn from beneath the mattress. The door opens before he reaches it.

It’s Jason.

He looks worse than usual. Dressed in wrinkled clothes, he is half asleep. His eyes flick over Damian, pausing at the knife.

“Thought I heard screaming,” Jason mutters. “Figured it was either a nightmare or someone finally tried to kill you in your sleep. Again.”

Damian doesn’t lower the blade.

Jason sighs. “She’s dreaming too, you know. Marinette. I passed her room on the way here. She was murmuring in her sleep. Something about stars cracking. About… him. Whoever that is.”

That word lands between them like a stone in water.

Him.

Adrien? Hawkmoth?

No. Too small.

Something older. Something ancient and buried. The conclusion comes to him like a whispered tale, not a conscious thought, but like his soul is bringing something to light. 

Tikki stiffens, turning to Jason, her glow hardening. “They’re echoing each other.”

Jason tilts his head. “So they’re bonded?”

“No,” Tikki says. “They’re bound .”

Damian grips the blade tighter. His voice is iron. “Then how do we sever the chain before it drags her under?”

Tikki looks at him with something like mourning. “That’s the thing, Damian. You can’t.”

Jason steps back into the hall. “Then we better figure out who forged it in the first place. Before the girl you love becomes a weapon that ends everything.”

Outside the manor, a shadow slips back into the darkness—silent, cloaked in green.

Someone is listening.
And already making their move.

Beneath the full moon, a figure cloaked in white stands motionless, its form blending into the shadows, and presence almost imperceptible. Their face is hidden beneath a veil, and the sigil of the Order is faintly glowing beneath their sleeve—the Mark of the Order.

In their hands, a crystalline shard hums with energy, crackling in the stillness of the night. The watcher speaks into the shard, their voice soft, yet tinged with urgency.

"The coordinates match the pulse. The Bridge resides here. Extraction, if necessary, will occur before the autumnal solstice."

A faint metallic sound emanates from beneath their cloak—a small beetle-like jewel humming to life with an unnatural resonance. It’s a signal, a calling. The watcher’s eyes flicker as they receive the information, their fingers tightening around the shard.

The time is drawing near. The Bridge must be severed from the Knife. And if necessary, they will strike.

Back in the chamber, Talia stands before the pool, watching as the ripples distort again. The images of Marinette and Damian in the rain flicker before her eyes, their bond growing more evident by the second. She tilts her head, her smile a dark promise.

"It’s begun," she murmurs to herself. "And now... we make our move."

She turns back to the veiled priests, her voice steady, commanding.

"Prepare. The Binding will only strengthen their connection. We will need to move quickly."

The air thickens, the tension rising in the room as the ancient relics pulse with dark energy. The time for the Bridge and the Knife to fulfill their destinies is drawing near. And when it comes, Talia will ensure that the Order claims what’s theirs.

The fate of the Miraculous lies in the balance—and the power to shape it is in her hands.

Chapter Text

The city didn’t sleep, but it did hush—just for her.

Marinette’s birthday crept in softly, tucked behind the midnight veil. Gotham’s skyline flickered like dying stars, mist hugging the alleyways, magic prickling along her skin like a silent warning. But today, for once, she let herself ignore it.

She stood in front of the greenhouse loft, a sanctuary carved out of chaos. Vines draped the walls like lace, and moonlight pooled across the rooftop in soft silver. The air inside buzzed gently, like the city was holding its breath.

A candlelit path wove through the plants. Peonies, jasmine, and thornless roses bloomed—her favorites, every one. At the end stood a table set for two.

And him .

Damian stood in his usual black, but even he looked softened by the warm light. His posture was straight, precise, but his eyes—emerald and unguarded—betrayed the care underneath the steel. He hadn’t just arranged this. He designed it. Each flower. Each plate. Each flickering flame.

“I was going to take you out for dinner,” he said as she stepped forward, “but Pennyworth helped me put together a more personal meal for the evening.”

Marinette laughed—surprised, delighted, unguarded.

“You cooked?”

“I did. I wasn’t sure where to start, but I wanted to try something.” He pulled out her chair. “You made my birthday feel so special, I wanted to return the feeling.”

She sat, watching him move around the table with quiet deliberation. This was not the boy who wielded swords like extensions of himself. This was not the former Bat whose name was whispered like a threat. 

This was her Damian—stripped of armor, offering her something raw.

There was no grand speech, no elegant bouquet of carefully curated words. Just little things gifted: a handmade sketchbook filled with drawings of her—detailed sketches of her concentrating, mid-laugh, asleep in the greenhouse. A miniature cat charm sculpted from metal. A handwritten note tucked delicately inside a napkin: You remind me that not everything in Gotham has to be ugly to survive. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she tried her hardest not to let them fall.

They ate under the low hum of stars and city noise, surrounded by the breathing wildness of Ivy’s gifted haven. Damian said little, but he watched her like she personally hung the stars in the sky and planted the flora below. 

Later, as the hour crept closer to dusk, he stood behind her, arms wrapped around her waist.

“Do you want to go patrolling?” she asked, voice soft, knowing full well they’d both heard the distant police scanner blaring in his pocket ten minutes ago.

“No,” he said, head resting against her shoulder. “Tonight is yours. I want to spend it remembering you as you are right now. Alive. Safe. Smiling.”

Her breath caught, and her hands found his. Then their lips met with silent reverence. 

This wasn’t just a celebration. It was a declaration.

And Gotham, for one night, didn’t pull them apart.

Damian had been smiling .

That alone would’ve triggered a full-scale emergency protocol—if anyone else in the Batcave had witnessed it. But the Batfamily didn’t need visual confirmation. The signs were all there, like breadcrumbs leading to one inescapable conclusion:

Damian Wayne was in love. He is actually in love. 

Don’t get any of them wrong— the siblings have joked about Damian having a girlfriend. They remember the security footage of the kiss that shook the city –but their little brother was actually in love. 

And it was messy .

“Did he just say he skipped patrol?” Jason asked, half-choking on his protein shake, which Alfred had warned him not to consume in the Batcave.

“He said it was Marinette’s birthday,” Tim replied, spinning in a chair, eyes glued to surveillance feeds. “And that he wanted the night to be… and I quote: 'intimate and uninterrupted.’ ”

Dick dropped his escrima stick. “Okay. Hold up. Who is this kid and what did he do with Baby Bat?”

“I don't know," Barbara said from her spot on the monitor console, smirking. "But I'm rooting for her. Anyone who can make Damian use the word intimate without cringing deserves a medal.”

At that moment, the elevator to the cave dinged .

Damian descended, suit dissipating behind him, face blank as ever. But there was an ease to his shoulders, a quiet satisfaction in the way he walked—like someone who had defied death and gotten a kiss afterward.

He paused.

They were all staring at him.

“…What,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, nothing,” Jason said, tossing a batarang in the air. “Just wondering what kind of flowers you bought this time. Tulips? Violets? Secret bouquet of doom?”

“You people are insufferable.”

“No, you’re suspicious,” Dick countered, stepping forward with a grin far too bright to be innocent. “You didn’t even yell at me last week when I parked my bike on your side of the garage. You’ve been… nice. ”

Damian twitched.

Cass tilted her head, then signed, You like her. Deeply. She makes you softer.

“She makes me focused,” Damian corrected, crossing his arms. “I’m not losing discipline.”

“No one said you were,” Tim chimed in. “But this? This is emotional development. Bruce is probably crying in the study.”

“He is,” Alfred said from the stairwell, dry as ever, holding a tray of tea. “He asked for brandy and a moment alone with your school photos.”

Damian groaned.

“He hasn’t let someone this close since Jon,” Jason added with a wicked grin. “And we all remember how he almost bit off a guy’s hand for petting Titus. Imagine what he’ll do if someone even thinks about touching Mari.”

Damian’s expression darkened. “They won’t get the chance. I already made an example of one imbicle in November.”

“Ohhh, he’s protective and possessive. Classic assassin boy romance arc,” Dick whispered theatrically.

“Leave him alone,” Cass said, smiling slightly. “Let love happen.”

But the teasing fell away when Bruce finally descended from the manor, expression unreadable. The team went quiet. Even Jason straightened up.

Bruce walked over to his son, his youngest, and studied him.

“You love her.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A challenge. A truth.

Damian didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “She reminds me of your mother when we first met. I hope you treat her well.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

Then: “As if I will do anything different.”

A beat.

“But if any of you embarrass me—”

“Don’t worry,” Tim said. “Now that we’ve seen more concrete proof, we’ll only show the good photos.”

“I will burn the cave to the ground.”

Chapter Text

Gotham wasn’t just a city to Damian; it was a living thing, a creature that pulsed with energy and secrets. And each day that passed, he felt its weight bearing down on him more and more. But tonight, as he stood beside Marinette on the rooftop, staring out at the sprawling city below, he couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling that this wasn’t just about protecting Gotham anymore.

It wasn’t just about the Miraculous, or the destinies they had inherited. It was about them —what they were becoming, and what it was costing them.

He could see it in how Marinette’s shoulders sagged just slightly, as if the weight of her role as protector was physically pulling her down. The city seemed to feed off her hesitation, like a predator sensing weakness. But there was something more in her eyes. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re making a mistake?” Marinette’s voice broke the silence, a tremor in her words.

Damian’s grip on the edge of the building tightened, his knuckles whitening. “Making a mistake?” He glanced at her, but she was looking at the skyline, her face unreadable. “What do you mean?”

She took a slow breath, as if steadying herself. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like we’re too far in and can’t get out. The Miraculous, the responsibility—it’s like it’s all we are now.” She swallowed hard. “What if it’s too much for us? What if it’s too much for me ?”

Damian’s chest tightened, a strange sense of guilt twisting inside him. He knew how she felt. He felt it too. Every time they woke and traced a lead for the other Miraculous, the weight of their powers pressed against him. Every move they made, every choice, was tied to the Miraculous— not their own lives or desires. And he knew Marinette felt it even more acutely than he did. She always had this unspoken need to save everyone, to hold the world together, even when it threatened to break her.

“I don’t know if we have a choice,” he said quietly, his voice tight. “But you’re not alone in this. You know that, right?” He glanced at her then, his gaze softening. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

Her eyes flickered to his, and for a moment, he could see the vulnerability she’d been trying to hide. But then it was gone, replaced by something harder, something determined. She didn’t want him to see how much the burden of it all was hurting her.

“I do have to carry it,” she said, her voice firm, but he could hear the strain. “If I don’t, then who will? Gotham’s already broken. I can’t afford to be weak.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. Weak . He hated that word. He hated how she used it, because he knew what it meant to her. To Marinette, weakness wasn’t just about physical strength—it was about failure. It was about not being enough.

But that wasn’t true. She was more than enough. He knew it.

“You’re not weak, يا قلبي ..” (my heart) His voice was sharp, the words coming out before he could stop them. “You’re not failing. But you can’t do this alone. And you shouldn’t have to.”

She looked away, her gaze distant. “But I feel like I am, ma moitié. Every day. I feel like I’m losing myself in this fight, and I don’t know what’s left of me when it’s over.” (my other half)

A chill ran down his spine. He couldn’t imagine her feeling that way. Marinette, with all her fire and determination, feels lost. But he understood it. He understood it more than he wanted to admit because he felt it too.

“I don’t know if this is what I want anymore,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I’m so tired of fighting, but I don’t know how to stop.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. Because in truth, he didn’t know if this was what he wanted anymore either. The Miraculous had become a part of him, feeling like a legacy handed down from a long line of warriors, but since she let him in, it had been a path he chose . The problem was, now he wasn’t sure if he was choosing it anymore—or if it was choosing him.

He stepped closer to her, his boots making a soft thud on the rooftop as he reached out, his fingers brushing her arm. The connection was almost electric, the pull between them stronger than he cared to admit. He couldn’t explain it, but the deeper they got into this, the more he found himself not just fighting by her side—but fighting for her.

“I don’t know how to stop either,” he admitted, his voice low. “But we’re in this together. I won’t let you do it alone.”

She met his gaze, her blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight, but there was something new in them. A flicker of doubt, of fear—but also trust. And somewhere beneath it all, a spark of something growing between them, something neither had truly acknowledged until now.

“You’re...you’re not just saying that because you have to?” she asked quietly, her voice hesitant, as if she was afraid to believe him.

He shook his head slowly. “No. I’m saying it because I want to be here. With you. Even if it means facing whatever this city has in store for us.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was an understanding, a mutual recognition of something they had both been avoiding. The truth of their bond. The depth of what they were to each other.

She finally exhaled, her shoulders relaxing, though the tension in her eyes hadn’t fully dissipated. “Maybe we’re stronger together, then.”

Damian nodded, though a part of him still felt unsure. Stronger together? Maybe. But he couldn’t ignore the feeling gnawing at him—the feeling that the more they allowed themselves to rely on each other, the harder it would be to walk away if they ever had to.

But he couldn’t imagine walking away from her even as he thought it.

“I think we are,” he said, his voice more certain now. “But we can’t lose ourselves in the process.”

Marinette’s lips curved into a faint smile but didn’t reach her eyes. The tension between them hadn’t completely melted away, but for the first time in a long while, Damian felt like they were on the same page. Together, they could face whatever Gotham had in store. But what happened once the fight was over? What happened when they were no longer just warriors, but people?

That was the question he didn’t have an answer for. Not yet. But he knew that he didn’t want to face it alone. Not anymore.

For now, that was enough.

The moon hung low over Gotham, casting long shadows over the crumbling rooftops. The city stretched before them like a tangled web, each thread a story, each alley a secret. Marinette and Damian surveyed the chaos below from their perch on the edge of a building. The streets were quiet for now, but they knew better than to trust the silence. Gotham always had a way of twisting into danger, even when it seemed calm.

Marinette clenched her fist, the familiar weight of Plagg’s ring pressing against her skin. The power it held, the responsibility it demanded, had never been more tangible. But tonight, it felt heavier than ever. She glanced at Damian, who stood by her side, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flickered with an intensity she couldn’t ignore.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked softly, the words slipping out before she could stop them. The doubt had been gnawing at her for days, but she’d kept it buried under the weight of their mission and everything Gotham demanded of them.

Damian didn’t look at her immediately, but she could feel the hesitation in his posture. It was subtle, but it was there. He took a breath, his chest rising and falling with the tension in the air.

“Are you asking if I’m sure about the mission or if I’m sure about us ?” His voice was low, almost too quiet for the howling wind.

Her stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure herself, but the truth of the matter was, she was asking about both. This wasn’t just about the next fight, the next victory—it was about the cost. And the cost, at least lately, had been getting harder to ignore.

“We’re getting closer to the vault,” she said, trying to redirect the conversation. “To the heart of it all. But every time we unlock something new, I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself.” She looked at her hand, the ring gleaming beneath the streetlights. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Not in the way they need me to be.”

Damian’s eyes softened slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately.

“We all have our doubts,” he finally said, his voice gravelly. “But we do what’s necessary, زهرة القمر. We do what has to be done.” (Moonflower) He turned it over in his hand, eyes locked on the intricate symbols etched into their palms. “Even if it means sacrificing something.”

Her breath hitched at his words. The weight of them hung in the air like a storm cloud, a reminder of the dangers they faced. Every choice, every move, had consequences. And the deeper they dug into the Miraculous world, the more she realized those consequences weren’t always clear.

“What if we’re wrong?” Marinette’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What if all this power, all this magic—it’s not meant to be used the way we’re using it? What if we’re causing more harm than good?”

Damian’s jaw tightened at her words, the familiar tension in his features giving way to something darker. He had never been one to question their mission—he’d been raised to do what was necessary, regardless of the cost. But tonight, something in his eyes flickered. Something that told her he was beginning to feel the weight of it too.

“We’ve been asking that question for a while now,” he said quietly. “What’s the point of power if you can’t control it? If it takes you to places you don’t want to go?”

Marinette swallowed hard, the thought sinking deep into her chest. They were close to the vault now, close to discovering the rest of the Miraculous of the West, the true extent of them, and the power they wielded. But with each step closer, the temptation grew stronger—the temptation to use that power without fully understanding the consequences, and the fear that, in doing so, they might end up destroying everything they were trying to protect.

“Do you think I’m worthy to wield the Black Cat Miraculous?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence between them.

Damian turned to face her fully, his eyes locking with hers. For a moment, he said nothing, as if the answer was something he had to wrestle with himself.

“I think you’re stronger than you believe,” he said finally. “But it’s not about being able. It’s about what you’re willing to risk. And what you’re willing to sacrifice.”

Her breath caught. The weight of his words hit harder than anything they had faced so far. She wasn’t just protecting Gotham. She wasn’t just protecting the Miraculous. She was protecting herself. Her heart, her soul. Her very identity.

And that was the hardest thing of all.

Damian stepped closer, his eyes dark but sincere. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, روحي . We’re in this together. But we can’t hesitate. Not now.” (My soulmate)

She felt her pulse quicken, the dual pull of the power she wielded and the bond between them. There was something about him, something that anchored her in the chaos of it all. But it wasn’t enough to shake the unease that still gnawed at her.

“I don’t want to make the wrong choice, mon amour,” she said, her voice raw with emotion. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” (My love)

“You won’t,” Damian said, his tone firm. “But you have to trust yourself. Trust that you’re doing the best you can, even when the path isn’t clear.”

She looked at him, the uncertainty still swirling in her chest. But in that moment, she realized something. The burden of the Miraculous wasn’t just about wielding the power—it was about choosing how to wield it. And no matter how difficult, no matter how much it tore at her, she had to trust herself.

“I’ll try,” she whispered. “But I don’t know if I can do it without losing myself.”

Damian nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Then I’ll make sure you don’t.”

They stood there, side by side, the weight of their shared mission pressing down on them both. In that silence, they didn’t need to speak anymore. They both knew the truth—they weren’t just fighting for Gotham. They were fighting for each other, for the balance they had to strike between power and responsibility. Between saving the city and saving themselves.

And whatever it took, they would figure it out together.

Even if it meant facing the consequences of their choices head-on.

The city was alive with shadows, and the moon hung low in the sky, casting a faint glow on the twisted, crumbling landscape of Gotham. The air felt different tonight—thicker, charged with an unseen energy—the kind of energy that came before something was about to break wide open.

Damian and Marinette stood on the edge of a rooftop, eyes fixed on the darkened district below. The wind howled through the narrow streets, the city’s whispers growing louder the closer they got to the vault. The moment had arrived. The last of the Western Miraculous—the vault where they were kept—was close. They could feel it in their bones.

"We’re here," Marinette said, her voice steady but edged with something unspoken. The Black Cat Miraculous at her side hummed, as though acknowledging the gravity of the moment. It felt alive in a way she couldn’t explain.

Damian stood beside her, his eyes cold and calculating, but beneath the surface, something was stirring. The hunt for the Miraculous had always been a singular mission—a way to strengthen their shared bond and protect Gotham from the chaos that threatened it. But now, with the vault so close, something else was at play. He could feel the city itself watching them, the ground beneath his feet almost vibrating with the weight of ancient knowledge.

“Let’s get this over with,” Damian muttered. His fingers twitched, already aching for the familiar grip of his weapon, though tonight it wasn’t blades or fists he’d need. It was the will to do what was necessary.

“Agreed,” Marinette replied, but her gaze lingered on the space before them, as if she were seeing something only she could understand.

There was something about Gotham that unsettled her. Something that pulled at her core in ways the Miraculous power had never done before. She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The two of them made their way down the side of the building with practiced ease, their movements in sync, honed by countless missions and shared experiences. But as they neared the entrance to the vault—a hidden underground structure buried deep beneath Gotham’s streets—the air felt colder. More oppressive.

Damian stopped, his sharp eyes scanning the dark alley.

“This is it,” he said, the words barely escaping his lips as he studied the markings on the brick wall in front of them. He touched it gently, as if expecting the stone to respond. “The city’s forgotten its own history. But it hasn’t forgotten this.”

Marinette frowned, her hand hovering over the edge of her ring. “This place… it’s alive . I can feel it.”

“The city remembers,” Damian said, voice grim. “Everything it’s done, everything it’s built on—it knows we’re here.”

And then, as though on cue, the ground trembled beneath their feet. The stones of the alley groaned, shifting ever so slightly. And in the darkness, a deep rumble vibrated through the air.

The vault was opening.

A low mechanical sound resonated from the ground, followed by a subtle shift of stone. The brick wall before them parted slowly, revealing a passage leading underground, illuminated by faint blue light. It was as if Gotham itself had decided to reveal its secrets.

Marinette’s heart skipped a beat as she stepped forward, her instincts telling her to stay alert. The vault was right there. It was closer than they’d ever been.

Damian followed, the air around him tense, like the calm before a storm.

They descended into the dark corridor, the light of their Miraculous casting faint shadows along the walls. The scent of damp stone and forgotten things filled the air, and the oppressive silence pressed in on them.

“Do you hear that?” Marinette asked quietly, halting for a moment. The walls themselves seemed to hum with a strange energy, a vibration deep in the stone. It was like the city was breathing.

Damian paused beside her. “It’s the vault,” he said, his voice low. “The Miraculous are calling. They know we’re here.”

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Marinette’s voice was tight, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. The vault wasn’t just a physical location—it felt like a place of reckoning, where the city’s oldest secrets would be laid bare. “What if we’re opening something that should stay closed?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. He looked ahead, his eyes hard as he took in the imposing structure at the end of the corridor. There, bathed in an eerie glow, stood a massive door—a steel door carved with symbols older than Gotham itself.

“It’s too late to turn back now,” he said, stepping forward. “We’ve already come this far.”

They approached the door, and as they did, the stone beneath their feet seemed to shift in recognition. The symbols on the door began to glow, and a soft but powerful hum resonated through the air.

“Are you ready?” Damian asked, though his voice wasn’t uncertain. He knew what needed to be done.

Marinette nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her ring. "I don't know if I'm ready. But there's no choice. Not now."

The door began to open, and the vault revealed its treasures as it did.

The air in the vault thickened, the hum growing louder, like the heartbeat of something ancient and untamed. Every inch of the stone walls seemed to pulse with a rhythm, as though the vault itself were alive, waking from a long, forgotten slumber. 

Glistening in the soft blue light were the remaining Miraculous of the West. They were arranged on pedestals, each more intricate than the last, glowing with an ethereal power that made the air tremble with anticipation. The glow from the Miraculous on their pedestals flickered in response, growing brighter, as if feeding on the energy in the room. The entire vault felt charged, crackling with the weight of centuries.

The Bull’s Ring, the Twin’s Pendant, the Crab’s Bracer, the Lion Mane’s Amulet, the Maiden’s Locket, the Scales Earrings, the Archer’s Bracer, the Mountain’s Crown, and the Water Bearer’s Anklet. 

Each one pulsed with a faint hum of power. But there was something more to the vault, something that felt wrong, like a warning that had been whispered through time.

Damian stepped forward, his gaze unwavering as he took in the sights. He reached out, fingertips brushing against the edge of the nearest pedestal, but before his hand could make contact, a cold wind rushed through the vault, and the ground beneath them shifted.

The city was alive. And it was beginning to react.

Marinette instinctively pulled back, her eyes darting around the vault. "Damian, we have to be careful. Something’s—"

But before she could finish, the sound of ancient gears grinding filled the air, and the walls of the vault shifted, sealing them inside.

“Too late,” Damian muttered, his eyes dark with realization. “We’re in this now.”

~~~

But something didn’t sit right. It was too easy. Too clean.

The vault’s stone walls groaned again, but this time it wasn’t the normal settling sound. It was something darker, like the vault itself was warning them. The door they had entered through sealed with a finality that sent a shiver through Marinette’s spine.

“Damian,” she said, her voice low and strained. “I don’t like this.”

Her eyes darted around the room, scanning for any signs of movement. The city outside had quieted, and the world seemed to hold its breath. There was something wrong here. Something off about the vault that she couldn’t put into words.

Damian, too, felt it. His instincts were screaming at him to be cautious and analyze every detail before taking the next step. But his curiosity—and perhaps something more—drove him forward. He could feel the pull of the Miraculous, their power beckoning him, calling him to unlock their secrets.

He took another step closer to the pedestal holding the Scales Miraculous. As his fingers hovered near it, the atmosphere in the room shifted again. The hum became louder, and a low voice echoed through the vault.

" To wield the power of the scales is to bear the weight of justice, " the voice said, smooth and haunting, as though it was coming from everywhere at once. " The balance you seek may not be the one you expect. "

Damian froze, his hand stopping just short of touching the pedestal. His breath caught, and his mind spun with the implications of those words.

“What was that?” Marinette whispered, her gaze flicking between him and the vault’s glowing pedestals. She hadn’t heard the voice, but the sudden shift in the room had clearly unsettled her as much as it had him.

“It’s the vault,” Damian replied, voice clipped, his eyes narrowing. “It’s testing us.”

Before Marinette could respond, the pedestal with the Scales Miraculous flared with a bright, golden light, and the weight in the room intensified, pushing them both back. The light was blinding, like it was reaching for them, beckoning them into its fold. And from the center of the vault, an echoing roar filled the space—deep, powerful, and primal, reverberating through the stone walls.

“Get back!” Damian ordered, his instincts kicking into overdrive. He pulled Marinette back, his arm wrapping around her waist to shield her as the air began to twist and swirl, thickening with energy.

But it was too late. The light from the Scales Miraculous exploded outward in a burst of power, and before they could react, the ground beneath them shifted violently. The stone of the vault cracked, large fissures splitting the floor, sending dust and debris into the air. The walls trembled as though the entire vault was shaking off centuries of slumber.

Marinette’s heart pounded in her chest. She could feel it now—the Miraculous were alive, awake, and they were not going to let anyone leave without paying the price. She felt the familiar surge of power from her own ring, a warning— they’re not ready . But it was too late to turn back now. The vault was demanding something from them.

“Damian!” she shouted, as the cracks in the walls deepened, and the vault seemed to grow darker with each passing second. “We need to get out—now!”

But Damian didn’t move. He was staring at the pedestal where the Scales had been, his face set in a hard line. He knew what he had to do. This wasn’t just about getting the Miraculous—it was about something much bigger. The city had called them here for a reason. They weren’t just supposed to take the power—they were supposed to earn it.

Marinette reached for him, but before she could touch him, the space around them shattered. A shockwave of energy burst forth from the vault’s center, knocking them both off their feet. Damian’s body slammed into the stone floor, pain shooting up his spine as the ground trembled beneath him.

The vault was closing in on them.

The ceiling split, revealing more symbols, intricate and ancient, glowing brighter than before. The Miraculous themselves flickered with impossible power, each one reaching out like tendrils of energy, pulling the very life from the air.

“ You must choose, ” the voice echoed again, louder this time. “ Only one path remains. Will you accept the responsibility, or will you fall to the weight of your choices? ”

Marinette’s head spun. She could feel the weight of the question pressing on her chest. Her heart raced in her ears. What was this place? What was it asking of them?

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for riddles,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet, his voice hard and resolute. “I’ll take what’s mine.”

Before Marinette could stop him, Damian reached for the Scales Miraculous, his fingers brushing against the pedestal. The moment he made contact, the world seemed to explode into white-hot light. The vault shook, and a deep, resonating boom echoed through the chamber, shaking the very foundations of Gotham itself.

Marinette’s breath caught as she watched him—saw the look in his eyes. He wasn’t just taking the Miraculous. He was accepting something else. Something he wasn’t ready for.

“Damian, wait—” But the words died in her throat as the light enveloped him completely.

And then, in an instant, the light vanished. The vault was still, silent once more.

~~~

The remaining light of the vault still lingered in the air, its glow like the residue of something powerful, something that refused to be forgotten. Damian stood with the Scales Miraculous in his hand, his fingers clenched around it as though it might slip away at any moment. The silence was oppressive, but his eyes flickered over the remaining pedestals, each with a tantalizing promise of more power and responsibility.

Still shaking from the force of the vault's eruption, Marinette slowly pushed herself to her feet, her gaze never leaving Damian. There was something different about him now, a weight in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. She wanted to ask him what had happened, but the question seemed too small, too insignificant in the face of everything they had just gone through.

“Damian… are you okay?” Her voice was cautious, as though afraid that even a soft word might break the fragile stillness in the room.

He didn’t answer at first, his attention still fixed on the other pedestals, the Miraculous glinting like jewels in the dim light. The energy in the room pulsed, beckoning them closer. He turned to her slowly, his expression unreadable, and then nodded.

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice carried an edge she hadn’t heard before. “But we’re not finished here.”

Marinette followed his gaze, her heart hammering. The vault stretched on, its depths filled with more treasures than either of them had anticipated. The other Miraculous—nine in total—were waiting for them.

The Bull’s Ring, a thick, gold band set with a blood-red gem, shimmered ominously next to it. The Twin’s Pendant, already familiar to them, hung from a delicate chain, its design a perfect mirror of its counterpart. The Crab’s Bracer, sturdy and unyielding, gleamed in the shadows like the shell of some ancient beast.

There was the Lion Mane’s Amulet, a large pendant shaped like a roaring lion, its eyes made of two brilliant sapphires. The Maiden’s Locket, silver and delicate, was nestled beside it, its intricate designs giving off an aura of purity and fragility. The Scales Earrings now lay at Damian’s side, their balanced design somehow more meaningful now. The Archer’s Bracer was further along the line, its golden surface adorned with delicate engravings of arrows pointing in all directions.

The Mountain’s Crown, dark and majestic, held a strange, almost foreboding energy as though the very mountain it was named for was calling to them. And the Water Bearer’s Anklet, silver and flowing like a stream of water, completed the set.

They were all there. The remaining Miraculous, a key to unlocking something far greater than themselves.

Marinette’s breath caught in her throat. They had come so far—fought so hard—only to stand on the precipice of something much bigger than they’d imagined. The weight of the moment settled on her shoulders like a stone, pressing her down, making it harder to breathe.

“Do we take them?” she asked, her voice small, uncertain.

Damian’s gaze flickered to her, his eyes sharp, calculating. His fingers tightened around the Scales Miraculous in his hand as if to remind himself of what they had already taken, what they had already risked.

“We came for them,” he said, the words cold, resolute. “We finish what we started.”

Marinette felt a twinge of fear stir in her chest, but she nodded. He was right. They had come this far. There was no turning back now.

He reached for her, his touch grounding her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, a note of concern threading through the usual coldness.

Marinette nodded, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. “I’m fine. Just… it’s a lot.”

The vault settled, the tension easing as they made their way to the Miraculous.

They stepped closer, each Miraculous seeming to resist them more than the last, but they took them one by one, each step further down the path they had already begun. The Bull’s Ring was next, its gold warmth spreading through them as soon as their fingers made contact, followed by the Twin’s Pendant, its twin fish seeming to swirl within the sapphire, pulsing with life.

The Crab’s Bracer was harder to claim, the air thick with resistance, but Damian’s grip never faltered. The Lion Mane’s Amulet came next, its regal presence almost overwhelming as it settled around Marinette’s neck.

Each Miraculous they claimed felt like a mark upon their souls, a change too deep to undo. And still, the tension in the vault never fully dissipated. It watched them, judged them.

The Maiden’s Locket slipped into Marinette’s palm with a soft click, its silver chain cool against her skin. The Scales Earrings, already claimed by Damian, added another layer of weight to his responsibilities. The Archer’s Bracer fit snugly around his wrist, as though it had always belonged there, its power flowing through him, urging him forward.

The Mountain’s Crown was last, and when Marinette finally lifted it, she felt a connection, like she had always been meant to wear it. The crown's weight settled easily into place, as though it were more of a burden to refuse it than to accept it.

The final piece—the Water Bearer’s Anklet—was the lightest of all, its silver form delicate but strong. As soon as it encircled his ankle, Damian felt the connection to the element itself, the flow of water soothing and invigorating simultaneously.

When it was done, when the last Miraculous had been claimed, they stood together in the center of the vault, their bodies humming with the weight of the power they now held. The vault fell silent, the stones settling back into place, the energy dissipating into the air like a dream fading at dawn.

But Marinette knew they weren’t done. Not yet.

“What happens now?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Damian stood beside her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—seemed to pierce through the very fabric of the vault itself.

“Now,” he said, his voice low, “we face the consequences of our choices.”

Chapter Text

The loft, usually a sanctuary of resilient and beautiful plants and the gentle rustle of sketches, felt tonight like the belly of some ancient, breathing beast. The ivy, thick as a sorcerer’s beard, snaked across the exposed beams, its leaves whispering secrets only the moonlight, fractured by the ceiling, could truly understand. The rhythmic click of the insects outside, a tiny metronome hidden within among the concrete jungle, underscored the stillness, each tick a stark reminder of time slipping away.

Marinette remained hunched on the edge of the low cot, the roughspun blanket doing little to soften its unforgiving surface. Her gaze was fixed on the blood blooming across her palm, a stark crimson flower against the pale skin. The pain was a distant hum, a dull throb overshadowed by the churning unease within her. It was a physical manifestation of the tearing she felt inside, a rending of something she had fought so hard to keep whole.

Above her, Kurai pulsed with an ethereal light. The ancient crab kwami, a creature of fathomless age, drifted with an otherworldly grace. Coral clung to his segmented shell like petrified memories, and strands of luminous kelp trailed behind him, leaving shimmering wakes in the still air. His bioluminescent eyes, twin pinpricks of cold fire, blinked slowly as he spoke of the Deep Tides, a concept vast and terrifying. His voice resonated not in her ears, but in the very marrow of her bones – the crushing silence of the ocean floor, a pressure that could shatter thought itself.

“You are the tide, Marinette,” he repeated, the words a low, insistent murmur. “Push back or drown.”

Her gaze flickered upwards, meeting his ancient, knowing eyes. They were clouded with a weariness that mirrored her own, yet a spark of defiance still flickered within their depths. “I’ve been pushing,” she said, the words flat and devoid of inflection. Years of pushing, of straining against forces that threatened to consume her.

Kurai descended, his spectral form rippling with a soft, blue-white luminescence. “No,” he corrected gently, his voice like the sigh of retreating waves. “You’ve been drifting. Clinging to surface currents. Afraid of how deep you go.”

Damian, a silent presence, knelt before her. His movements were precise as he unwound the stained cloth from her hand and began to rewrap it with fresh bandages. His focus was absolute, his head bent low. He didn’t meet her eyes, but each careful turn of the fabric, each gentle pressure of his fingers, was a silent plea, a desperate question etched in pragmatism.

His thumb brushed the bruised knuckles, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down her spine. Don’t fall. Don’t sink. Not without me. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them, a fragile lifeline in the encroaching darkness.

“You think I haven’t been fighting?” she finally burst out, the words sharper than she intended, directed as much at the suffocating weight of Kurai’s pronouncements as at Damian’s quiet ministrations. “I’ve fought a war myself for years. I’ve bled for balance.” The phantom ache of past battles, the sting of betrayal, the constant tightrope walk between two lives – it was a war waged in shadows and whispered secrets, a war that had left its own invisible scars.

“Survival is not the same as resistance,” Kurai hummed, his voice laced with an ancient sorrow. “You cannot outswim what waits in the dark. You have to turn. Face it. Become it.”

Marinette’s laugh was short and brittle, devoid of humor. “You want me to become the tide? The same tide that seemed to abandon me when I fought an emotional terroist for most of my teenhood?” The scars were etched in her memory, the battles sourced from tales of a power so immense, so untamed, that it had brought ruin and despair on the so-called City of Love.

“You are not them,” Kurai said, his voice firm despite its gentleness. “You carry the spark of creation, destruction, and empathy within you. Theirs was a hunger for desperation.”

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered, the fear a cold knot in her stomach. The thought of surrendering to the raw, untamed power that pulsed beneath her skin was terrifying. What if it consumed her? What if she became the very thing she fought against?

“But you will,” Kurai said, his voice unwavering, “if you keep pretending the ocean inside you is a stream you can dam.”

Damian tied the last loop of the bandage, his movements firm and decisive. Only then did he finally look up. His green eyes, usually so full of wry amusement and quiet strength, caught the ethereal glow of Kurai’s shell and reflected it back – sharp, haunted, furious.

“She is not a weapon,” he stated, his voice low and dangerous.

“No,” Kurai agreed, his gaze unwavering. “She’s a force. But if she refuses to be one, others will shape her into it anyway.” The words settled in the loft like a layer of frost on a windowpane, chilling the already tense atmosphere.

Marinette closed her eyes, the weight of Kurai’s words pressing down on her. Inside, beneath the surface of her carefully constructed control, something ancient stirred. Kurai’s fathomless depth pulled at her lungs, a siren song of the abyss. The Black Cat, a wild, untamed energy, coiled in her bones, purring for release, for the sweet tang of chaos. And the Lady, the essence of balance and mercy, wrapped around her soul like a protective shroud, humming ancient hymns of resilience.

She felt the storm brewing inside her chest, a tempest of conflicting energies threatening to break free. The carefully constructed dams within her were beginning to crack.

“Maybe I don’t get to be soft anymore,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, lost in the rustling leaves and the relentless ticking of the cicada.

“You were never soft,” Damian said, his voice fierce and low, cutting through the oppressive stillness. His gaze burned into hers, a fierce, unwavering anchor. “You were kind. Don’t let them make you rewrite that.”

She opened her eyes. They were dark now, the familiar sparkle dimmed, replaced by a depth that seemed to stretch into infinity. Not void, not cruel, but endless, like the deep, uncharted ocean Kurai spoke of.

“You are the tide, Marinette. Push back or drown.” Kurai’s words echoed in the sudden silence.

In the corner, Damian’s hands, so recently tending to her wound, remained still, resting on her knee. He didn’t say it aloud, but the pressure of his touch, firm and unwavering, begged: Please don’t drown. Please fight back.

“I’m not going to drown,” she murmured, the words a fragile vow whispered into the encroaching darkness.

Kurai circled once around her head, his bioluminescent light a cool benediction. “Then rise.”

As if in response to his command, the vines around the loft seemed to stir, their tendrils reaching towards her like supplicating arms. The pool of moonlight on the floor sharpened, its edges growing colder, more defined. Outside, a low rumble echoed, and then the first fat drops of rain began to fall against the glass ceiling. It wasn’t a harsh downpour, but a steady, melancholic drumming, like the earth itself was weeping, or perhaps, cleansing.

She stood. The sea within her stood too, no longer a hidden current, but a rising swell.

Because the tide was coming. And this time, she was the flood.

Chapter Text

“Marinette is small,” Toro snorted. “But she holds back like a coward.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You try to protect everyone. That makes you weak. Stop hesitating.”

Damian’s voice was sharp. “Watch how you speak to her.”

But Marinette raised a hand to her lover. “No, 心肝… he’s right. I’ve been holding back. Afraid of becoming too much.” (darling)

Toro grunted. “Then maybe you’re ready.”

The silence that descends after Toro’s blunt pronouncement is tangible, a heavy curtain drawn across the already tense atmosphere. It hums with unspoken weight, thick enough to feel like another presence in the overgrown loft.

Toro hovers before them, a squat, formidable figure with arms crossed over his broad chest. He resembles nothing so much as a living relic, hewn from granite and etched with an ancient disdain for anything less than absolute resolve. His red eyes, the color of banked embers, flick between Marinette and Damian, not with malice, but with a stark, unwavering expectation. A challenge laid bare.

Marinette’s pulse hammers a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Toro. The Bull kwami. A legend whispered in hushed tones, a force of nature barely contained within the brittle pages of the Book of Beasts. Strength incarnate. The embodiment of relentless will, unbreakable force. A power meant for the direst of needs, wielding war when necessary, and granting mercy only when truly earned. She had only glimpsed his entry in Talia’s forbidden texts, enough to understand that he was a force that defied taming.

Yet, here he was. Drawn to her .

“I’ve fought gods,” Toro rumbles, his voice a low, resonant growl that vibrates through the floorboards with each subtle shift of his weight as he circles her. “I’ve watched holders burn themselves out for others. Selflessness is not nobility if it becomes self-destruction.”

Damian’s hand, ever vigilant, moves instinctively towards the weapons concealed beneath his coat. His posture tightens, a silent shield thrown between Marinette and the formidable kwami. Toro’s gaze doesn’t even flicker in his direction, dismissing him with the casual indifference of a mountain overlooking a pebble.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Marinette says, her jaw tightening against a sudden surge of defensiveness.

“Yes, you did,” Toro counters, his voice unwavering. “Not with words. With weakness. You called for strength and I answered.”

“Then say what you came to say,” she snaps, a spark of defiance igniting within her.

Toro grunts, a sound of grudging satisfaction. “You’re bonded to the Black Cat. Anchored by the Ladybug. But you are something more now—Bridge, they will call you. That means you carry. So stop pretending you can do it quietly.”

Her breath catches in her throat. The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Bridge. A conduit. A link. A burden-bearer. Her spine straightens almost involuntarily, a new awareness dawning within her.

Deep down, beneath the carefully constructed facade of smiles and strategic silences, beneath the years of playing the peacemaker, she knows Toro speaks a painful truth. She has been lying to herself, shrinking, containing, afraid of the very power that now pulses faintly beneath her skin.

She’s angry, a slow burn that has been simmering for far too long. She’s bone-tired, weary of the constant vigilance, the endless compromises. And yes, she’s terrified of what unleashing her full potential might mean.

But beneath it all, a new emotion is stirring, a fragile tendril of something akin to acceptance. Something like… readiness.

Her voice, when it comes, is low and surprisingly steady. “I’ve been afraid that if I let go, I’ll become too much. That I’ll break things I can’t fix.”

Toro’s massive body tilts almost imperceptibly, a gesture that could be interpreted as a nod. “You will break things.”

“Then why come to me?” The question is a plea, a desperate search for reassurance.

“Because something has to break before something better is built.” His words are stark, uncompromising, but beneath the gruffness, Marinette detects a hint of something else. Purpose. Necessity.

A pulse erupts from her chest, a soft thrumming at first, like a distant drumbeat. It intensifies rapidly, rising into a low, thunderous boom that resonates through the very foundations of the loft. The vines, startled, shudder and twist further up the rafters, drawn by the burgeoning energy. The greenhouse groans under the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The faint, intricate sigils that had appeared on her arms weeks ago, a subtle manifestation of her evolving connection to the other kwamis, flare with a sudden, brilliant light.

Tikki, usually a beacon of gentle warmth, floats beside her, her large blue eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension. “She’s… she’s channeling the Bull’s path. That’s elemental force, Damian. Pure will.”

Plagg, ever the pragmatist, edges closer to Damian, his green eyes narrowed. “This might get loud.”

Marinette lifts a hand, palm open, and the air around her visibly distorts. It bends, not from heat or magic as she understood it, but from sheer, unadulterated pressure. Her presence in the room thickens, solidifies, as if the very idea of her can no longer be ignored, no longer be diminished.

“I won’t be small anymore,” she whispers, the words a quiet declaration of war against her own self-doubt.

Toro nods, his red eyes gleaming with approval. “Good. Then take it.”

The bull kwami charges, a blur of red-gold energy, and slams into her chest with the force of a collapsing mountain. Marinette gasps, the impact stealing her breath, and staggers backward, her heels digging into the worn wooden floor. But she doesn’t fall. Her legs, rooted by a sudden, fierce resolve, hold firm.

Power crackles through her, a raw, untamed energy that surges from her fingertips to her heels. It feels like being plunged into molten gold, a burning, exhilarating transformation.

Her eyes shift, the familiar cerulean dissolving into a molten crimson, shot through with veins of brilliant gold, like lava flowing through cracks in the earth. Her voice deepens, a resonant undertone of Toro’s power layering her own.

“I am the Bridge,” she says, the words echoing with a newfound authority. “And I will not be broken.”

Damian steps forward, his expression a mixture of stunned disbelief, raw awe, and a flicker of something akin to fear–-for her, and perhaps, of her.

“You’re glowing, حبيبتي” he manages, the simple statement all he can articulate in the face of her transformation. (My beloved)

She turns to him, and a smile spreads across her lips – fierce, wild, uncontained. It’s a smile that promises not gentleness, but unwavering strength.

“So are you,” she replies, her gaze locking with his.

Because in his chest, something is beginning to stir, a faint echo answering the Bull’s primal call. It isn’t the cool precision of the Lady, nor the chaotic energy of the Cat. It is something older, something buried deep within his bloodline, a dormant power beginning to awaken.

And the world, sensing this subtle but profound shift, begins to tremble again. Outside, in the inky expanse of the night sky, the moon cracks just a little, a hairline fracture invisible to the naked eye, not enough to send the heavens into chaos.

But somewhere, deep in the unseen roots of things, fate shudders and irrevocably changes course.

And Marinette Dupain-Cheng—the Bridge— finally stops apologizing for surviving.

Chapter Text

The silver anklet shimmered under the dim lights of the greenhouse, its delicate design of interwoven waves flowing with an ethereal elegance that seemed strangely at odds with Damian’s usual sharp edges and controlled movements. He hesitated for only a moment, his gaze lingering on the intricate patterns, before slipping it onto his ankle. The cool metal settled against his skin, a sensation both unfamiliar and strangely soothing, like the whisper of a forgotten sea breeze against his skin. It felt different from the other Miraculous he had encountered—this anklet, a symbol of water, an element so fluid and unpredictable, so inherently unknowable to him, an element he had always struggled to control, both within himself and in the world around him.

As the anklet settled into place, a soft ripple of light pulsed from it, spreading outwards in gentle waves that washed over him. The air shimmered, and Undine, the glowing, jellyfish-like kwami, appeared before him. Her form was a mesmerizing dance of light and water, a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of blues and greens. Her translucent body pulsed and swayed, her shape fluid and ever-changing, like liquid moonlight given sentience.

“Water, hm?” Undine’s voice was melodic, a soft, chiming sound that seemed to resonate with the gentle lapping of waves. Her tone was both teasing and profoundly calm, laced with an ancient wisdom that spoke of depths immeasurable. “I was wondering when you’d finally realize the power of the tides, little warrior.” She floated lazily around him, her long, delicate tendrils trailing in the air like an ethereal veil, their touch as light as a caress and as cool as the deepest ocean.

Damian’s gaze flickered down to the anklet, his fingers brushing against its smooth, cool surface. It felt strangely comforting, a stark contrast to the harsh realities he was accustomed to, yet the weight of the water element, the sheer immensity of its power and unpredictability, felt foreign and unsettling to him. “I don’t surrender,” he muttered, his voice low and steady, the familiar edge of stubbornness and defiance creeping into his words. It was a statement of principle, a declaration of his lifelong philosophy.

Undine paused in midair, her soft glow pulsing with a gentle amusement. Her form shimmered, reflecting a myriad of blues and greens. “No? And yet you put on the anklet of the Water Bearer, young one. You wear it because you seek to learn how to flow, how to bend without breaking. To move with the tide instead of constantly fighting against it. The world doesn’t always conform to your will, Damian. It doesn’t always work in the ways you want it to.”

The words stung more than he expected. They struck at the core of his identity, challenging the very foundation upon which he had built his life. He had always prided himself on his strength, his precision, his unwavering control, his ability to bend the world to his will through sheer force and determination. But here, in the presence of the delicate silver anklet and the ethereal kwami, something else seemed to call to him—a deeper understanding of the interconnectedness of things, a lesson in humility and patience.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, his tone clipped and dismissive, his jaw tightening with barely suppressed frustration. “I need to focus on the task at hand, not waste time learning to… bend. There are more pressing matters that require my attention.”

Undine glided closer, her movements languid and graceful, the gentle pulse of her light flickering as she circled him, her form shifting and swirling like the currents of the ocean. “Time,” she mused softly, her voice like the quiet ebb and flow of the ocean tide. “Time is a river, Damian. You can fight the current with all your might, attempting to resist its inevitable flow, but eventually, it carries you all the same. The only thing you can truly control is how you move within that flow—whether you choose to move with it, adapting and learning, or against it, stubbornly resisting until you are worn down and broken.”

Damian frowned, his expression a mixture of defiance and a reluctant curiosity. He was unwilling to admit how much the idea unsettled him, how deeply it challenged his ingrained worldview. He had always believed that vulnerability was weakness, that yielding was tantamount to defeat. “I don’t need the current,” he insisted, his voice firm. “I make my own path. I forge my own destiny.”

Undine’s light shimmered, her form twisting into an ethereal spiral, a mesmerizing display of fluid motion. “The strongest rivers don’t make their own paths, Damian. They carve them out, yes, but they do so by following the path of least resistance, by adapting to the terrain, by understanding the nature of the world around them. They do it slowly, patiently, relentlessly. They don’t fight against the rocks and obstacles in their way; they move around them, they erode them over time, they find a way through. The water flows, Damian—quiet, patient, unstoppable. You, too, can learn to flow, to find strength in yielding, to discover power in adaptability.”

Damian stood still, his arms folded across his chest in a defensive posture, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. He could feel the anklet against his skin, the subtle pull of the water element grounding him, urging him to loosen his grip on his ever-present tension, to release the rigid control he held so dear. And for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine it – not fighting, not always struggling against the tide, but flowing with it, finding a different kind of strength in surrender and acceptance.

But the thought felt alien, a quiet rebellion against everything he had been taught, everything he believed himself to be. How could he simply surrender to the unknown, to relinquish control and trust in the unpredictable currents of fate?

“Just remember, young warrior,” Undine continued, her voice a soothing whisper as her form swirled around him once more, her light fading slightly into the dimness of the greenhouse. “You don’t have to fight the world, Damian. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in knowing when to yield, when to adapt, when to trust in the flow of things.”

The words hung in the air after she was gone, leaving behind a strange, unshakable weight. He wanted to argue, to dismiss her words and retreat to the familiar comfort of his rigid control and unwavering power. But as Undine’s glow faded, and the anklet’s subtle waves of energy pulsed against his ankle, a small part of him, a part he had long suppressed, wondered if there was a profound wisdom in the current. If, perhaps, learning to yield, to embrace the fluidity of the water, might make him stronger, more resilient, and ultimately more effective in the battles to come.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips, the conflict within him unresolved but slowly beginning to shift, the rigid lines of his resistance beginning to soften ever so slightly. The current was there, an undeniable force. And, just maybe, he would learn how to move with it, instead of against it.

Chapter Text

The golden bracer gleamed in the dim light of the greenhouse, an artifact of subtle power and refined purpose. The intricate arrow symbols inscribed on its burnished surface seemed to pulse with an inner energy, a silent hum that resonated with ancient intent. It was both delicate and unyielding, a perfect paradox that mirrored the nature of the power it represented—capable of exquisite precision and devastating force.

As Damian slipped the bracer onto his arm, the smooth metal conforming to his skin with a cool, almost sentient touch, a rush of wind swirled around him. It wasn't a harsh gust, but a controlled vortex, carrying with it the scent of wild forests and the echoes of forgotten ages. And then, Chiron appeared.

The centaur-like creature stepped forward, his form a breathtaking combination of regal elegance and raw, untamed strength. His upper body was that of a powerful human, his features noble and wise, while his lower body flowed into the sleek, muscular frame of a horse. His silver hooves seemed to shimmer against the earthen floor of the greenhouse, leaving faint trails of stardust in their wake. His mane, the color of spun moonlight, flowed like the wind itself, catching the dim light and scattering it in a thousand shimmering fragments.

“You wear the Archer’s Bracer now, Damian.” Chiron’s voice resonated through the greenhouse, deep and knowing, like the resonant sound of an arrow slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. “It is more than just a weapon, young one. It is also a guide, a tool for focus and discipline. You must learn to aim not just with your hand, but with your mind and your heart. You must learn to aim with purpose.”

Damian’s gaze settled on the bracer, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on its surface. He had always been a person of action, driven by instinct and honed by relentless training. He had never been one to passively follow a path laid out before him. Older now, he had forged his own way, through blood and fire, for better or worse. But now, with this bracer binding him and Chiron’s presence guiding him, it felt as though his decisions were no longer entirely his own. A new element of consideration, of measured intent, had been introduced into his life.

“I don’t need a guide,” Damian said, his voice steady but tinged with a familiar frustration. The idea of relinquishing control, of submitting to the wisdom of another, chafed against his independent nature. “I’ve made my own path. I always have.”

Chiron circled him slowly, his movements fluid and graceful, his wise eyes never leaving Damian’s face. A quiet, knowing smile played on his lips, an expression that spoke of centuries of observation and understanding. “You have indeed carved a unique path, young warrior. One marked by both triumph and tragedy. But every archer, no matter how skilled, knows that the best aim is not born from arrogance or impulsiveness, but from precision and unwavering focus. The question is not whether you can take the shot, but whether you will take the right shot, at the right time. Will you take the shot when the time comes, or will you let your haste betray you?”