Chapter Text
It had been 3 months since Talia left the house.
The nights in the house without her were long.
Too long for a six-year-old boy
Long, cold...
and filled with a silence that seemed to breathe.
Damian stayed awake even when his body asked for sleep.
He would stay there... lying down... hugging the yellow Fredbear...
his eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling of the room.
The ticking of the clock on the wall marked the time in an irritating, almost cruel way, as if each second was a small provocation. The air smelled of dust, old wood and something he couldn't name.
A smell that seemed old... worn... sad.
The shadows danced across the walls, moving as the headlights of the cars passed outside, crossing the crooked window blind.
At school, Damian didn't talk to anyone.
He walked through the hallways with his books hugged to his chest, as if that could create an invisible wall between him and the rest of the world.
The voices of his classmates were just a distant background.
Laughter that wasn't meant for him.
Calls that didn't include him.
At the dinner table... Bruce insisted on acting it out.
"It's going to be okay, kids..." he said, with that rehearsed, forced smile, as if he were reading a script that no longer made sense. "You just need to get used to it... it's a difficult phase... it'll pass soon."
But it didn't go away.
Nothing went away.
Jason, who used to yell, curse, push, provoke...
now simply ignored his existence.
He walked right past, as if Damian were just another piece of furniture in the house.
Jason's glances...
when they existed...
were quick.
Tired.
Filled with anger...
or pity...
or something in between.
But never...
never affection.
Cassandra was a ghost.
An absent presence.
Always busy...
always far away.
Bruce was the same
And Talia...
Talia.....was miles away.
Now… he was alone.
Alone…
except for the stuffed animals.
They were all lined up, carefully aligned at the foot of the bed, like little cloth soldiers.
Blue Bonnie with her eyes sewn back on after an old tear.
Chica with her beak crushed from being squeezed so much.
Foxy, with her ear drooping and her fur faded.
And in the middle of them all…
him.
Yellow Freddy.
Fredbear.
His fabric had an aged golden tone, with stains that looked old, as if that bear had lived much longer than the other stuffed animals.
The purple bow around his neck was crooked.
His plastic eyes had a strange glow…
as if they were looking back.
Damian couldn't explain it… but there was something… alive… in that stuffed animal.
He would spend hours just hugging him. He held on tightly, as if the whole world would explode if he let go.
The smell of the old fabric was comforting…
but sometimes…
it felt strange.
As if it wasn’t just the smell of cloth.
Something else…
Its yellowed fabric was no longer as soft as it used to be after months.
It was rough in some places…
it smelled like a mix of old cloth and…
something strange.
A mix of dust, old sweat and…
maybe…
tears.
Damian would spend hours hugging it.
Sometimes… he would just hold it so tightly that his fingers would hurt.
As if…
if he let go… something terrible would happen.
And that night… at that moment when the clock showed 02:47… everything changed.
It came first as a whisper.
Almost inaudible.
Almost… a thought.
“Hey…”
Damian froze.
His entire body froze.
His eyes widened.
His mouth went dry.
He stood still, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape through his ribs.
The silence returned…
heavy…suffocating.
And then…again.
Clearer.
More real.
More…impossible.
“Hey, shorty… I’m talking to you…”
The voice.
It came from beneath him.
From the plush.
From Fredbear.
Damian dropped the bear in a jump, as if he’d been shocked.
His breath caught.
The room seemed to spin.
His fingers trembled.
The bear lay there.
Motionless.
Falling on its side on the sheets.
His button eyes…
fixed…as always.
But the voice…
“Uh… he went white with fright…” said Fredbear, with a tone somewhere between mockery and false concern. “Calm down… you don’t have to look at me like that, I don’t bite… I think.”
Damian swallowed hard.
His throat was scratchy.
“W-w-w… w-w-w…” he tried to speak… but all that came out was air.
He looked around.
The walls.
The ceiling.
The floor.
He looked for…
a hidden recorder…
a radio…
anything.
Nothing.
Just him…
the room…
and the bear.
“This… you can look…” the voice continued, now sweeter… more seductive… almost like a lullaby. “I’m talking to you.”
Damian reached out…
slowly…
with trembling fingers…
and picked up the bear again.
He shook it.
He squeezed it.
He turned it upside down.
He tried to find a secret compartment…
a button…
a speaker.
Nothing.
Just the old fabric… the crumpled stuffing… and that strange smell.
Damian’s throat was dry.
His hands were shaking.
His breath came in short gasps, as if there was no more air in his small lungs.
“H-h-h-how…?” he managed to stammer. “How… are… you… talking?”
The bear paused.
And then… he laughed.
A muffled laugh… almost childish… but with something…
Damian couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Something… familiar.
That tone… That way of speaking… of drawing out certain syllables… of feigning affection that seemed a little too rehearsed…
It was strange.
Very strange.
But Damian’s tired and confused mind couldn’t connect the dots.
“Tough question, huh…” the bear said. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Damian nodded, swallowing hard.
“Because… you know…” the voice got quieter… more filled with a strange humor… like an adult trying to play at being a child. “Sometimes… knowing too much… just makes everything more confusing.”
The boy blinked, feeling his eyes burn.
“But… but… you’re just a toy…”
“Just a toy?” The voice sounded offended… joking… but there was a note of truth there. “You hurt my feelings like this… after everything we’ve been through together these past few months?”
Damian took a deep breath.
“You went through it together?” he repeated, his voice trembling. “But you… you didn’t talk before.”
“No… but I heard you.” the voice answered with a dangerous sweetness. “All the nights. All the crying. All the hugs. All the secrets… all the fears…”
The boy closed his eyes, as if that could protect him from the madness.
“I think… it was your affection.” the bear continued. “So much hugging… so much love… it must have done some magic.”
Damian opened his eyes, with a mixture of fear and…
hope.
“Magic…?”
“Yes.” The tone now sounded… rehearsed. Like a theater actor trying to sound spontaneous. “Have you ever heard of toys that come to life because of a child’s love?”
The boy swallowed hard.
“Like… like in the movies?” he muttered.
“That’s right! Like those movies!” The bear replied with exaggerated enthusiasm. “And guess what? Now… I’m your best friend.”
Damian held Fredbear close to his chest.
The heat from his trembling body passed straight through the toy's fabric.
"My... friend?"
"The best of all." The voice came softly. Almost like a lullaby. "Always here. Always listening. Always watching over you."
The silence that followed was almost comforting.
Damian lay down again, his eyes heavy with sleep...
but his heart still racing too fast.
Before going to sleep…
he heard the voice, very softly… like a secret
“Everything will be okay now… you have me”
The next morning…
Damian woke up as if the previous night had been a delirium.
But when he opened his eyes…
there he was.
Fredbear.
Sitting on the bed.
Exactly as he had left it.
The purple bow seemed more crooked than before.
The button eyes…
fixed on him.
And before he could think of anything…
the voice came again.
“Good morning, sleepyhead…”
Damian jumped in bed.
His heart was racing.
He thought it had been a dream
the memory of the conversation… of the promise of friendship…
He smiled.
A small smile.
Weak.
But… real.
“You… are still here…”
“Where else would I be?” the bear replied, with the same tone as the night before “with the Easter bunny?”
Damian hugged the toy tightly.
For some reason… the voice sounded a little more… intimate.
Almost like…
like it was someone he knew…
but he couldn't remember who.
There was…
something about that voice.
A feeling…
like when Bruce used that fake tone of concern.
But…
Damian pushed the thought away.
He didn't want to think about it.
“Don't you want to come down?” the voice whispered. “Are you scared of your daddy?”
The boy froze.
“I-it's not scared… I just… I just don't want to.”
“I know…” the bear replied, with a tone somewhere between laughter and mockery “He can be angry… right?”
Damian didn't answer.
Fredbear continued
“But look… you have me. Always. To talk to. To listen. To play with. To… tell secrets.”
The boy bit his lower lip.
“I miss Mommy…” he confessed softly.
His voice lowered its tone…
it became softer… almost a sad whisper.
“I know… I know you do. But… you know… the people we love don’t always do what’s best for us.”
Damian looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“Remember that day?” the voice continued. “That fight? When she screamed… when you saw Daddy hurt?”
The boy's eyes filled with tears.
“I… I remember…”
“Yeah…” the bear said, with a fake sigh of sadness. “Sometimes… we just need to trust the people who are trying to take care of us… even if we don't understand.”
Damian hugged Fredbear tightly.
But… suddenly a question came to mind.
How did Freddy know what happened? He wasn't here that day…
But then Damian's thoughts were interrupted.
Outside…
Heavy footsteps in the hallway.
Bruce.
Damian felt his stomach turn.
“Smile at him…” said the bear, now in a lower… more… manipulative tone.
“What?”
“Tell him it’s okay. He’s happy when you do that, isn’t he?”
As if he was hypnotized…
Damian nodded.
From that day on…
the bear never stopped talking.
In the morning…
he made silly jokes.
In the afternoon…
he gave advice on how to act around Bruce.
At night…
he told secrets…
he made promises…
and repeated them over and over again, like a poisonous song
“You have me. Only me”
And when Damian cried…
when he sobbed under the sheets…
it was his voice that came…
sweet…
comforting…
and at the same time…
dangerously familiar.
As if Fredbear…
was more than just a doll.
As if… deep down…it wasn’t Fredbear manipulating him.
But Damian… didn’t care.
He just wanted someone.
Someone…anyone…who would say
“I like you quietly”
And Fredbear… said it. Every single day.
Like a song.
Like a lie.
Like a poison…
That was slowly killing him.
But he didn’t care
Not anymore…
The late afternoon painted the sky with shades of blood and black.
The heavy clouds loomed like sleeping monsters, foreshadowing a storm that felt both physical and emotional.
Outside the house, the trees swayed in the wind, their twisted branches knocking against each other like the fingers of an angry giant.
The garage door creaked with each new gust, and the ancient statues in the garden seemed darker than ever.
Inside…
the air was stifling.
The smell of old wood, leather, and bitter coffee mixed with something more invisible…
heavier…
an almost palpable tension, as if the walls were about to scream.
Jason paced in circles in the second-floor hallway.
Sweat dripped down his temples, even with the biting cold coming through the poorly insulated windows.
His eyes... black, identical to Bruce's, sunken...
with dark circles that looked like they had been painted with charcoal.
His hands?
They were shaking.
His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, as if he were going to explode at any second.
His jaw was clenched.
His chest was rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm, as if breathing was a struggle.
Each footstep echoed down the hallway, hitting the walls and coming back with double the intensity.
Talia's words before she left still hammered in his mind.
The image of her with her bags...
her face swollen from crying so much...
her empty eyes...
defeated.
Even after months they still disturbed him
And the worst...
was remembering Damian that night.
Locked in his own room, sobbing so loudly that Jason could hear him from the other side of the house.
Crying... until his throat gave out.
Not that he cared about the kid
But it still hurt
Jason stopped suddenly, staring at the office door.
Looking also at the new family photo that Bruce placed in the middle of the hallway as if to provoke him
Back to the dark wooden door... with that carved coat of arms... that always seemed more like a barrier than an entrance.
Behind it...
the monster.
Without thinking twice, Jason turned the doorknob violently.
The door opened with a bang, hitting the wall hard.
"I need to talk to you, NOW!" Jason exploded, his voice so loud and filled with hatred that for a second he himself was startled by the sound.
The office was the same as always…
and yet it seemed different.
The curtains were half-closed, letting in only a pale beam of orange light that cut through the room like a razor.
The smell of bitter coffee and aged paper filled the room.
Books were meticulously lined up, paintings hung with surgical perfection…
and, in the center of it all… him.
Bruce.
Sitting behind the polished mahogany desk, his folder of documents open, his hands clasped on the top… like a judge about to hand down a sentence.
But his eyes…
God… Bruce’s eyes were the worst.
Coldly calculated.
Without a trace of surprise.
As if he had foreseen every second of that scene.
“Good afternoon to you too, Jason,” he said with unbearable calm, a slow smile appearing on his lips… full of venomous sarcasm.
Jason slammed the door behind him so hard that the pictures on the walls shook.
“DON’T COME WITH THAT SHIT TOM!” he spat the words, his entire body shaking with rage. “You think you can do this? Manipulate everyone? Break Mom like that? Do you understand what you did? Turn Cass into a ventriloquist’s doll? And Damian… God… Damian! You took advantage of him to get ahead in that shitty courtroom.”
His voice cracked, and for a second… just a second… his eyes filled with tears.
Bruce just leaned back in his chair…
as if he was watching a mediocre play.
“Exaggerated as always…” he said, in a tone of false compassion “but it’s okay, even though it’s been months and this conversation won’t change anything, I’ll let you talk. Sit down, Jason. Let’s talk like adults.”
“I’M NOT SITTING DOWN!” Jason shouted, taking a step forward, his eyes burning from holding back tears. “I want you to admit it! Right here… right now! That you did it all on purpose! That you planned every damn detail!”
Bruce sighed…
slowly… like someone dealing with a stubborn child.
“Jason…” he began, his voice low, manipulative… as if each word was carefully chosen to cut through. “Everything I did… was to protect you. To bring order to all of this. Because… frankly… this house was turning into a circus.”
Jason laughed… a bitter, dry laugh… without any humor whatsoever.
“Order?” he repeated, choking on his own anger. “You call this an order? Making Mommy leave here… humiliated? Making Cassandra repeat every word you put in her head? And Damian…” His voice broke again…
“Damian can barely breathe from crying so much! He doesn’t even talk to the rest of us!”
Bruce tilted his head to the side…
like a psychologist bored with his patient.
“He’ll get over it…” he said, with disdain. “Children forget quickly… if they’re… well-guided.”
Jason clenched his fists even tighter.
His nails dug into his skin until they started to bleed.
“You’re a monster…” he whispered.
Bruce smiled…
a slow…
sick smile…
as if it were a compliment.
“No, Jason,” he said, his voice lower… like a sharp whisper. “I’m…. a father.”
Jason stepped forward, stopping a few inches from the table.
“You destroyed everyone’s lives here!” he spat. “You turned Cass into a fucking doll! You made Mommy lose everything! And now… now you’re playing Damian and me like we’re pawns on this sick board you created!”
Bruce just raised an eyebrow.
“Board?” he repeated, with a lazy smile. “I like the analogy.”
Jason felt his stomach churn.
“Admit it,” he said, his voice almost cracking with so much contained hatred. “Admit that all of this… every word… every tear… was planned.”
Bruce uncrossed his hands…
leaned forward…
and with the gaze of a predator… whispered
“Of course it was.”
Jason froze.
For a second…
the air disappeared from his lungs.
“Since the courtroom…” Bruce continued, his voice low and surgical… “Until this very moment. Every step. Every movement. Every crying fit… every scream from your mother… every moment your sister doubted whether she was a good mother… and every tear from your little brother. Everything. Exactly… how… I wanted it. Until you freaked out I could see it coming.”
Jason took a step back…
as if he had been punched.
“You… are… disgusting…” he muttered… but the anger was now mixed with fear… and a growing panic.
Bruce smiled… even wider.
“You want to know the funniest thing?” he asked, in that casual tone… as if commenting on the weather. “With Damian… it was ridiculously easy.”
Jason's eyes widened.
“W… what?”
“All I had to do was give him some attention,” Bruce continued… savoring every word. “A few visits to his room… a cuddle on the nights he cried… a few sweet words… a gift or two… stuffed animals for him.”
He made a theatrical gesture with his hand…
like someone throwing crumbs to a stray dog.
“All I had to do was give him some Freddy’s stuffed animals. Do you know how he thanked me?” Bruce paused… his eyes shining with cruelty “he told me he loved me.”
Jason looked like he was about to vomit.
“That’s bullshit…” he whispered… but his voice cracked.
“Oh… really?” Bruce stood up… slowly circling the table… like a hunter approaching his wounded prey. “Then go up there…”
He pointed upstairs, with that sharp smile.
“Open the door to his room… and see for yourself… that he traded his mother for stuffed animals, mere stuffed animals.”
Jason was breathing hard…
his heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to explode in his chest.
Part of him wanted to run… open the door… prove it was a lie.
But… another part…
A part he hated… was afraid of what he would find.
Bruce noticed the hesitation… and laughed. A low laugh… dark… full of venom.
“Too easy…” he murmured… as if talking to himself.
Jason turned his back, leaving the office, almost tripping over his own steps.
He slammed the door so hard that the paintings almost fell.
Inside… Bruce remained standing… smiling… savoring every second of victory.
He picked up his coffee mug…
took a sip… and before sitting down again… he whispered to the emptiness of the room:
“One by one… they do my board commands…” a small laugh escaped him
Jason was doing exactly what he wanted
Now… all he had to do was wait…
The hallway seemed endless.
Every step Jason took sounded like thunder on the wooden floor, making the walls vibrate slightly, as if the house itself felt the weight of the fury he carried.
His hands were shaking, but not from fear.
It was pure rage.
A bubbling venom that rose from his throat to his eyes, making his vision blurry.
Bruce's words echoed like barbs buried in his brain:
"Open the door to his room... and see with your own eyes... that he traded your mother for stuffed animals... mere stuffed animals."
Jason had almost spat on the floor when he heard that.
He had almost gone for his father's jugular right there.
But no... not now.
He wanted to see.
He needed to see.
A part of him... a stubborn, almost childish part...
still wanted to believe that it was just another one of Bruce's disgusting manipulations.
That his brother, no matter how weak and whiny he was… was still a piece of his mother.
He was still someone who felt.
Who suffered.
Who cried at night
just like him….
But then… why that damned twinge of doubt inside him?
Why that bitter taste in his mouth, as if his stomach was turning over?
Why did Bruce's voice sound so sure?
So confident?
So cruel?
Each step of the stairs seemed heavier than the last.
“He’s sad… he’s suffering… he must be… he must be destroyed… just like me… just like us…”
Jason repeated the phrases like a desperate mantra, trying to hold on to his sanity by his fingertips.
But when he reached the top of the stairs… and pushed, with a minimum of force, the half-open door to Damian’s room…
The world simply… stopped.
Jason froze right there, in the doorway.
The air left his lungs.
His heart, which had previously been pounding like crazy, now felt like it had been forcibly ripped out of his chest.
His eyes widened in a way that hurt.
Literally hurt.
As if the nerve behind each eyeball was on fire.
There, right in front of him…
in the middle of the room… was Damian.
Sitting on the floor.
In the middle of a mess of stuffed animals.
Laughing.
Not a loud, loud laugh… but that muffled, contained laugh, with his shoulders shaking slightly, as he arranged the dolls in a line, as if he were setting up a small imaginary audience.
Bonnie… Chica… Foxy… the two Freddys.
He gave them voices.
He talked to them.
As if he were in a stupid children's play.
As if...
as if nothing...
absolutely nothing...had happened.
Jason's blood froze.
Then it boiled.
Then it burned.
The look in his eyes, which had once been filled with doubt, was now pure, distilled hatred.
The sound of his heartbeat became a distant rumble...
muffled by a buzzing of fury that filled every cell in his body.
"No...it can't be...not after everything...after everything she's been through...after everything she's cried...because of you..."
The images of Talia, her face wet with tears, hugging her children as if it were the last time…
her eyes red, trembling, stifling her own despair just so as not to scare the children even more…
every second of that cursed morning came back to Jason's head with a punch of pain.
And now… his little brother…
his damned little brother…
He was playing.
As if life were a big plush theater.
Jason took a deep breath…
but the air felt like fire entering his lungs.
And then… it exploded.
"SO IT WAS TRUE!!!" The scream came out so loud that it seemed to come from his gut.
He pushed the door violently, making it hit the wall with a loud bang that made Damian jump as if he had been shocked.
The boy dropped the plush toys at the same time.
His eyes widened in pure terror.
His face, which had been flushed with childish excitement, drained of color in a second.
He became white as a sheet.
“J-Jason… I… I was just… just playing-“ Damian’s voice was a shaky whisper, cut off by his rapid breathing, his eyes already watering.
“SHUT UP!” Jason crossed the room in two furious steps. “YOU…”
He pointed his finger like it was a knife.
“YOU WERE HERE… PLAYING… WITH THESE FUCKING TOYS… WHILE OUR MOTHER…” His voice cracked for a second, too full of emotion. “WHILE OUR MOTHER WAS OUTSIDE, CRYING BECAUSE OF YOU!”
The final scream was so loud it seemed to split the air.
Damian began to cry instantly.
The tears flowed like a dam had broken.
The sobs came next, tearing at his throat, choking him.
“It’s not that! It’s not that! I swear!” He babbled, his arms trying to protect the little animals, his body shaking as if in a storm of fear. “I miss her… I’m sad too…”
“SAD?!” Jason laughed. But it was a broken laugh, dry, without joy. A laugh that seemed to spit hate. “YOU? SAD?”
He kicked one of the stuffed animals so hard that Chica flew until she hit the dresser, then fell to the floor with her legs crooked.
“Jay! Stop! Please!” Damian screamed, crawling towards the other stuffed animals, trying to protect them with his own body.
Jason stared down at him, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.
“You fooled everyone, didn’t you?” He said, his voice now low… low, but so full of venom that it seemed even more dangerous. “Even me… ME! I defended you… I stood by your side in that damn courtroom, listening to you cry, thinking that… thinking that you were just another victim… that you were suffering with us…”
Jason took a step forward.
“BUT NO…” He spat the words. “NO! YOU WAITED FOR HER TO LEAVE TO DO THIS! TO GO BACK TO PLAYING!”
He pointed at the stuffed animals as if pointing at a corpse.
“YOU TRADED OUR MOTHER FOR A FUCKING PLUSH TOY!”
Damian screamed, desperate.
“NO! IT’S NOT TRUE!” He sobbed so loudly that it seemed like he was gasping for air. “I… I just… I just… they’re the only ones who talk to me… I… I just wish I didn’t feel so alone…”
For a second… a single second… Jason hesitated.
His gaze wavered.
“Do they… talk to you?” He repeated slowly, as if the sentence were a punch to the stomach.
Then he laughed.
But it was a laugh of pure mockery.
“Of course they do. Of course they do! You’ve gone completely crazy, haven’t you? You’re becoming just like our father… CRAZY… SICK… just like him!”
Damian cried so much that his eyes were already swollen shut, he could barely open them properly.
“I just wanted… for you to like me… I… I didn’t want Mom to go away… I just wanted everything to be the same as before…”
“LIAR!” Jason screamed, lunging forward again.
He grabbed the Foxy plush so hard that Damian barely had time to react.
“NO! N-NO! PLEASE! DON’T HURT HIM!” Damian begged, stretching out his arms as if he could save the doll with his own fragile hands.
But it was useless.
Jason pulled with brutal force.
The sound of the fabric tearing echoed through the room like a sentence.
The stuffing fell like pale rain, scattering across the floor.
Jason lifted Foxy's head, now separated from her body, and threw it at Damian's feet with contempt.
"LOOK HERE!" He screamed, his voice exploding again. "LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE IN HER PLACE! LOOK WHAT YOU CHOOSE, YOU BASTARD!"
Damian screamed as if his own heart was being ripped out.
He threw himself to his knees on the floor, hugging what was left of the destroyed plush.
His sobs turned into desperate screams, hoarse, pained, like a wounded animal.
"Please... please, Jason... I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to..."
But Jason had already crossed all limits.
He approached again... and with a single swift movement...
slapped Damian's face that threw him to the side, making his head hit the corner of the bed hard.
The taste of blood came at once.
Damian fell, breathing uncontrollably, shaking from head to toe.
His skin burned where the slap had landed.
His forehead throbbed with pain.
Jason stood there, panting… as if he needed more… as if the hatred didn’t have enough room inside his body to come out all at once.
His gaze was one of pure contempt.
“Write down today…” He said, spitting out each word. “August 1, 1983… that’s the day… the beginning of your life’s hell, Damian. The YEAR you’ll pay for everything.”
And then… without looking back… Jason turned on his heel and left. He slammed the door so hard that the wall shook.
A shelf shook.
Books inside it fell.
The silence that followed was crushing.
The only sound… was Damian’s choked sobs.
He stood there…
hugging the remains of the plush…
his face against the cold floor…
his chest rising and falling with sobs that seemed to never end.
And then… in the midst of that despair…
the voice appeared.
Low.
Soft.
Sweet.
But venomous.
“He hates you…” said the yellow Freddy, his voice coming out as a slurred childish whisper… but with a weight that made each word hurt like a blade going deep. “You saw, right? He never liked you… never… never will…”
Damian only cried more.
He pressed what was left of the plush to his chest with desperate force.
Freddy continued, sweet, almost gentle…
but each syllable was one more stab.
“But I like you… I’m here… I’ll always be… just me…”
Damian shrank even more… closing his eyes… sinking into himself… trying to disappear.
And the bear… just watched him.
Quiet.
Smiling.
Waiting.
“Don’t worry little one… after all… tomorrow is another day”
Jason’s room wasn’t just a physical space.
It was a battlefield.
A graveyard of all that had once been childhood.
The walls, once painted a faded light blue, were now stained with marker scribbles, spray paint, and fist prints.
The wallpaper on one side had been ripped off in strips.
The curtains, always thick and heavy, had been drawn for so long that the musty smell mingled with the smell of sweaty clothes, aged wood, and rust.
The carpet, once gray, was dingy, stained with spilled soda, dried blood from a mistimed punch against the wall, and leftover food wrappers that Jason hadn’t bothered to pick up.
There were piles of torn paper on the floor.
Sketches of drawings of animatronics with empty eyes, mouths open in silent screams, exaggeratedly large teeth.
In every corner, pieces of VHS tapes, broken audio cassettes, and notebooks with phrases he didn't even remember writing.
Phrases of hate.
Phrases about Damian.
Phrases about Bruce.
Phrases about himself…
The clock on the wall had stopped days ago, its hands stuck at 3:47.
Jason didn't have the heart to change the battery.
Time... didn't matter anymore in there.
He was lying on the bed, with his sweaty shirt sticking to his back, his gaze lost in the cracked ceiling.
His entire body seemed to throb.
His hands were sore from punching the walls, the floor, the mattress itself.
And his head... was a whirlwind.
The memories of the last argument with Damian repeated themselves, distorted, exaggerated, as if Jason's brain was taking those images and repainting them with more blood, more crying, more humiliation.
Damian kneeling… surrounded by stuffed animals… his eyes swollen… the damn yellow bear in his hands as if it were a trophy of the winner.
Jason closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenched.
“Traitor…”
The taste of bile rose in his throat just remembering it.
And worse… it was Bruce’s voice… echoing… distorted… mocking… embedded in the back of his mind.
“He traded his mother for stuffed animals, mere stuffed animals.”
Jason spun around in bed, punching the pillow, with a blind desire to explode.
His chest burned.
His hands shook.
It was as if every cell inside him was being corroded… by hate.
By a new hate.
Different.
Deeper… dirtier… more animal.
It was at that moment that the doorbell rang.
Jason stopped.
He froze for a few seconds.
The sound… real… sharp… cut through the silence like a knife.
The sound of the doorbell
No one came there. No one dared.
Not anymore.
He walked down the stairs with quick, heavy steps, as if each step was an obstacle between him and...whoever it was.
When he opened the door...
There it was.
A cardboard box, medium, plain, brown.
the name on the return.
John Grayson
The handwriting unmistakable. Round.
Careful.
As always.
Jason stood still, his hands shaking slightly, staring at the package as if it were a bomb.
John… who had no idea.
He had no idea of the destruction that had happened inside.
Of the divorce. Of the public war. Of Bruce's murder accusation that had to do with Dick's death
John… still believed… in a family that was already dead.
Jason took a deep breath, a crooked, bitter smile on his lips.
He grabbed the box, locked the door tightly…
and walked upstairs as if he were carrying a piece of lead.
Inside the room…
he nearly ripped the box open with his bare hands, not even bothering to use the scissors.
The edges of the cardboard gave way easily.
Pieces flew across the floor.
And then… there they were.
The masks.
Four of them.
Freddy. Chica. Bonnie. Foxy.
Jason froze.
His heart stopped for a second.
The colors… the textures… the details… everything was exactly as he had asked. Each one looked like it had come straight out of an old show. Each one… a piece of a manufactured nightmare.
He glanced over the first three almost without realizing it.
Freddy… with that cynical smile, the worn brown.
Chica… with the silly, childish makeup, and the exaggerated eyes.
Bonnie… with that emotionless smile, the purple leaning towards blue.
But… then… she came
Foxy.
Jason picked it up carefully… but with an intensity in his hands that bordered on devotional.
The texture was different. Heavier. More… rough. The paint… a deep red, darkened at the edges as if it had been charred. The aging marks… hand-made… fake scratches that looked real.
The teeth… long… crooked… sharp… like carved blades.
And the eyes…
My God… the eyes.
Yellow.
Intense.
With strategically painted dots of brightness at the corners… creating the grotesque illusion that… that they were alive.
Watching.
Studying.
Jason felt his stomach churn. His entire body shivered.
There was something… wrong with that mask.
A strange energy… dense… suffocating.
As if it… was calling to him.
He turned the piece over in his hands, running his fingers along the edges, the jaw, the fake scratches… as if he were caressing a sleeping creature.
And then, as if in a trance… he brought the mask to his face.
The world went dark.
The air grew heavier.
The inside of the mask scratched his skin, as if tiny invisible thorns were inside.
Jason took a deep breath… smelling paint, foam… and something else. Something old. Something… almost metallic.
He turned to the mirror.
And what he saw back… was not him anymore.
It was a freak.
The fox head… the exposed teeth… the erect ears… the fixed… predatory… dead gaze.
Jason slowly turned his head to the side… and the image responded with the same precision.
His heart raced.
A feeling… new… began to rise in his gut. Something that was more than anger. Something more rotten. Deeper.
A sordid pleasure.
An almost physical urge… to hurt.
To scare.
To destroy.
And inside that mask… Jason had a certainty
He would never be the same again.
The mask… seemed to merge with him. As if that was where it was always supposed to be.
And inside his mind… a voice whispered. Not Bruce's. Not John's. Not anyone's.
It was a voice… new.
Raw.
Malicious.
Amused.
A dry laugh… coming from inside the mask… or maybe… from inside himself
Jason ripped the mask off his face in a sudden movement, breathing as if he were drowning.
He was sweating.
His hands were shaking.
His chest was burning.
He held Foxy's mask against his chest... as if it were a war trophy.
As if it were a piece of his own heart.
Something dirty.
Something irreversible.
He looked at the other three masks thrown aside, like trash.
Freddy, Bonnie, Chica... insignificant.
Only Foxy mattered.
Jason stood up, went to the wall and hung Foxy's mask on the crooked nail above the headboard of the bed. He stared at it for minutes... still... in silence... sweat running down his face... his eyes red with hatred.
The fox head just hung there… staring back at him.
And Jason knew.
Hell… was just beginning.
And he… was ready to open it with his own hands.
The house was completely silent.
The living room lights were off.
Outside, only the street lamps cast a faint glow through the closed curtains.
No television, no conversation.
The clock on the kitchen wall read 9:30 p.m.
Bruce was in his office.
The place, like the rest of the house, looked ordinary. A bookshelf, a few files stacked up, a desk lamp with a yellowish glow, and a carefully positioned photo frame with a new family photo… a perfect theater for any unsuspecting visitor.
But Bruce never took his eyes off the wall clock.
The second hand seemed to slow down, each tick echoing like a reminder.
Bruce sat in his leather chair, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes half-closed… his expression completely blank.
When the hands finally reached the mark… he moved.
Slowly.
He stood up, adjusted his shirt cuff as if he were going to a meeting…
and walked over to the bookshelf.
His fingers slid between the spines, as if he were choosing a title to read… but they stopped on a fake volume, with a spine thicker than the others.
Bruce pulled the book slightly to the side… turning it.
A metallic click echoed.
The sound of locks being released.
Part of the side wall creaked back with a mechanical creak…
revealing a narrow passageway, covered by raw, unfinished concrete.
A single light bulb hanging by a wire swayed slightly in the draft.
Bruce stepped into the passageway… his body rigid… his gaze fixed… without hesitation for a second.
The elevator was there.
Old… industrial… with iron grates and a hand-made control panel, full of worn buttons.
An elevator that resembled, in essence, what Bruce had already known from underground facilities. Designed by himself…
He pressed the red button.
The elevator began to descend.
The sound of the gears, metallic and rhythmic, seemed to vibrate his bones.
Bruce remained still… with his arms crossed… his expression frozen in a half smile of satisfaction.
The underground laboratory was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the house above.
The ceilings were high, the walls reinforced concrete. The fluorescent lights were cold, almost blue.
Strands of thick cable snaked across the ceiling like black arteries.
Industrial fans spun slowly, coughing out air tainted with the smell of ozone, metal, and chemicals.
Along the walls… cages.
Small, medium, large.
Each one contained some kind of test subject: rats, rabbits… even a pair of sedated dogs in a side wing, where biometric sensors were attached to the animals’ bodies.
There were also rows of monitors… dozens of them.
Most of them were black and white… broadcasting from every room in the house above.
But in the center… right in the center… a larger screen.
Showing Damian’s room.
Bruce walked over to the control panel, his shoes echoing on the metal floor.
The camera’s view showed Damian curled up on the bed… hugging the yellow Freddy tightly.
The boy’s room, in the middle of two narrow hallways, looked like something out of a childhood nightmare.
The two access doors… one on the left… one on the right… made the place look like a trap, a maze box.
The worn wallpaper… the dim lighting…
everything was intentional.
Every detail.
Every shadow.
Every hallway.
Just like Bruce had always wanted.
Lucius was there, on the other side of the room… in a lab coat… gloves… with a tablet in his hand and an expression of pure emotional exhaustion.
The man looked smaller than usual… his shoulders slumped, the dark circles under his eyes, his breathing irregular.
His eyes… tired from weeks of tireless work… and sleepless nights with a guilty conscience.
“Everything is ready,” Lucius said, his voice low and hesitant. “The ventilation system has been adjusted… as you requested. The gas will begin to spread down both hallways… entering the room through the cracks… exactly as calculated.”
He turned the tablet, showing the gas dispersion graphs.
Bruce just nodded.
“Perfect.”
Lucius took a deep breath… but remained still… his eyes fixed on Damian’s image.
The boy seemed restless.
He was whispering something to the bear.
Lucius looked down.
And then… he decided to speak.
“Bruce…” he began… his voice heavy with a weight that had been building for weeks. “It was one thing… what you did to Talia… what you did to Cassandra… and… to Jason…” He paused for a moment, as if the words were burning his throat. “But this… this is something else. Taking a mother away from her children… manipulating the opinion of an entire family… that was low enough. But using your own child… a child… as a guinea pig for an experiment with fear gas? That’s not ethical. That’s not science… that’s… monstrous.”
Bruce turned his face slowly, staring at Lucius as if he were looking at an insect.
“Ethical?” The word came out as a mockery. “Since when are we here to be ethical, Lucius?”
He walked slowly towards his friend… with a rigid posture… with a murderous look.
“We are here to understand. To discover the root of fear, perhaps even beyond that,” Bruce continued, his voice deep, full of cold conviction. “You said yourself… years ago… that fear was the most primitive trigger of the human brain. That controlling fear… was controlling everything. Emotion. Memory. Personality.”
Lucius looked away, swallowing hard.
“But… in a child?” he murmured.
Bruce smiled… but the smile had nothing human about it.
“If it were Luke…” he said, leaning closer… his voice now low… almost a venomous whisper. “If it were your son, Lucius… and I guaranteed that the result of this experiment would make him someone… better… someone strong… would you hesitate?”
Lucius was speechless.
“I didn’t hesitate with mine,” Bruce finished.
He turned back to the panel.
His fingers moved over a series of buttons… and with a simple command… the ventilation valves began to open.
The gas began to flow.
Colorless… odorless… but charged with the essence of the worst fraction of human fear.
On the screen… Damian shifted in bed.
The boy began to shrink… hugging Freddy tighter… his eyes watering… his breathing getting faster… shorter.
“It’s starting already…” Bruce commented, with an almost sick satisfaction in his voice.
Lucius remained still… his face pale… his gaze lost.
Bruce then turned to a second station… with a microphone attached.
He turned a dial.
He picked up the headphones.
And with a simple press of a button… he spoke.
His voice… modulated… distorted… came to life through the small speaker built into the yellow Freddy in Damian’s room.
The same childish voice… honeyed… that the boy had been hearing for weeks.
The one that whispered advice.
That said “I understand you”.
That promised that everything would be okay.
Bruce smiled… his hand steady on the microphone.
The gas began to flow.
Slowly… invisible… deadly only to sanity.
Bruce stood there… standing… watching… as the first particles snaked like invisible ghosts toward Damian’s room.
Lucius… remained silent… the clipboard trembling slightly in his hands.
And on the screens… in the center of it all… Damian lay still… clutching the bear to his chest… unaware…
that the nightmare… had only just begun.