Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian slammed the to go cup on the counter, expression blank but eyes simmering.

“This has almond milk,” he said flatly. “I asked for oat.”

Marinette blinked. “Sorry….”

“Don’t apologize. Just do it right.”

He turned without another word, coat swirling behind him as he exited.

Marinette stood frozen.

Heart racing.

The sharpness of his voice cut deep

But something about that icy demeanor sparked her curiosity. She watched the door swing shut behind him, the tiny bell chiming like the start of a siren song.

Who was he really?

And why did her chest feel tight?

The café felt colder after he left.

Marinette stared at the half drunk espresso cup he’d abandoned.

She shouldn’t care. But she found herself tracing the lip of the cup with her finger.

No lipstick mark, obviously.

His mouth must’ve been cold, too.

She shook herself.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, tossing the cup. But even as she returned to her duties, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

That face.

That voice.

She’d seen it before… in the Gotham Gazette.

Wayne heir.

Teenage menace.

Child prodigy.

The youngest of the infamous family.

Damian Wayne.

On the verge of adulthood.

Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.

Later that night, her fingers hovered over her phone as she lay in bed.

She googled him.

Then searched deeper.

A rabbit hole of photos, news clippings, Gotham Guardian gossip threads.

Photos from a charity gala. Taken from Elliots and Arkham partnership.

From a WayneTech board meeting.

A blurred shot of him in a hoodie ducking into an alley.

The photograph took her breath away.

He was feeding a stray cat behind the museum gardens. He looked… soft. For a second.

She saved it.

“Just curious,” she whispered to herself.

The next afternoon, she took a different route on her day off.

The museum garden.

She sat on the bench from the photo and waited, pretending to sketch.

Ravens fluttered by. The wind rustled the dying leaves.

Then

He was there.

Oversized black hoodie. Cat food in a paper bag.

Headphones on.

Her heart hammered.

Marinette, in that moment, stood.

That was too quick.

Overly enthusiastic. However, she stopped herself. She smoothed her scarf, paused, and strolled towards the fountain. was sharp, analytical.

“Do I know you?”

“Oh… I think you came into the café I work at,” she said, letting out a soft, awkward laugh. “I’m Marinette.”

He nodded once. “Right. The oat milk girl.”

Her smile briefly appeared. “Yeah. That’s me.”

She observed him giving food to the cats. He crouched, his hand remaining still, with eyes that were softer than the words he spoke.

“I like cats too,” she offered.

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t tell her to leave either.

So she stayed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Damian didn’t believe in coincidences.

He noticed it again a week later. The same girl.

Same shy smile.

Same carefully disheveled scarf like she didn’t try too hard.

She “bumped into” him outside the botanical conservatory.

“Oh! Hi? Wow, Gotham feels small today!” she chirped, hugging a sketchbook to her chest like a schoolgirl.

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you always sketch by the conservatory?”

“Only when the weather’s nice,” she answered too quickly.

The weather was not nice.

It was drizzling, wind sharp as knives.

Still, she sat beside him on the stone bench, acting like she hadn’t planned this.

Later that night, Damian patrolled as Robin.

Gotham’s rooftops were his domain an unforgiving and silent.

A prickle crawled across his skin, and a chill snaked up his spine, signaling an unspoken dread.

A flicker of movement on the next building. The shuffle of feet too muted for a civilian, but too clumsy for a trained tail.

He turned sharply, batarang ready.

Nothing.

He moved again.

Having traversed two rooftops, the journey continued. Listened.

Sat in patience.

Then… there it was.

A silhouette.

Darting just out of his line of sight.

Damian’s jaw clenched.

He was being trailed by someone.

The next day, Marinette “accidentally” dropped a book in front of Wayne Tower.

As she bent to pick it up, a familiar voice called out sharply, “Are you following me?”

She looked up,heart skipping, eyes wide with practiced innocence.

“W-what? No! I work nearby. I was just……..”

“Third time this week,” Damian interrupted.

“Different locations.

No pattern.

Except you.”

She bit her lip, lowering her gaze.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just… I thought we were kind of becoming friends.”

His stare was cold.

“People don’t ‘accidentally’ run into me.

Not three times in three days.”

She watched him walk away.

And when he was gone, her lips curled into a small, secret smile.

He noticed her.

That meant she existed in his world now.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The apartment was clean

Too clean. Sparse furniture, soft lighting, everything staged to look ordinary.

Except for the back room.

Behind a locked door

Guarded by three extra bolts…….was the truth.

Marinette turned on the light, and her breath hitched with giddy reverence.

The wall opposite her was covered floor to ceiling in Damian’s world.

Photos

Some candid, some blurry from long distance.

Damian drinking coffee at the café. Damian in a hoodie exiting the world renowned Wildcat Boxing dojo.

Damian standing on a rooftop, captured from a nearby building’s window.

Red string ran between key locations: Wayne Tower, the Manor perimeter, his school’s private gate, a quiet alley near the harbor he often used.

Pinned on a corkboard beneath his name was his routine, outlined to the hour.

“5:05 a.m. – Morning run.”
“6:00 a.m. – Returns home. Possible training time.”
“12:40 p.m. – Seen exiting Wayne Tower. Likely lunch break.”
“1:03 p.m. – Always orders flat white, oat milk. Sometimes espresso. Never sweetener.”
“11:57 p.m. – Appears on northeast rooftop. Pattern: every 3rd night.”

Below the board sat a glass case, lined with velvet.

Inside were… items.

A paper cup with his lipstick-free rim.

A receipt signed DW.

A napkin he once wiped his hand on.

Even a small plastic fork he barely used before discarding it.

Each one sealed in clear plastic and labeled.

She stepped over to the desk.

Her journal lay open, ink still fresh.

Marinette sat down and clicked the pen.

Her eyes shimmered—glassy, glowing.

Entry #52:

He looked directly at me today. He knew. He noticed.

His gaze cut into me like frost, but I didn’t look away. I want him to see me. All of me.

His patterns are shifting. He’s suspicious. I need to adjust, be more careful.

But he felt so close last night, like a dream walking just out of reach.

She sighed, pressing her cheek to the journal page like it was his chest.

Someday, he’ll understand. Someday, he’ll need me.

She turned, staring at the wall of photos. A soft giggle escaped her lips.

“Goodnight, Dames.”

In the silence of her room, lit only by the glowing altar to Damian Wayne, a gentle shimmer appeared near her shoulder.

Nooroo, the Butterfly Miraculous kwami, hovered hesitantly

His tiny wings flickering like anxious thoughts.

“Marinette…” he said, softly, his voice trembling. “You’re doing it again.”

Her initial reaction was silence, as her attention was captured by the most recent photograph she had chosen to pin.

Damian ducking into the shadows after a patrol.

She’d sharpened it, cropped it, stared until the pixels blurred into something beautiful.

“Doing what?” she asked lightly, almost too light.

“Obsessing.

Fixating.

Like with Adrien.

You’re not healing, Marinette… you’re replacing him.”

Marinette’s lips twitched. Not a smile something more like a crack in the mask.

“Nooroo,” she whispered, “this is different. Adrien didn’t see me.

He pretended to care.

He made me hope.”

Her voice dropped to a breath.

“But Damian… he notices me. He’s not kind.

He’s not pretending.

He knows something’s wrong and looks anyway.”

“He’s suspicious, Marinette,” Nooroo murmured.

“He’s not connecting with you.

He’s watching his back.

This isn’t love.”

Marinette turned slowly to face him. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, dark with something deeper than obsession.

“I don’t need love,” she hiss.

“I need… purpose. And he……..

He makes me feel real.”

Nooroo flinched.

“This wasn’t what your Miraculous was meant for.”

You’re supposed to help people, not stalk them.

If Master Fu were still alive, he….”

“Then it’s good he’s not,” she snapped suddenly, the sharpness laced with grief she still couldn’t process.

Her voice cracked.

“He abandoned me. They all did.

Paris.

Adrien.

Chat Noir.

They wanted me gone.”

The air went still.

“I won’t lose this one too,” she whispered, kneeling in front of the photo wall like it was an altar.

“I’ll protect him. Even if he doesn’t ask for it.”

Nooroo hovered back, unsure, afraid

and utterly heartbroken.


_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Damian was standing in the Batcave, arms folded across his chest, and he was watching the monitors with a deep scowl upon his face.

A small red dot blinked over a street corner camera.

“She was there again,” he muttered.

“She left the café an hour early and ‘ran into me’ by the park.”

He clicked through timestamps, side-by-side footage lined up like puzzle pieces.

Tim Drake, barefoot, half-asleep, and nursing a lukewarm coffee, walked in yawning.

“This couldn’t wait till morning?”

Damian didn’t even turn. “I’m being followed.”

That woke Tim up.

“You sure?”

“I don’t guess, Drake,” Damian growled.

“She’s been at my usual patrol spots. Knows my coffee order.

Once, she showed up outside the dojo and claimed it was a ‘wrong turn.’ No one makes that many wrong turns unless they’re playing a long game.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

“Who is she?”

“Name’s Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

Tim frowned and walked up to the monitors, tapping a few keys. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng… huh.

Wait a second.”

He opened an old encrypted file, which he hadn’t opened in months.

Paris.

Photos.

An old red notebook marked “Ladybug and Hawkmoth: Global Watchlist Candidates.”

“…Tim?” Damian asked, low.

“Shit,” Tim muttered, zooming in on one photo from years ago.

“I remember her now.

She was involved in some weird cases in Paris.

People disappearing.

Magical anomalies.

Hero sightings.

She dropped off the grid two years ago after a citywide blackout.”

His tone turned grim.

“And if she’s stalking you, that means this isn’t just some crush.

She’s smart. Ex-girlfriend of the son of the supervillain Hawkmoth, rising star of the Paris Haute couture fashion scene, but once they had a scandalous break-up she disappeared.

Her parents filed for missing persons report.

It is complicated.

And now she resurface in Gotham, and she’s stalking you.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

“She’s dangerous.”

“Of course, your dangerous chic-magnet, possibly inherited in Talia or forget it.

It is possibly from Bruce.

“You are without a doubt the Blood Son.”

Tim snickered at his own jest.

”Tt, Drake you’re not helping.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The box was small, hand-painted with the Wayne crest in intricate gold foil.

Inside: a single handcrafted blade.

Damian’s preferred model, custom balanced.

The hilt wrapped in green silk.

Attached was a delicate origami bat folded from navy-blue paper.

On the underside, in tiny, careful script:

“To the one who walks in shadows and never trips. You’re not alone.”

Marinette pressed the box to her chest, smiling dreamily.

“He’ll understand,” she whispered.

Subsequently, her gaze shifted towards the architectural plans of Wayne Manor, which were affixed to her wall with tape.

Having been acquired by way of some suspicious “intern” work and deep-web architectural databases, the information is now available.

The vents that are in place for emergencies.

The west wing has a blind spot that exists around its perimeter.

Located beneath the greenhouse is the servant’s entrance.

Nooroo hovered near her shoulder, panic rising.

“Marinette, please. This is madness.

It’s breaking and entering. If he catches you…”

“He won’t,” she said simply.

“He’s asleep at 2:17 AM.

And I’ve timed Monsieur Alfred’s kitchen routine.

I’ll be gone before sunrise.”

She kissed the box and slid it into her coat.

“Besides…” She looked up at Damian’s photo on the wall, her expression soft but haunting.

“He deserves to know someone sees him.

Not the heir.

Not the soldier.

Him.”

And with that, she slipped into the night, silent as the shadows she once ran with in Paris.

Meanwhile, back at the Manor…

Tim glanced up from his laptop. “Uh… Damian?”

“What.”

“You know that crazy stalker girl?”

“What about her?.”

Tim turned the screen toward him. Security cam feed.

A ghostly figure was moving along the greenhouse wall, ducking into shadows, avoiding all known cameras…

Damian stared.

“…. There is someone on the grounds.”

His expression darkened, and he reached for his sword.

Chapter Text

The Gotham night cloaked Marinette like an old friend as she crouched at the outer wall of Wayne Manor, the estate looming like a gothic castle.

She wore her “Midnight Sonata” stealth gear: a fitted, matte-black bodysuit with subtle forest-green accents, soft gloves stitched to muffle her pulse, modified silent boots, and a hooded cloak, with a green-lined half-mask obscuring her face.

Believing Damian would appreciate her precision, she moved swiftly, a ghost of grace, timing the drone patrols and slipping through the blind spot near the greenhouse.

She bypassed the security with unnerving ease, scaling the ivy and sliding into a laundry chute she’d previously rigged, all while Nooroo hissed frantic warnings about being caught.

Ignoring the distressed Kwami, Marinette whispered she was almost at Damian’s wing, her only task being to leave his handcrafted gift on his nightstand or training bench.

Somewhere meaningful.

As she reached the west hallway balcony, her heart raced; she was finally inside his home, inside his world, and it felt like destiny fulfilled.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The hall’s oppressive silence shattered the moment Marinette froze.

A desperate warning screamed from every nerve, but it was too late to react.

The hidden compact mirror slipped from her grasp and crashed loudly, the sound echoing against the cold marble.

A hand, like an iron vise, clamped onto her wrist.

“I knew it,” came the low, bitter voice of Damian Wayne.

Before she could pivot, her back slammed into the cold marble wall.

The small black box containing the custom blade tumbled from her useless grip, landing between them like a dropped secret on the plush carpet.

Damian, barefoot and clad in black, loomed over her, his eyes glowing with focused, controlled fury.

Her hood was down, her half-mask askew.

Her face visible, breathless, and caught.

“…You again,” he stated, his voice devoid of inflection.

“I—I wasn’t going to hurt anyone,” Marinette pleaded, her eyes darting to the box. “It’s a present. For you.

That’s all.”

Damian didn’t flinch. “You broke into my home.

You stalked me for weeks.

That’s not affection. That’s obsession.”

His voice dropped to a growl that vibrated in her chest. “Why me?”

Marinette looked up at him, her wide eyes filled with a reckless, terrifying honesty.

“Because I see you,” she whispered.

“Because I know what it’s like to wear a mask every day and pretend you don’t want to scream.

Because you’re like me.”

Silence stretched, thick and unmoving.

Damian’s gaze hardened as he pulled her wrists behind her with swift, practiced precision.

She took a sharp breath, and it wasn’t from pain, but from the sudden, personal connection.

He observed every detail: the strong stitching on her gloves, her restrained posture, the quietness of her boots, and the dangerous item near him.

Damian’s grip tightened, eliminating any chance of escape.

“Who sent you?” he demanded, his tone utterly lethal.

“Wh-what?” Confusion flickered across her face, briefly overriding the thrill of being caught.

“You’re clearly League,” he snapped, his voice calm but absolute. “Talia’s design, no doubt.

A new trial.

A test.

Or perhaps a trap.”

“I’m not with…..

What League?” she stammered, panic finally setting in.

“You think I’m an assassin?!”

“You breached Wayne Manor without setting off a single alarm,” Damian countered, crouching low until his eyes were level with hers.

“You tracked my movements. You know my schedule, my preferences, my routines.

Either you’re a stalker with the training of a covert operative… or you’re the League’s latest pet project.”

He leaned in, the air between them turning to ice. “Which are you?“

Her lips parted, trembling on the knife-edge between giddy panic and genuine terror.

“I… I’m just… I work at the café,” she whispered.

“I made you that tea set with your exact sugar ratios.

I wasn’t trying to harm you

I adore you.

You were rude in a remarkably beautiful way.

And sad.

And distant.

And alone.

“I just aspired to be near you,” she sighed.

Damian flinched internally.

The desperate, pathetic plea was decidedly not standard assassin protocol.

But it could be an act.

Or worse

A defection.

A rogue.

He glanced at the origami bat folded perfectly from navy paper. “Where did you learn that fold?”

Marinette blinked, her mind struggling to focus on the triviality.

“I… made it up.”

“Tt.” He straightened, more suspicious than ever.

Only two kinds of people achieved that level of elegant, strategic design: a genius-level artist or a League spy.

Or, impossibly, both.

And Damian Wayne had absolutely no room for mistakes.

“...What do I do with you?” he finally muttered, stepping back just enough to retrieve the box and the gleaming, custom-balanced blade inside.

The silk-wrapped hilt, exactly his shade of green, sealed her fate.

_______________________________________________________________________

Marinette’s heart hammered against her ribs as the words League of Assassins crashed over her.

“If you’re not part of the League… then what are you?” he pressed, the question a cold, hard challenge.

“What do you want from me, Marinette?”

The way he spoke her name, so cold, judged her completely. It breaks her cold heart.

She swallowed hard. “I… I want nothing from you. I just…….”

She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to a shred of sanity.

“I just aspired to be near you. You’re… so different. So strong.

And I thought… maybe… I could…….”

Damian flinched, his jaw tightening.

“You thought you could what?

Manipulate me?

Like my Mother did to me?

Tt.

We’re nothing alike.”

His voice cracked, a momentary flash of something human breaking his barrier.

“I’m not manipulating you,” she whispered, meeting his eyes.

“I just… care.”

He stared, and for a fleeting instant, she saw a flicker of vulnerability, raw and familiar, before it was replaced by the guarded mask of the boy who let no one get close.

“You’re lying,” Damian muttered, his grip tightening as he prepared to move.

“I don’t believe you. You’re dangerous.”

Damian didn’t hurt her; her fragile, emotionally unarmed appearance unsettled him more than any drawn weapon.

He dragged her quietly down into the Batcave, bypassing communication with Bruce.

He needed answers first.

After he strapped her into a secure containment chair, which was not meant for villains, but rather for rogues, he observed her as she squirmed.

Her eyes darted over the immense space, the Batcomputer, the suits, not with shock, but with a strange, admiring dazzle.

That was what truly chilled him. “You’ve been researching me,” he muttered, pacing.

“Your file doesn’t exist.

Not in Waynetech databases.

Not in League records.

Not even in Arkham systems.”

“I………..I’m no one,” she whispered.

“That’s a lie. Even ghosts leave footprints.” He stopped and picked up the fallen gift.

He unwrapped the box to find the custom-forged dagger, its style matching Tibetan Shaolin markings a pattern only the League used.

“…You forged this,” he said lowly.

“I studied bladecraft… on KordTube,” she muttered, cheeks burning.

“I just wanted to make something worthy of you.” Damian’s expression shifted, a brief flicker of a frown before his silence returned.

He didn’t believe her simplistic explanation, but he no longer thought she was trying to kill him.

She was dangerous, but not in the way he expected.

He made a cold, precise decision:

“You’ll stay here until I know exactly what you are.”

Damian stood still, his gaze locked on the chair.

The Batcomputer registered no heartbeat, no thermal signature, no life signs whatsoever from the girl.

He frowned, throwing a batarang past her shoulder.

It sliced through the air.

And straight through her entirely.

No resistance, no wound, just mist.

Damian froze. “What the hell...?”

Marinette’s eyes shimmered, her voice trembling.

“You finally noticed…”

Her hands began to blur, translucent and wavering.

“I’ve been in a strange state, but it’s a long story, Damian.” He moved backward.

“How are you get here? Why can I see you?” “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Something happened with my Miraculous.

I was cursed kinda caught between.

I had believed that I would completely vanish, but instead, utilizing Kaalki’s gallop, I was transported through the nearest portal and ended up here in Gotham, where I now haunt,

Having lived and become isolated from everyone,

Leading me to pretend to exist by working within the cafe as part of its staff, just to make things bearable,

Until then…

You.”

Her gaze locked onto his, shining and fevered.

“You looked right at me.

No one else ever did.

And I thought… maybe that meant you were mine.

My reason.”

Damian’s heart slammed once.

He didn’t believe in ghosts until now.

“I couldn’t let go, Damian,” she whispered.

“Not when someone finally saw me again.

So I stayed. I watched.

I learned you. I… loved you.”

“That’s not love,” he countered, fighting the chill.

“I know,” she said softly, lowering her gaze. “But it’s all I had left.”

“You’re not a ghost,” Damian muttered, watching her closely.

The life signs were zero, yet her feet pressed lightly into the cave floor, and she clutched the dagger.

“You’re something else. Something… wrong.”

“I didn’t choose this,” Marinette whispered, her voice cracking.

“The Miraculous was corrupted. Nooroo tried to warn me, but…..”

Her kwami, faint and flickering like a broken firefly, floated into visibility behind her.

“Damian, I am a Kwami , names Nooru.”

He saw a creature floating beside her, its wings casting a shadow. He gripped his sword, feeling the familiar weight.

He saw a looming threat and recognized danger, the air thick with the ominous feeling that whispered his name.

Nooroo pleaded, “She needs help. She’s not dead… but she isn’t alive, either.

Her soul is anchored to you.”

“To me?”

Damian snapped.

“She fixated on the first living soul who truly saw her,” Nooroo explained, his voice solemn.

“That made the curse cling to you.

That made it stronger.”

“You’re saying I’m her beacon?”

“And her prison,” Nooroo confirmed.

Marinette curled in on herself, holding back tears.

“I didn’t mean to trap you, Damian. I just… I was so alone.”

The vast Batcave felt smaller.

Damian, with his arms tightly crossed and his shadow stretching long under the overhead lights, stood at the edge of the platform while Marinette remained a few feet away.

Her eyes locked on him as if he were the only stable point in her blurry reality.

He cut straight to the chase, demanding to know the truth:

“Start talking. What is the Miraculous, really?

And how did you end up like... this?” Marinette’s breath emerged shaky but visible, a strange sign of her cursed state, as she explained the artifacts:

“The Miraculous are magical artifacts...

They amplify your traits

Courage, Creativity, Desire, Love.

But if you abuse them... they turn on you.”

When Damian noticed, he had pieced together the miraculous puzzle, the heroine vanished two years ago.

“You were Ladybug.” and asked what happened, she clutched the chain of the broken earrings of Tikki’s Miraculous around her neck, looking away.

Her voice was low and filled with grief: she had broken the Guardian’s oath, desperate to “fix everything,” to avoid being forgotten after losing Adrien and Paris.

“I should’ve faded,” she admitted, but then she saw him, and the curse latched on because you.

“You saw me.”

Damian absorbed this, a muscle twitching in his jaw at the unwelcome weight:

“And now you’re bound to me.”

He turned away, battling the genuine tragedy in her words, before decisively facing the Batcomputer.

“We’re making a plan,” he announced, ignoring her surprised question

“You’re… helping me?”.

He didn’t look back as he typed, his words cold and authoritative:

“We figure out the mechanics of this curse.

We find magical experts...

You can’t stay tethered to me forever. And until we fix this…….

You follow my rules.”

Marinette’s response was a soft whisper of compliance.

“I understand.

I’ll behave.

I promise,” but the faint smile she offered did nothing to hide the intense.

Desperate longing in her eyes.

Between them, the Batcave’s silence held a new, delicate understanding.

Damian stared into her bluebell eyes, and for the first time, he looked past the obsessive gleam and saw the truth beneath it:

A haunting, fractured loneliness that echoed his own. It was a look he knew intimately, forged in the crucible of absolute isolation.

The recognition loosened something in his chest, and he heard himself speak, his voice low and flat.

“In my early years, when I was in my mother’s care… there were trials.”

Marinette watched him, her translucent form still.

“Every year, on the day I aged, they would put me in the desert.

No food.

Enough water for three days.

I was required to survive for seven.” He paused, his gaze distant, lost in the memory of blistering sand and a merciless sun.

“At first, I believed it was a simple matter of survival.

The first three days, I managed. But on the fourth, when the water was gone… that’s when the real test began.

I saw mirages.

I began to hallucinate.

I tried to hunt, battled a desert viper, and was bitten twice.

I let the poison burn through me because perseverance was the only option.”

He finally looked back at her, his eyes dark with the weight of the past.

“I survived.

I always did.

But those seven days, for nine years of my life, taught me something.

That in the deepest isolation a person can endure… you can find your true strength.”

Marinette gulped, the sound barely a whisper.

His words weren’t kind, not in the traditional sense, but they were something far more valuable: a confession.

A piece of his own brokenness offered to hers.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted a hand.

He reached for her, aiming to pat her on the head in a gesture that was both stiff and shockingly gentle.

As his fingers made contact, they met a strange, cool resistance before his hand wavered and passed partially through her, her form shimmering like a heat haze.

The touch wasn’t truly solid, but the intent was.

It was enough.

A genuine, fragile smile graced Marinette’s lips.

Before Damian could process the emotional shift, the whir of a grappling hook announced his brother.

Tim, in his Red Robin uniform, landed softly on the main platform. He immediately began checking his wrist-mounted communication logs, his brow furrowed with business.

“Damian! The intruder, where are they? I double-checked the Manor feeds after I saw that bizarre flicker, but nothing.

I already pinged the others; they’re coming back here.

And I had patrol to do…” Tim stopped abruptly, his eyes catching on the secure containment chair positioned suspiciously close to the Batcomputer.

Damian spun around, forcing his expression back into the familiar, rigid scowl.

“Tt. Drake,” Damian said flatly, keeping his back mostly to the chair and making a tight, sweeping gesture toward the central computer.

“Nothing.

It’s just a feed malfunction.

Nothing to see here.

Go to your patrol.”

Tim ignored the dismissal, advancing slowly.

His gaze was sharp, noting the unnaturally straight line of Damian’s stance and the way the younger boy’s hand kept twitching toward the custom dagger lying on the floor.

“Damian, why is the chair specifically for the rogues sitting in the open?

Did you find the thief?” Tim’s voice adopted a mock-conspiratorial tone, trying to bait his brother into a confession.

“Don’t tell me you killed them and already threw the body in the deepest pit of the Batcave.

No way am I going to cover for your sadistic torture, Damian.”

“Tt. Nothing, Drake. No thief, as I already said.” Damian’s voice was too controlled, too absolute.

He desperately clung to his decision not to tell anyone yet, especially his family.

This magical anomaly was complicated enough; he didn’t have the willpower to reveal it.

This secret, this impossible anchor to Marinette, was, for the moment, for him.

Meanwhile, Marinette, still half-translucent but utterly visible to Damian, took the chaos as her cue.

It’s an emergency! I can’t be seen by a crowd before I’ve figured out what to do next!

She quickly scrambled out of the containment chair and, flickering wildly in her panic, tried to hide at the back of the massive Batcomputer monitor.

Her translucent form shimmered, casting strange, blurry refractions of the blue Bat-symbol across the cave floor.

“Damian,” Tim stated, his confusion dissolving into pure suspicion.

“I’m looking directly at the containment chair. It’s empty.

And what is that blurry, purple-ish haze moving behind the monitor?

It looks like a moth or a bad reflection.”

Damian’s eyes shot wide, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his face before he snapped back to a look of pained constipation.

He did the only thing he could: he physically leaped in front of the massive Batcomputer screen, arms spread wide, trying to conceal the flickering, half-visible, desperate girl (and her equally panicked Kwami, Nooroo) behind it.

“There is no one here, Drake! It is a glitch!

An optical illusion caused by the magnetic fields of the mainframe coupled with residual thermal imaging data!

Now, your patrol awaits. Go!”

Damian’s authoritative tone was fatally undermined by the comical image of him trying to discreetly block a ten-foot monitor while clearly shielding something.

Tim crossed his arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow over his cowl.

“Right. A glitch that makes you look like a defensive gargoyle guarding a PowerPoint presentation. I’m going to grab a fresh coffee first.

This looks like it’s going to take a while.”

Damian stood still, observing Tim’s departure up the stairs, which meant an unnecessarily long coffee-making process. As soon as Tim’s footsteps disappeared, Damian relaxed his guard near the Batcomputer.

He faced Marinette’s outline, his gaze firm and urgently uneasy.

“Drake has gone upstairs. You will go to my room now,” Damian whispered, his voice low and quick.

He indicated a tiny, almost hidden vent behind lab equipment. “Here is the shortcut vent.

Go. We will discuss everything later.”

Marinette responded with a silent nod. The spectral form advanced toward the shaft, still clutching the unique blade.

Nooroo, the Kwami, zipped anxiously alongside her, his tiny purple wings a blur of frantic energy. Marinette smiled gratefully.

At last, this awful curse brought her to a person who cared and would help her find a solution or peace.

She dashed ahead with one last impulsive act, spurred by relief and her curse’s focus.

She didn’t pass through him.

Her lips met his.

It was only a brief, soft pressure.

A feather-light peck on the mouth.

Damian froze instantly.

He didn’t flinch back from the touch itself, but from the solidarity of it, the impossible reality that his lips had actually made contact with hers.

The sensation was alien: a fleeting, unfamiliar taste of cinnamon and macaron.

The scent of her café, the phantom taste of a Paris she mourned before she slipped away.

Damian remained perfectly still for a full minute, his eyes wide and shocked. He raised a gloved hand to his mouth, dabbing his lips.

What the hell was that?

He turned back just in time to see Marinette wink.

A bright, cheeky, and completely solid gesture.

Before her flickering form slid effortlessly into the vent shaft.

Damian stood alone in the vast silence of the Batcave, the impossible warmth of her kiss an acute, shocking presence against his mouth.

He looked at the now-empty containment chair, then to the closed vent, and finally down at his hand.

He knew two things with absolute certainty:

* He was harboring a dangerously obsessed, magically cursed operative who was simultaneously dead and terrifyingly real.

* If she could suddenly achieve fleeting moments of physical solidity, their situation was exponentially more complicated.

And perhaps infinitely more dangerous than he had initially calculated.

Damian Wayne cursed under his breath, the sound barely a whisper that echoed off the damp cavern walls.

He needed Bruce, he needed magic, and he needed a strategy.

But first, he needed to wash the taste of French pastry off his mouth before anyone else noticed.

He stopped before he could use the Batcomputer.

He wouldn’t sound the alarm just yet.

Not until he understood the rules of the new, impossible curse tethered to his very existence.

A ghost was in his room, and for once, Damian Wayne was lost.

Chapter Text

A day after the not so ghost Marinette Dupain-Cheng break-in the manor.

Silver rooftops shone after the midnight rain, while lightning and thunder struck the dark skyline. Once the mission was done, Damian, a dark silhouette in the rain, was on the building’s edge, staring into the emptiness.

Marinette stood near him without a sound, unseen and unusually still.

“That was reckless. You almost got stabbed back there,” she stated, her telepathic voice sharp with censure.

Damian grunted, his posture still. “It was calculated.

I had it handled.”

“You’re bleeding,” she countered simply.

He did not deny it.

The shallow cut on his side stung, but he was already ignoring the pain.

A heavy pause settled between them, broken only by the sound of the rain and distant sirens.

“You didn’t tell them. About me. Not even after tonight,” Marinette finally murmured.

Damian was quiet, the wind tousling the dark strands of hair escaping his cowl. He glanced briefly toward the spot where he knew she was hovering, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “They wouldn’t believe me.”

“You’re not worried about them thinking you’re crazy?”

“Tch. Let them,” he scoffed, turning back to the city.

For a second, Marinette was stunned into silence. She hadn’t expected the apathy. “You... You really don’t care?”

“I’ve been surrounded by people all my life who say they understand me. Most of them are lying.” He inhaled the cold, wet air deeply, rain dripping from the points of his cowl. “You don’t lie. You’re just… there. Constantly. Inescapable.”

Marinette flinched, looking away as if his gaze could track her. “…I can try to be less clingy. If you hate it.”

Silence returned, longer this time. Then, so softly that it was barely audible even in the privacy of her mind, the admission came.

“I don’t hate it.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “…You don’t?”

He exhaled sharply, a sound of profound regret, as if the moment was already dissolving and he wished he could retract the words. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

She instinctively covered her mouth with both hands, a gesture of pure, shocked delight. If she had a heartbeat, it would have exploded right out of her chest. “…You like having me around?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t not say it,” she pressed, a sudden, bright victory in her mental tone.

He grumbled something unintelligible, already spinning to grapple to the next rooftop, trying to physically escape the conversation. “You’re insufferable.”

Marinette, beaming invisibly, chased after him. “You’re warming up to me…”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Gotham was unusually silent a few nights after Damian unintentionally confessed something. Damian quickly noticed that Marinette’s unusually calm demeanor seemed off.

He knew something was up; he just didn’t expect what.

Earlier that evening, Marinette phased silently through the Wayne Manor walls, floating above the polished floor with a quiet, shy determination.

“Stay in the cave for exactly ten more minutes,” she directed telepathically. “No peeking. No grappling out the window. This is a surprise.”

“...If you redecorated my room with glitter again, I swear……..”

“Just trust me!” she insisted.

She left him a gift.

On his desk, where he would be forced to see it, was a hand-stitched, all-black pillow with a subtle, elegant green ‘D’ embroidered in the corner.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud, just something designed for comfort. Next to it, she’d placed a small thermos of hot green tea—a beverage she knew he favored—because she had noticed he’d been skipping dinner again. A folded paper crane, crafted from reinforced black origami paper, rested near the thermos. A note tucked underneath the crane was short and to the point:

“Since I can’t always protect you, let me at least give you something to rest your head on. —M”

Damian saw it later.

He said nothing.

But he did not throw it away.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Emperor Penguin was stirring up trouble down in the docks. Damian and Tim split up, moving in practiced, synchronized silence, their comms quiet.

Damian, perched on a crane high above the water, watched the scene below. “Target spotted. Moving in.”

“He’s armed. Left side. Cuff switchblade,” Marinette immediately warned, her voice in his head.

“I saw it,” Damian replied curtly, already leaping into action.

The fight was smooth and practiced…..until Emperor Penguin, bloodied and cornered, suddenly flinched and pointed a shaking finger at something behind the young vigilante.

“What the bloody hell is that!?” Emperor Penguin shrieked.

Damian froze.

“What’s wrong, Demon’s heir?” Tim’s voice immediately crackled over the comms.

“She’s just… floating there……smiling! Who the hell” Penguin stammered, scrambling backwards in terror.

Damian turned sharply. Of course, Marinette was there, floating behind him, her face completely innocent, chin resting on her hands as she watched the fight like a content cat.

But Emperor Penguin could see her.

Damian’s blood ran cold.

“…Oops?” Marinette sent telepathically, a hint of genuine surprise mixed with mischief.

“What did you do?” Damian hissed, barely moving his lips.

“I didn’t think he’d……..! Maybe his monocle is cursed?” she offered weakly.

Before Damian could process the sudden, terrifying glitch, Emperor Penguin had already bolted, screaming into the darkness, “I ain’t fighting no vengeful spirit again!

Not after that Zatanna mess! I’m out!”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tim was still reviewing the patrol footage, his brow furrowed in confusion. “He was yelling about some girl.

Hallucinating?

Fear gas, maybe?”

Damian clutched his fist tightly, silent and enraged by the breach in protocol. Marinette floated beside him, looking immensely pleased with herself.

“At least I helped,” she argued, trying to appear contrite. “That counts as something sweet, right?”

“You got spotted by a rogue,” Damian countered, the words clipped.

“He was too scared to fight back. You’re welcome,” she insisted with an invisible, triumphant smirk.

“...Tt.” He did not want to dignify her with a response. Instead, he simply picked up the thermos from his desk and drank the tea, his silence a shield.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The mission at the warehouse had gone south fast. Mr. Freeze was mid-heist on cryo tech, and Damian, arriving solo, engaged swiftly. As ice bloomed rapidly across the cold metal walls, Marinette’s telepathic warning flashed through his mind.

“He’s locking down the exits. You need to move before…….”

Too late. Mr. Freeze turned, his glassy visor catching the cold moonlight filtering through the skylight.

And then he stilled.

He wasn’t looking at Robin.

He was looking past him, directly at her.

“...I see,” Mr. Freeze said quietly, the voice modulator failing to hide the sudden, profound sorrow in his tone.

Robin hesitated, his kunai raised, poised for the attack.

Freeze slowly lowered his weapon.

“You were young. So young…” He paused, his gaze fixed on Marinette.

“She stays close to you. Protective. Fiercely loyal.”

Damian blinked once, completely thrown off guard.

“I… understand,” Freeze continued, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

“Robin, if I were in your position… if Nora were like her…” He looked directly at the invisible girl.

“I would’ve done anything, too.”

Marinette, startled by the unexpected sympathy, looked between the villain and Damian.

Damian began quietly, “She’s not…….”

Freeze interrupted him, a deep empathy filling his voice.

“No need to explain. The dead… they stay when we love them enough.”

Then, without another word, he walked away from the stolen tech, surrendering his cryo-gun, completely abandoning the heist.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Batcave was filled with the quiet sounds of machines, with glowing screens, whiteboards, and case files spread all over the walls. Gotham’s villains were sharing information, and the Batfamily was paying attention.

Tim gestured at a holographic map hovering over the main control panel.

“We’ve got three separate rogues reporting visual contact with a ‘floating girl’ a female, young, smiling, and always with Robin,”

Tim announced, his tone professional but edged with curiosity.

Jason, perched on a workbench, raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Wait… Penguin, Two-Face, and now Mr. Freeze?” He squinted across the cave at his youngest brother. “Did you get a ghost sidekick while the rest of us got stuck with Batgirl?”

“Hood, your partner was never Batgirl; you had Scarlet, the one with the red theme and dual wielding, who was a victim of Mr. Pyg and became a vengeful vigilante...”

“So, we’re doing this now, huh, kid? And whose fault is that... Robin, you’re the one who couldn’t save her at the circus.” I’m just cleaning up your shit, little brother. Don’t get too excited about being a righteous little prick.”

”Tt, point taken.”

Damian was irritated, but the truth in Todd’s words stung: he had let the girl down and arrived too late to help.

Damian, standing stiffly at the central console, did not turn around. “And…It’s none of your concern.”

Tim crossed his arms and leaned in. “Okay, but it is kind of our concern when half the rogue gallery thinks you’re being haunted.”

Barbara, typing swiftly from the medical bay, interjected. “I ran the footage. She doesn’t show on our recordings.

Not even thermal.

But they are definitely reacting to something.”

Damian remained silent.

Behind him, Marinette floated nervously, invisible to everyone but him. Her eyes darted from one Bat to the next, sensing the growing suspicion and the weight of the secret.

“Freeze went soft,” Jason muttered, still staring at the footage. “Didn’t even fight back.”

Tim looked pointedly at Damian. “You didn’t say anything to him? Why did he walk away?”

Damian faced the monitors, his chin lifting defensively. “He misunderstood.”

Jason leaned back with a theatrical sigh. “You’re being haunted by your ghost girlfriend, aren’t you?” I really hope you didn’t kill your exes.

And she’s haunting you. Babs. Check if his exes are still breathing. Please.”

Damian dismissed the accusation with a sharp, familiar sound. “Tt. Todd, they are still living. As far as I know.”

An uncomfortable silence then filled the room.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Later, when they were finally alone in his room, Marinette floated near him, her usual cheerful expression faltering.

“…Do you think I am a ghost?” she asked him telepathically, the question sounding smaller than usual.

“No,” Damian replied without hesitation. He set his gear on the floor. After a beat, he added, “You’re more annoying than any ghost could ever be.”

A small smile appeared briefly, then gave way to reflection. “But… if I was dead… would it really be that bad?”

Damian looked at her then, his green eyes steady. “I’d still keep you.”

Her breath caught in her invisible chest. This kind of living is not terrible. Someone had recognized her, cared for her, and she hoped she would not fuck this up.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

It has been a few days of their paranormal cohabitation.

The tension between Damian and his phantom companion, Marinette, was a constant, telepathic intrusion on his daily life, exemplified during a critical rooftop stakeout with Tim:

“Don’t forget your grappling hook,” Marinette echoed directly into his mind, followed by the irritatingly personal reminder,

“And your protein bar. You skipped lunch again,”

Damian sharply muttered, “Shut up,” his words cutting through the air, and Tim’s eyes darted towards him.

When Marinette violated Damian’s co-existence rules and interfered telepathically, pointing out a hand twitch as a lie, the internal chaos amplified, leading to a professional mistake that triggered Damian’s internal rage.

“You are not a lie detector!,” and then mutter aloud in exasperation,

“No, you can’t decorate the Batcomputer, and no, I don’t think you need a code name,” solidifying Tim’s grave suspicion that Damian is breaking under pressure.

Tim leaned in closer, his voice dropping further. “Damian, I heard you speaking to someone. Who was it? Is it Oracle?”

Damian stiffened, pulling his cowl back down with a sharp tug. “It was nothing of consequence, Drake. Merely a bit of vocal warm-ups for my elective course at Gotham State University.

The one sponsored by Mia Mizoguchi, you recall?” He lied smoothly, the memory of his recent stand-up theatre final still stinging.

“Vocal warm-ups about not decorating the Batcomputer?” Tim challenged, crossing his arms.

Damian scoffed, puffing out his chest. “I was running through my Scrooge monologue, Drake.

A highly demanding piece.

The computer was merely a stand-in for the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come’s dreadful ledger.

I was rehearsing the pivotal scene where Scrooge attempts to argue the decorating budget with the phantom.” He threw a dismissive hand gesture.

“Far too highbrow for a philistine like you to appreciate the theatrical tension involved.”

“I’m done, Damian; I don’t get paid to handle your nonsense. Go talk to Hood or Barbara; I’m leaving.”

Even as Damian met Tim’s concerned gaze after the mission failed, he felt the familiar ghostly comfort of Marinette wrapping around him, a constant presence that knew his failings and loneliness, leaving him overwhelmed yet grateful for the cursed anchor.

The momentary relief Damian felt from his successful lie instantly shattered, replaced by the grating, smug echo of his ghostly anchor.

Marinette, telepathically and wrapping around his mind like cold ivy: “So, Mia Mizoguchi?”

The one-time Robin, now taking an elective with Theatre Arts.

Oh, so you had someone talking in school, interesting.

Don’t worry, though, I already ran a quick survey of your possible mates here in Gotham.

And I tried to be discreet.”

Damian’s head snapped toward the shimmering apparition of Marinette, his face a mask of mild disgust mixed with pure dread.

Damian growled telepathically, his voice low: “What are you doing, prying into my personal affairs?

” Leave Mia out of this. She is not of your concern. And what ‘survey’? I have no ‘possible mates’!”

He mentally berated the ghost, turns stalker, a victim, and the broken Guardian of the so called Miraculous whose very presence seemed designed to dismantle his life.

Marinette, in a bright telepathic voice: “I needed to see!

I just noticed the magical residue around your peers.

It’s actually Mizoguchi who’s tapping into the miniscule power of the Green.

You know plants, animals, and exploring nature a bit.

It tells me who you’re currently interacting with and whose energetic signature might align with yours... aura of self-loathing. The Russian chic and the half-demon are still far from Gotham, so they are not in danger.

Damian’s face flushed with a burning sense of shame. At ten, he was better at hiding his feelings than he is today.

Damian, using telepathy and sounding desperate, said: “I’m not interested in anyone!”

And stop using your cursed powers to violate my privacy!

And what other abominations have you found?”

Marinette, with a teasing telepathic tone: “It’s just the current object of interest: Maxine Navarro.”

GUSH! You’re trying to date two sisters, even if their half-siblings, Dami!

That’s cold and hot, I mean, dating Max and then there’s Rachel Roth? Max adopted sibling and a literal daughter of a demon?

You’re quite the player. “

She paused, then added sweetly.

”It’s fortunate that this is just being whispered about and hasn’t made it into the tabloids.

I looked; I had to search deeper than Oracle’s line of inquiry. Seeing having a relationship with Maxine at the age of fifteen, the girl who can summon supernatural spirits.

Then Nika aka Flat-Line heir of the criminal empire of Lord Death Man. I might add that she can talk to your dead grandfather, Rhas al Ghul.

It’s possible you’ve had a taste of the paranormal.

And I had a feeling that I’m up in your alley.

I like that you’re comfortable being honest with me about your complicated taste.”

Damian clenched his fists until the fingernails dug painfully into his palms.

He knew he was a true sociopath.

He wasn’t prepared for the awful truth: his stalker, back from the dead and magically changed, was the only one who understood him.

Damian’s knuckles were white from gripping the dagger, a defense against the psychic attack.

He paced three furious steps away from the shimmering ghost, his mind a torrent of wounded pride and genuine sorrow.

Damian, his voice a telepathic stab of pain, said, “Roth and I are merely acquaintances.”

She is interested in Garth, not in me.

It’s a misunderstanding.

Max, on the other hand... We tried, okay, but it didn’t work.

Family complications and dealing with my own demons...”

He stopped pacing, his shoulders hunching as a fresh wave of humiliation hit him.

“And for the Presence’s sake, don’t even ask about Nika. This is too much on my plate.

We got into a serious relationship half a time and... fuck it.

She’s the one who asked to break up, okay... I’m... I’m not worthy enough for them.”

His last thought was a raw, telepathic pulse of despair.

Demons’ heir and Wayne heir. What happened to his love life, anyway?

It’s just too cruel, too misplaced.

Marinette, who had been floating nearby, instantly ceased her teasing.

Her shimmering form drifted closer, her energy signature shifting from invasive curiosity to soft, concerned warmth.

She didn’t touch him, respecting the violent set of his stance, but she projected a calm, steady wave of non-judgmental acceptance.

Marinette whispered telepathically, her voice soft: “Damian.” Hey. It’s okay.

You’re allowed to be angry.

You’re allowed to hurt. And you’re allowed to fail at love.”

She paused, letting the silence hang.

“It has nothing to do with being ‘worthy.’

It has everything to do with being an isolated vigilante who got diagnosed as a sociopath at ten, whose mother is a league assassin, and whose dating pool consists of Metas, Russians, and literal demon spawn.

That’s a high degree of difficulty.

They were just too weak to keep up with your magnificent, complicated self.”

She projected a faint, telepathic image of a cup of perfect oat milk coffee, steaming gently. “It’s not your fault they wanted a latte, Dames, when you’re clearly a triple espresso.”

Damian stared at the phantom, absorbing the calculated kindness of her words.

He didn’t speak, but his mind flashed with violent rejection, the ingrained self-defense mechanisms honed by his mother and father kicking into overdrive.

He paced back to the custom dagger, snatching it off the floor and gripping it tight.

Damian, his thoughts a frigid storm of rage, telepathically uttered,

“Tt.”

“I had a half a mind and the courage just to call Roth and Nika to ask them to exorcise the likes of you.

Stalker.

Don’t think I don’t know what your game is.

You’re luring me in, saying those sweet, poisonous words to let my guard down.

Flash news: I’m a literal demon spawn, you can’t handle me.”

His telepathic voice dropped to a precise, weaponized snarl. “If truth be told.

As I already read in your report.

Your ex, the model Adrien Agreste, is the literal sweet sunshine incarnate, and you are the one who caused the break-up.

You straight up lied to your boyfriend about his parents’ villainy.

That’s too cold even for me, Ms. Control Freak.”

He threw the worst parts of his knowledge directly at her, attempting to wound her just as she had wounded him.

He was pushing her away, showing her how unloved and unlovable he truly was, a strategy he’d learned from the best.

His mother’s cruelty and his father’s rejection of him.

Marinette met the full force of Damian’s telepathic fury.

The sharp accusations of being a “Ms. Control Freak” and a liar.

With an unnerving calm.

Her shimmering form floated slightly back, her head tilted in acceptance.

Marinette, using telepathy and a soft but dangerously honest tone, said: “I understand you don’t really mean that, Damian, but for now, I’ll just say this: you’re correct.”

I’m a control freak.

I lied to him.

I lied to everyone.

They couldn’t handle the truth: that Hawkmoth was Gabriel Agreste.

I had to lie to him to save him.”

Her gaze, visible through the translucent mask, was steady, but sorrow bled into her thoughts.

“But what a cost to me.

One lie for the safety of Paris, now Chrysalis has ruined all of it, exposing me.

Exposing the truth.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? The one who tells the truth is the liar villainess.

One mishap, my carefully beautiful, hard-earned victory was snatched from me.”

A raw, vulnerable honesty replaced the stalker’s smugness.

“Yes, I’m pathetic, unloved, cruel, stalker.

No one wants me.

I’m not even mad right now.

What you’re saying is the truth about me.

And I’m glad you’re seeing the real me. You don’t know how much it means to me, Damian.”

She paused, offering him a terrible, final grace. “If you want to talk, I’m here.

And I’m not looking for forgiveness, or an apology, okay? I understand. Don’t say any words.”

Her eyes, rimmed with the bright, scarlet-tinged tears of a spectral anomaly, glowed briefly before she turned.

She floated away, moving with the silence of a true ghost, leaving behind the chilling emptiness of the Batcave where her presence had just been a cacophony.

Damian stood frozen, the custom dagger suddenly heavy in his hand. The silence was absolute, broken only by the drip of subterranean water.

He had prepared for a scream, a counterattack, a tantrum

Anything but that quiet, devastating acceptance.

He had successfully applied his learned strategy: push them away, show them his worst parts, and force their abandonment.

“Fuck,” Damian said to himself, his voice a low, strangled rasp in the cavernous Batcave. He really blew it this time, didn’t he?

He’d wanted her to leave, but not like that.

Not broken, and not by his own hand.

He’d pushed away the one person who saw him and accepted the truth, the dark, unlovable core he was so desperate to hide.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Damian woke past 10 AM, groggy from the previous night’s debacle. The glaring sun mocked his late start; he had a class at noon.

He immediately noticed the unnerving absence of his intrusive, telepathic cohabitant, Marinette.

She wasn’t perched on his bookshelf, criticizing his posture, or hovering near the wardrobe, making comments about the excessive cashmere.

He spotted a small, neatly folded note tucked into his lampshade. He snatched it up.

In cursive writing, the note displays the name “Marinette”:

Gone to my own abandoned flat.

My personal haunting place! Giving you some space, Dami.

The constant nights of patrol were making you terribly grumpy. I’ll check back in when the existential dread gets too loud.

P.S. The silence is intentional.

Enjoy the quiet. Salut!

He sighed, a strange mix of relief and… something unsettled.

She had her own autonomy, freedom that meant she wasn’t literally bound to him like an artifact, which should be a victory.

But the sheer silence in his mind was jarringly loud now.

He hated it.

He had university things to do, including a lecture where Mia Mizoguchi

Longtime friend from Gotham Academy, firecracker, and one-time Robin.

Would be present. He needed to focus on the real world.

Damian got ready, but the pervasive quiet was unbearable.

He grabbed his headphones and cranked up Black Canary’s latest hits, a reluctant concession to his friend Lizzie Trevor’s insistence.

Anything to drown out the echo of an empty mind.

_________________________________________________________________________

He dressed in casual wear, thankful that Gotham State University had forgone the stiff, high-society uniform of the Academy he’d been forced to endure through middle and high school.

He would have suffocated in those gray blazers. Instead, a simple Henley and dark jeans would suffice.

With his hair slicked back and his shoulder bag containing only the bare necessities, he was ready.

The droning university lectures were a means to an end. He’d taken this pre-med track at the insistence of his family, a plea for him to try a “normal” life for once.

For him, it was something more.

It was a nod to the grandfather he never knew, Thomas Wayne.

More importantly, it was a quiet penance for the lives he had taken in the League, for those he’d failed to save as Robin.

The names still grated like sand in his teeth: Silas Smith, Morgan Ducard.

Ghosts from his first year in the cowl, their final moments a permanent stain on his memory.

The abrupt, intense memory necessitated a diversion.

He felt a need for coffee.

He made his way to the kitchen to find Alfred already preparing lunch.

And slumped at the kitchen island, looking thoroughly out of place in a worn t-shirt and his signature red-lined leather jacket, was Jason Todd.

He looked as groggy as he was unwelcome.

“Tt. Todd, what are you doing here?” Damian began, his tone sharp. “I’m not complaining, but I was under the impression you had your own high-rise flat in the Bowery.”

Jason looked up, running a hand through his messy hair. “Hey, Dami. Tim had something for me, so I made a beeline here.” His expression shifted, a flicker of concern cutting through his exhaustion.

“And don’t pout. You’ve been off for the past few weeks. Something about a stalker and a ghost girlfriend?”

Damian stiffened, not wanting this particular conversation.

Jason leaned forward, his voice dropping. “I know you don’t want our help, but a piece of advice?

This stalker crap, especially with someone your age, it’s dangerous. Don’t take it lightly.”

He reached out and clapped a heavy, slightly awkward hand on Damian’s shoulder.

“Bring a knife. A sword. Hell, I’ll lend you a gun.

This city is a cesspool, and you don’t know if some faction is behind this. Be careful, okay?”

“Your concern is appreciated, Todd,” Damian began, pulling his shirt down with a rigid movement. “The stalker has been dealt with.”

It was a total lie.

His stalker was a magical ghost he’d emotionally annihilated.

It was too insane for even the Bat-Family.

To reroute their suspicion, Damian had spent an hour creating a plausible backstory and throwing digital noise into the Batcomputer logs.

The new, fabricated narrative suggested the stalker, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” was just a missing wild fan.

He had carefully erased any connection to the Hawkmoth/Chrysalis debacle and the Miraculous system, presenting her as someone tied only to Gotham and Parisian run-away.

He had even manufactured a miniscule, albeit non-existent, connection to the Li’s, a Dragon Clan Triad operating in Gotham’s Chinatown.

He didn’t know if she, Marinette knew her family’s connection to the clandestine triad, but it wasn’t his problem.

The purpose was to give Drake a clear, solvable, and human mystery to chew on.

“I took steps to ensure the security of the Manor and the Cave,” Damian continued smoothly.

“I made a few adjustments to the initial data for Drake. It’s now a closed-case profile of a young, overly zealous fan, missing but harmless. Nothing to worry about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lecture.”

“Master Damian, You may take your food, as I graciously prepared for it,” Alfred said gently, placing a plate of fresh vegetarian salad carefully tailored for Damian’s preferences.

Feeling a twinge of guilt for his earlier sharp tone, Damian sat down and began carefully munching on the fresh greens.

Jason’s concerned gaze remained fixed on him. Jason cleared his throat.

“Bruce should tell you this, but he’s busy with some detective and corporate work again. And as a lovely brother, fuck, I’m the bearer of bad news for you.”

Damian stopped chewing.

“It’s a unanimous decision, without your participation, but the family decided to put you off patrol duty for the foreseeable weeks,” Jason stated, his voice dropping slightly.

“It’s listed as ‘medical concerns with erratic behavior.’ Sorry, kid.”

Damian was visibly shaken by the mandate. No, not again.

He felt the familiar, crushing weight of being punished for something they couldn’t possibly understand.

He lost his appetite.

Instead of lashing out, he stood up.

He looked at Jason, the brother who, despite their history, had shown him care and concern, especially when he was younger.

He looked at Alfred, the only constant pillar in his turbulent life. He wouldn’t give in to the rage.

The memory of his devastating breakdown with Marinette was too fresh, a raw reminder of the self-control he had to maintain.

Alfred received a respectful nod from him, Jason a brief scowl, and then he turned to leave.

“Fine,” Damian said, his voice flat and controlled, carrying the silent, broken angst of his teenage years.

“Do what you want. I’m busy anyway.” He left the room, determined not to let them see how much this family, the one he loved and was willing to bleed for, had just wounded him again.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

At the abandoned high-rise building in the Bowery.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s apartment is a forgotten victim of the unsuccessful Orgham gentrification plan.

This pristine, bare space had been her sanctuary for two years, a place of isolation, invisibility, and a desperate craving for the normal human touch she had lost.

Someone finally seeing her elated her, a chaotic thrill twisting her into the overt obsession she inflicted upon Damian.

She knew it was wrong, but her isolated, manic 18-year-old mind, unbound by a body, had done what it knew best: be a zealous, fanatical “unhinged fan.”

And where had it led her? To rejection and abandonment.

Damian’s words destroyed her illusions, the foolish notion she’d been married to him during their short time together.

He was correct.

She liked to control everything.

The full, crushing weight of her life in Paris flooded her mind.

Her pursuit of Damian wasn’t merely supernatural.

It was all about the history.

She remembered her teenage vow never to be ignorant of her crush’s life, which had spiraled into an ungodly obsession with Adrien: taking his hair, kissing his statue, breaking and entering his home, snatching his phone.

The worst was the blatant, self-serving lie about his father’s villainy as Hawkmoth.

It was all too much.

She crouched in the flat, the cold Gotham noon light streaming through the dusty window.

Having gotten no sleep, she hadn’t eaten the tiny breakfast, pilfered from Alfred’s pantry, which sat on a damaged table.

Nooru, the Kwami of the Butterfly, a small, dark entity bound to her, hovered nearby.

“Eat, Marinette,” Nooru whispered, his voice thin with concern. “You cannot starve yourself here. It doesn’t help the silence.”

Marinette wrapped her arms around her knees, the chilling echo of Damian’s telepathic fury still ringing.

“He was right, Nooru. Every word. I was so focused on being his cursed anchor, I didn’t realize I was just broken.”

He drifted closer to Marinette.

His small, dark form swayed with dramatic, desperate care. Having lived through two years serving some of the most heinous Miraculous holders, his words were heavy with trauma and honesty.

“I will not mince any words, Guardian Marinette.

What you did was wrong; I warned you.

But there is a truth and a purpose to what you did: you wanted someone to care, to truly see you,”

Nooru whispered, his tiny voice cracking.

He floated up until he was directly in front of her face.

“Do you remember what happened to me? I lived to serve Gabriel Agreste for nine months, living in agony, regret, and fear of what I was unleashing every day.

I was grateful when you saved the world that day. And then there was another year living with the psychopath, Cerise Bianca, a mere puppet of her own delusions.

I lost the way to speak; I was controlled until you saved me again, with the help of the Miraculous Court.”

Nooru settled gently on her shoulder, his energy a faint, comforting pressure.

“But it came at the cost of your existence.

You wanted to undo what had happened, in order to remove the exposure of Gabriel Agreste from Adrien’s mind.

In doing so, you used the Wish.

It backfired.

Now the whole world knows, and your very existence is the cause.”

He paused, his voice trembling but firm.

“But the Kwamis, us, we defended you.

We gave our own lives for this reality.

Plagg and Tikki gave their essence to get you out of Gimmi’s deadly trade. Even Kagami, she given her peacock miraculous essence to give it to you.

Their sacrifice is woven into your being.”

Nooru leaned his small body against her cheek.

“So please, Marinette, stay strong.

Their sacrifice was not for nothing.

We can still find a cure, even without the Wayne heir’s help.”

Marinette steeled her spine, looking at the remaining Kwami in her possession. And how could she possibly forget that Kagami Tsurugi, her friend, sacrificed her very existence, her life, for her?

The sacrifice is too much to bear; it is excessively cruel.

Every single one of the others had given up their essence just to knit her existence back together.

It wouldn’t be fair to them to just give up and mope around; she had to be strong.

She wiped her nose, then blinked, trying to clear her irritated, bloodshot eyes. A tiny, sorrowful smile appeared on her face.

“It’s hard. Everything I interact with becomes broken, rejected, and isolating. Nooru, everyone I loved either abandoned me or forgot who I was.”

She whispered, “You’re right.”

“It would be cruel if I just gave up right now.”

She looked out at the harsh light of the city. “Someone did see me.

That’s the miracle.

For two years, I was desperate for a connection, lounging in despair.

But last month, Damian saw me, touched me, and we even shared a kiss.

And I didn’t ghost.

I’m still here, Nooru. I’m alive. I’m not just a ghostly apparition.”

Marinette felt the familiar pull of telepathic empathy.

“I know Damian is still hurting inside, I know.

But I’ll give him space.”

“Thank you, Nooru.”

With a tender touch to her cheek, Nooru expressed his shared sadness and devotion.

Marinette stood up and finally ate the stolen breakfast. She might be translucent at times, but she still needed to eat.

For once, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the last living Guardian of the Miraculous, stood tall.

This setback wouldn’t stop her.

She owed it to Tikki. She caressed the broken earring she wore as a necklace, and the chipped ring of Plagg, a heavy reminder of the essence they sacrificed to remake her here.

It wasn’t over.

She looked at the Gotham skyline, bright under the noon sun, ready to fight for her existence once more.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Two days ago.

The lights of the Dupain-Cheng Bakery in Paris illuminated the shop, but the two-year anniversary of Marinette’s disappearance cast a somber shadow over everything.

Tom and Sabine Dupain-Cheng still lived in the agonizing tension of despair and hope.

They remained strong, bolstered by Marinette’s friends: Alya, Zoé, and even her ex-boyfriend, Adrien Agreste.

Adrien himself had endured seismic shifts.

His father, Gabriel Agreste’s, unmasking as Hawkmoth had caused the family fortune to tank and the Agreste brand to collapse.

Yet, Adrien had stayed strong.

He was now under the guardianship of Amelie Graham de Vanily, with his cousin Félix living nearby, though Félix remained entirely detached from the drama.

Both of them experienced a loss on that day. Sickness overcame Kagami.

He was aware of his cousin’s deep affection for her.

Adrien found strength and unconditional love with Tom and Sabine, who had practically adopted him into their home over the past few years.

Adrien’s hope was a deliberate act of will.

He refused to believe Marinette was forgotten or lost forever.

He violently seized that fragile hope when he saw the ping on his computer: a report from Gotham identified a Marinette Dupain-Cheng associated with a stalker case.

Specifically, the Wayne family filed a restraining order.

Adrien flew out of his office, his training kicking in, and ran straight to the bakery. He burst through the door, finding Tom and Sabine inside.

“Sabine! Tom! I need you to look at this,” Adrien gasped, holding up his phone.

He didn’t waste time on platitudes. “It’s Marinette. She’s in Gotham. The Waynes, Bruce Wayne’s family, have taken the extreme step of filing a restraining order against her.

The bakery parents exchanged a look, their grief momentarily overshadowed by a shared, protective resolve.

“If this report is true, we need to go to Gotham,” Sabine stated, her voice iron. “We never let Marinette go alone. Not anymore.”

“She needs to come home at all costs,” Tom finished, gripping the counter until his knuckles whitened.

Adrien met their gaze, his expression firm. “The Wayne Foundation has the best lawyers in the world. But I will fight them. We are bringing Marinette home.”

Sabine and Tom were shocked by the sheer resolve in Adrien’s eyes.

Without a word, they rushed forward, pulling Adrien into a fierce, unified hug.

A hug of parents protecting their son, and a promise that they would face the darkness of Gotham together.

Sabine pulled back from the hug, her face pale but her eyes hardening with a resolve Adrien and Tom rarely saw.

Her grief-stricken baker persona evaporated, replaced by the steely calm of someone preparing for war.

Deep in her psyche, Sabine knew she had to take charge.

Her family was not lost; they were merely facing an enemy that required a different kind of strength.

She was no longer just the baker Sabine Cheng.

She was Sabine Li-Cheng, the forgotten mistress of death, the Second-in-Command of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

It had been a long-forgotten vow, a life she’d set aside to marry Tom.

While she knew the main operation was rooted in Hong Kong and Shanghai, she also knew that the Clan had established miniscule claws in the city they were about to enter: Gotham, the home of the Bat.

The Waynes had filed a restraining order. They had tried to protect their son by casting out hers.

It is time to show them what the Li’s are made of.

She would reclaim her rightful place in her mother’s Triad if necessary. The family ties were still strong, and if Gotham was where Marinette was, then Gotham would face the full wrath of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

Chapter Text

The lecture hall doors slammed shut, but the echoing boom couldn’t mask the jarring quiet that Marinette’s absence had left in Damian’s mind.

The air hung thick, making it hard to breathe.

At the room’s rear, he slowly gathered his belongings, the bland, academic air barely concealing the turmoil within him.

Then, his friend arrived.

Mia Mizoguchi was a splash of color against the drab university backdrop.

Her new hairstyle featured long, wavy, dark hair, unlike her usual short cut.

On this sunny day, she wore the sunflower hair clip he gave her from their Gotham Academy days, a symbol of the sunny presence she always had in his life.

It was tucked neatly above her left ear, a small, vibrant piece of him that she always carried.

He’d given her dozens over the years, collected from his travels, each one an acknowledgment of their shared history and her grounding presence.

Mia’s black, obsidian eyes, usually alight with a spark of firecracker mischief, were narrowed in a focused gaze that cut right through his attempts at nonchalance.

“Dames,” she murmured, her voice hushed but confident, in the way a friend does, knowing all his secrets.

“You’re looking like you had a fight. A bad one. Who was it?

Tim? Did Dick break your favorite Inishtree quill pen again?”

“Tt, this is not about some demon pen, Mizoguchi, and I would not forget that they already absolved the pen of the evil curse, it is merely decorative, don’t associate any superstitious event with it.”

He said.

”Oh you remember our first time we met, the incident of the Inishtree Quill pen, you know, when we held hands because of some Wayne Curse. That’s so romantic Damian, I just got a flutter when remembering that.”

“Mizoguchi, silence. We were just children so don’t interpret any hidden meaning.”

“Well, no kidding!”

“Of course, that’s just your cold exterior, and I’m still surprised you got a girlfriend, considering how reserved you are.”

Mia’s smile had a dangerous edge.

She went straight for the guttural truth; Mia never minced words.

Damian stood up, his posture rigid.

“Come. This is not a good place to talk about this kind of things, Mizoguchi.”

“Oh, in our sacred, hang-out spot?” she teased, already slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Wait, I’ll text Olive that I’ll be with you for a while.”

He gave a curt nod.

In moments, they were moving away from the main building, navigating the throngs of students toward a secluded corner of the campus park.

They found their usual bench tucked behind a thick curtain of Narra trees. The shade was deep and cool, a small reprieve from the harsh sun.

They sat. The silence between them wasn’t Marinette’s oppressive vacuum; it was Mia’s patient, expectant calm.

Damian felt the pressure to speak building, the words of magical ghosts, shattered relationships, and family betrayal clogging his throat. He just didn’t know how to start.

He was a master of strategy, yet here, he felt entirely defeated.

“I...” he began, then stopped, running a hand roughly through his slicked-back hair. “I have a problem, Mia. A massive, idiotic problem.” He rarely admitted to idiocy.

Mia just leaned back, totally focused. She waited, not pressing further.

“It started a few weeks ago, on a cafe...”

________________________________________________________________________

Jason Todd slumped back onto the kitchen island stool, nursing a fresh mug of Alfred’s ridiculously good Earl Grey.

His mood was shot.

He was grumpy and bummed out because Damian had just taken the grounding like a punch to the gut, not a tantrum.

Jason recalled his past, and how he would have reacted, which was by throwing chairs. He’d been wrong to assume Damian’s lack of a temper tantrum meant he’d grown up, because the boy’s calm, controlled disappointment was a much more chilling experience.

Just great. This family sucks.

He knew Dick was tied up in Jump City, mentoring the new Teen Titans. It was important work, but Jason felt a pang of bitter familial guilt.

Damian should be the one leading that next generation, but the teen’s antisocial, borderline uncooperative streak had effectively blackballed him.

He was the family’s black sheep, worse than Jason himself.

Worse than the killer extraordinaire, the Outlaw.

He felt deep pity for his youngest sibling and hated that the minuscule support he offered today was delivering bad news.

He was deep in his self-loathing spiral when the grounding presence of Alfred pulled him out of it.

Despite the chaos, Alfred Pennyworth, ever the picture of perfection, stood behind him. He put down a silver tray of fresh biscuits and touched Jason’s shoulder.

“Master Jason,” Alfred spoke gently, his voice filled with a grandfather’s love and a long history of caring for troubled sons.

“You carry the burden of Master Damian’s sadness as if it were a failure of your own.

Do not.

It is not always the easy word that shows the deepest care, but the true one.

And you, my dear boy, chose to be honest with him.

That is more than enough.”

Alfred gave his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“He is an exceptionally proud young man, Master Jason. He will retreat, yes. But he will return.

Now, eat your biscuits. We will need our strength for whatever fresh absurdity the day has prepared for us.”

Jason Todd pushed the mug of Earl Grey away, the silver tray of biscuits forgotten. His earlier self-pity morphed into a raw, angry grief.

He stood, pacing the gleaming kitchen floor.

“Thanks, Alfie, I needed that,” he muttered, the words thick with irony. “It’s just... it’s hard to be here. So many painful and genuine happy memories all jammed together in my head, and I don’t know how to deal with this.

Fuck, I admit I shoot first and ask questions later.

I know this is hurting him.

I can see it. And here I am, bearing some fucking bad news.

The cowl means something to him, too much.

If Dick were here, he could have handled this, supported him, mentored him again. But no, Dick has major responsibility with the Titans...”

He sighed heavily, his gaze fixed on some point in the distant past.

“I still remember seeing him a mere babe, no older than two. He had baby fat cheeks and green eyes like his mother, but his face had those familiar Wayne features I saw in the portraits around the Manor.

I was angry and crazy back then, but I promised to keep this kid safe.

I was his guardian.

Talia had put that responsibility on me.

It anchored me those years. The days I worked hard to raise him, not to be a weapon, those days I cherish.

But I had to leave to fulfill my mission, to train in the arts of killing with different masters.

I forgot about him. And I came back crazy, willing to kill, ripped this family apart.

When Bruce put a Batarang on my head, I saw reason, but the damage was done.

I was put into Belle Reve, and when Damian came to the Manor, I wasn’t there. I was busy moping around and planning my revenge.

I wasn’t there for him growing up. I don’t know if he resents me for abandoning him on that island.

Fuck... so many things I wanted to tell him but I can’t. I’m just a freaking coward, Alfie. And...”

Jason’s voice dropped to a tormented whisper.

“The worst part of it? When Talia went crazy, when the Al Ghul rage reigned in her head.

She put a fucking bounty on her own son.

Her own blood and sweat! And for what? Leviathan’s world domination.

And I didn’t even know. No one told me.

I was in prison, busy planning my revenge, moping, killing people that deserved it.

FUCK.

And after my release, and Leviathan had succeeded... killing him.

I was not there, Alfred.

I WISHED I WAS there, to save him, protect him, cradle him.

As Dick and Bruce would do. But we failed.

So, I made a vow again to save him once again.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes burning with outrage.

“So when Bruce had me go to the desert where I was killed by the Joker.

In Qurac, to remind the fresh wounds once again, and Bruce was so broken that he was willing to use any means necessary to bring back his son, our Damian.

I didn’t help him. Instead, I let my trauma win and walked out.

We had a fight, Alfred, and it wasn’t glorious.

I just heard from Tim that Bruce used a Frankenstein body to try to revive Damian.

Fuck.

He was desperate.

FRANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER!

Bruce was willing to make a monster out of his son, just to bring him back.

It was challenging to locate the Lazarus Pit, and Rhas Al Ghul went as far as to incur the Amazons’ fury just to find a tiny one on Themyscira. Even the uncaring Demon Head, driven only by selfish ambition, wanted his grandson back.

Except for me.

Feeling lost and shattered, I’m prepared to release the hope that we can restore him.

I just fucking GAVE UP on him. Alfred. Me, the stubborn one, I’m ashamed……..”

Looking at Alfred,with a grounding non-judgmental expression on him, he let out a deep breath and then resumed speaking.

“Familial ties are something I would never make light of.

And then, when Bruce tried to go to Apokolips alone... how dare him!

He didn’t want us involved in his suicide mission.

Fuck.

We have the right to know, and we have the right to be there with him, fighting gods and monsters to bring our sibling home.

Tim, Barbara, Titus the dog and I, along with a captured Cyborg, journey to Apokolips while dressed as custom-fitted Robin.

Alfred, you were there, so you know that bringing him back was a tough undertaking, but we were committed.”

“We fought the denizens of Apokolips, countless Parademons, and we succeeded. And hell, we succeeded.

Damian is back, alive, healthy, and a prick.

Arrogant.

His true self.

And now he’s on the cusp of adulthood, feeling lost. I don’t even know what to say, Alfred.

We failed him again.”

Jason stopped, lost in his self-directed outrage.

Alfred, who had let his hand drop from Jason’s shoulder, wrapped him in a tight, steady embrace, simply holding him until the shuddering passed.

Alfred finally pulled back, resting his large hands on Jason’s shoulders. His usually sharp and observational eyes softened with an immense, ancient sadness.

“Master Jason, I truly understood and felt every word you said,” Alfred said, his voice softening, without any formality, and now sounding like a father with a lot of experience.

“When the boy… when Master Damian died, it was the only time in my long life that the walls of this Manor felt truly silent.

Not quiet, but silent. It was a silence that indicated an ending for which I was unprepared, a debt I could not pay.

He paused, a flicker of that raw paternal grief crossing his face.

“I am the one who stitches them up, who cleans the blood, who prepares the food.

I anchor them to the life they risk every night. But when Damian was gone, my purpose was severed.

I, too, wished for a rewind, a reprieve, a chance to have been there instead of him.

And I, too, was quietly judging Master Bruce’s extreme measures, even as I prepared the sterile environment for the return of... something.”

Alfred’s gaze held steady on Jason. “We did not fail him, Master Jason. We nearly lost him, and in bringing him back from the most dreadful darkness, we may have hurt him.

But we did not fail him.

You did not fail him.

Failure would have been giving up.

We fought the new gods, literal demons, and death itself for that boy, and we brought him home.”

He gave Jason’s shoulders a final, firm squeeze, a gesture of shared resolve. “He may be a difficult, prickly young man, but he is here.

And he is loved.

Unconditionally.

It is our job now to simply be here, regardless of the silence or the tantrums. Do you understand, my son?”

Chapter Text

Damian understood that informing Mia about his present predicament, which involved the unsettling presence of his ghostly anchor, Marinette, was a grave mistake.

He broke all the rules of operational security, potentially revealing his deepest pain to his closest civilian friend, a girl who seemed content with a life far from his vigilante activities.

And yet, Mia was the only one he trusted to handle it.

She was the best person to tackle this, even if Marinette’s revelation about Mia possibly tapping into the “power of the Green” made him pause.

The ghost’s words, hinting at some secret Mia was keeping, made the conversation complicated, but he needed to protect his friend.

It was for his own sake.

“So let me get this straight,” Mia said, her voice dropping as she leaned forward on the Narra tree bench, her obsidian eyes fixed on Damian.

She ran a hand through her long, wavy hair, adjusting the sunflower clip unconsciously.

You had a living person, though invisible and maybe haunted, a ghost in every way but still alive thanks to magic.

And that is your stalker that you told me about last time?

The one you covered up with a Triad runaway story?” A slow, unsettling smile spread across her face. “This is curious. Curiouser.

This is interesting, Dames. Tell me everything.”

Damian confessed everything in a low, rapid stream.

He described the absurd paranormal cohabitation, the botched rooftop mission with Tim, and the final, crushing telepathic fight the night before.

He didn’t hide his shame: the moment Marinette cataloged his private life, and how he retaliated by attacking her deepest failures just to force her to leave.

“It was wrong, Mia,” Damian admitted, running a hand through his hair.

“It was the only way I knew to stop the chaos, and I pushed away the one person who saw the full, unlovable truth of me and didn’t run.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper. “She’s gone now, back to her flat.

But here’s the massive problem: I already promised to help her.

She’s a magically broken victim, Mia, and I gave my word to find a cure for this cursed existence.”

He finished, leaving the impossible truth of his situation resting between them on the bench.

Mia Mizoguchi leaned closer, the focus in her obsidian eyes sharpening into a challenge.

“Sometimes your so-called genius is just a pretension. Sometimes, like today, you’re acting like a lovable idiot, but an idiot no less.

What are you doing moping around?”

She paused, letting the bluntness sink in.

“Of course you’re allowed your privacy, and I admit this magical bond is absolute shenanigans. If we were kids back then, I’d be your giddy wing-girl setting you up for another date, but we’ve grown.

I’m telling you this not just as a female friend: this Marinette Dupain-Cheng girl is hurting.

Stalker behavior is wrong on every level, but she knew the real you and chose to give you space instead of gloating that she was right.

That shows she’s mature enough to see the error of her own ways.”

Mia slapped her hands down on her knees. “Quit moping around, Mr. Wayne. Let’s go.”

“What? Where?” Damian asked, momentarily stunned.

“To her abandoned flat, duh. Where is it?”

“Why, Mizoguchi...?”

Mia sighed, a sound of exaggerated exasperation. “Okay, now you’re truly an idiot. Have you gotten any sleep?

We’re going to talk to her.

We’ll hear her side, and we’ll talk this through like adults, superhero, vigilante, or not.”

Damian Al Ghul Wayne momentarily felt flabbergasted.

Of course, this spitfire firecracker of a friend would choose the most obnoxious route: to confront the problem head-on.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jason Todd walked off the last of his restless energy, leaving the gleaming kitchen for the cool, damp silence of the Batcave’s lower levels.

The earlier guilt from his outburst still simmered, but the release had been necessary.

Fuck it.

He found the family scattered: Tim Drake was hunched over the Batcomputer, managing the night’s intel.

Alfred remained up in the Manor, quietly holding the line.

Bruce was nowhere to be found, likely enduring a mind-numbing Wayne Tech board meeting.

Jason pulled up a chair near Tim, needing the focused, academic hum of the Batcave to ground himself.

The Bowery.

Bruce hated having to reopen the district to new investors. The fact that he still sees the names of billionaires ready to invest in this mess is still shocking. Orgham’s brief, but brutal, reign over Gotham allowed the Bowery to be easily exploited by opportunists.

He hopes Bruce has a good outcome with his discussion with the Vultures.

The failed attempt by the Orgham family to “renew” and “renovate” Gotham had only exposed them as another set of villains, wanting to rule the city with a veneer of gentrification.

The Orghams had kidnapped civilians, enforced a draconian system, and seized homes, all while claiming urban reform.

It was the kind of hypocrisy Jason loathed.

Yet, Jason recognized his own double standard.

His base of operations was an extravagant, enormous, and deserted Bowery building that he was presently using. It was among the rare spots in Gotham that provided the privacy and room he required.

He looked at Tim’s screen.

The current report was still focused on the Marinette Dupain-Cheng case, filed under “Stalker/Triad Runaway.”

Jason took a deep breath, steeling himself to listen to the details of the damn case again.

“Anything new, Replacement?” Jason asked, leaning in.

“Just don’t call me that again, Hood,” Tim Drake said, his voice flat with annoyance as he turned from the glowing Batcomputer screens.

“It is not endearing, it’s borderline insulting.

I didn’t replace you.

I had taken Red Robin since the beginning.

I didn’t suit up as Robin, so for the millionth time, I didn’t replace you.” Tim finished the name “Red Robin” with emphatic gusto.

Their temporary contention over the mantle traced back to the attack on Titans Tower.

Out of respect for the officially dead Jason Todd, Tim had taken the Red Robin mantle early on, deliberately choosing to avoid the soldier’s cowl.

But the hot-headed elder brother in the family never truly tried to understand Tim’s reasoning. It was a petty argument, ingrained over nearly a decade of sibling rivalry and fighting.

The ongoing feud was exhausting, especially for Tim, who remembered Damian being particularly petty and sour during their initial, contentious meeting.

That rivalry had escalated from a single ill-timed joke into incessant fighting.

But that wasn’t important right now.

He had a job to do: track the Triad runaway stalker and keep her away from his goddamn family.

“That’s my love language, Replacement. Deal with it,” Jason replied, his usual bravado returning with a smirk.

“Ugh, fine. So, our runaway, possibly affiliated with the Triads The Ghost Dragon Clan
Has gotten more interesting. See?” Tim said, pulling up a new dataset.

“Her address isn’t listed in any standard database, but I used Oracle’s blueprints and my own privileges to triangulate her likely residence.

I tracked her daily consumer absorption and online shopping habits. Turns out the stalker isn’t just a runaway; she thrives on chaos, thievery, and hacking, too.

A more discreet kind of villain, which makes this even more dangerous.”

Tim flashed a series of red-tagged search engine photos on the screen.

A blurry images of stolen goods and digital theft logs linked to the runaway.

Jason was momentarily impressed.

“I looked at the coffee shop across from Wayne Tower where she supposedly worked,” Tim continued, pointing to a file.

“The staff swear they had no idea who Marinette Dupain-Cheng was.

I even showed them her picture, but it was all hubbub.

It’s like no one recognized her.”

Tim pulled up surveillance footage. “Something’s fishy. I looked at the video where Damian first met her, and see? It’s all scrubbed.

It looks like Damian is just talking into the air.

It’s brief, and it’s the same at the museum footage, too.”

“Fuck,” Jason hissed, leaning closer. “Don’t tell me he’s hallucinating her? or worse, it’s related to the floating Ghost girl incident?”

“Tsk. No, Jason, that’s not it.

There’s a sophisticated digital masquerade at play, I bet on it.

She’s masking her presence, erasing it almost instantly.

I’d mind you, this is a genius hacker, akin to Oracle herself, and that’s far more dangerous.”

Tim swiveled his chair to face Jason, his eyes wide.

“You know one of your Gotham hideouts, right? The new high-rise tower in the Bowery?

The one you always use when you’re too tired to deal with this family shit-show?”

“What about it?” Jason asked, his tone suddenly guarded.

Tim pointed a single finger at the screen, where a single, red geolocator pinged.

“Let’s just say the lower floor of your secret hideout is the current ping for the address of our Runaway Stalker.”

“Fuck.”

“And there’s more,” Tim said, his voice now tight, clicking on another file.

“What more?” Jason demanded, dread pooling in his gut.

“Yeah, like when I filed the Restraining Order on Dupain-Cheng, her family got informed instantly,”

Tim explained, pulling up a global alert log. “I don’t know why, but she has some serious backing abroad, in Paris. Probably her ex, Adrien Agreste, and maybe Zoe Lee, I might add, Dr. Lee’s biological daughter.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Dr. Lee, the one who works in WayneTech’s Batman Division?”

“Yeah, the one and only. This complicates things.

Her parents are inbound, with Adrien Agreste in tow.

They land at Gotham Airlines in an hour.”

Tim paused, letting the information sink in before dropping the final bomb.

“And here’s the shocker to it all, Red Hood.

Get this.

Take your seat.” Tim leaned in, whispering the name like a curse.

“Her mother was the retired heiress of the Li Clan... and the first known wearer of the mantle of the persona Lynx.”

Jason Peter Johnson Todd just had the breath knocked clean out of him by the sheer weight of the revelation.

The myth, the legend of the Li in Shanghai... Lady Shiva’s well-known student and peers.

“Fuck,” he finally choked out. “We are royally screwed.”

This wasn’t just a stalker anymore. This was the opening salvo of a gang war, possibly an international incident.

“We need the might of the whole family on this. Call Cass, Steph, Duke. Every single fucking one,” Jason ordered, standing up and grabbing his helmet.

“We’re walking into a war we had no business starting, and it’s all because of a missing fan/stalker, no less.

I am not paid enough for this shit.”

Chapter Text

Adrien Agreste’s sunny disposition was gone. Tall and handsome, with sun-kissed hair, he now carried a deep sorrow.

The trauma of his father’s neglect and abuse, compounded by his battles as the hero Chat Noir, had taken a heavy toll.

He admitted his own fault in Marinette’s disappearance, realizing he had lashed out at her out of blind, ignorant hate.

His father, Gabriel Agreste, had sought absolution by trading his life for Nathalie’s, leaving Adrien to believe he was a hero.

But Adrien knew that was no excuse for how he had treated Marinette. If he could go back, he would apologize.

Her missing for almost two years had fueled his hope, and now that hope was becoming reality.

The three of them were already in a private jet, preparing for landing.

Adrien had initially offered his meager allowance and asked his Aunt Amelie for help, but to his surprise, Madame Sabine had offered an alternative.

She mentioned deep-pocketed connections from “her other side of the family.”

Even Monsieur Tom was shocked by the development. They were aboard a sleek, elite-looking jet, featuring Eastern Chinese design elements, a Chinese hostess, and discreet pilots.

Madame Sabine’s demeanor had distinctly changed.

She was still the lovable, caring mother, but her eyes, her way of speaking, and definitely her powerful suit had taken on a new authority. Monsieur Tom looked like he knew what was happening, but he kept it to himself.

Adrien was ready. They were bringing Marinette home.

Madame Sabine Cheng sat before Adrien, a striking figure in a deep red cheongsam draped with a complex, intricate dragon motif.

The pattern felt eerily familiar, reminding Adrien of things he couldn’t quite place, perhaps like the artistry of Kagami Tsurugi’s family.

And with deep sorrow, he remembered his friend Kagami, who perished in an unknown sickness prior to Marinette’s disappearance, a potential cause of her retreat; he had no idea how, but it is all connected somehow.

Her earrings, a combination of gold and jade, added to the imposing transformation. Her eyes, usually soft, now held a deep, etched intensity that made Adrien recoil slightly.

Sabine offered him a warm, yet formal greeting. “I hope you found the travel comfortable, Adrien. I know this is a new event for all of us, but I’m doing this for Marinette, okay?

So, I will tell you the honest truth.

Please don’t be alarmed; I am still the Sabine Cheng you knew, but this is not the whole story.”

Adrien settled in, mesmerized by the shift in her demeanor and the gravity in her voice.

“See, from a young age, I was trained to take over my grandmother’s clan.

It is an old, traditional, and powerful family.

Our roots go back to the Shang Dynasty. Together, the Chengs and the Li’s were guardians of an ancient artifacts, We were guardians of an ancient tomb of the Bloodless Blade” she explained, her voice low and steady.

“Today, we are a mere ghost of a clan, past our glory, living in the shadows.”

She continued, revealing a life Adrien couldn’t have imagined. “Out of my coming of age, I lived my life for the prosperity of the clan.

I had missions around the world.

I forged deep connections, and I was feared among them.

I even brushed with the so-called League of Assassins, and I was impressed by their heir, Talia al Ghul.”

Sabine paused, her expression softening as she glanced at her husband. “In one final mission that almost took my life, I found my true calling, my found family, my soulmate... Tom.”

She looked at Tom with pure, sweet affection as he held her hand tightly.

Adrien watched their display of genuine love, feeling a complex mix of awe, jealousy, and pity for Marinette’s cursed fate in Gotham.

He listened, knowing this confession was crucial to understanding the powerful forces now aligned to bring his friend home.

Monsieur Tom Dupain sighed, a grave regret etched on his face, before adding his own confession.

“I have some confession to make, my love.

I was not merely a baker.

It is my profession, but it is not the only thing I do,” Tom admitted, his voice low and heavy.

“I was a Manhunter.

The one people called if they wanted a serious threat, someone to disappear.

I worked with the Interpol European Division, often functioning as an officially sanctioned ‘death squad’ under the guidance of a man named Monsieur Henri Ducard.”

Adrien watched, stunned, as Tom’s massive hand gripped Sabine’s tightly.

“I was trained in brute strength and interrogation,” he continued. “I know I deeply loved you and Marinette, and after her disappearance, I tried everything to look for her.

But our girl was missing to the core.

She had no digital footprints, masked by something impenetrable. Now, only a faint ping.

It is a true miracle.”

Tom looked ashamed. “I’m embarrassed my background didn’t work to my advantage. All my training was useless against whatever took our daughter.”

“Do not be sorry, my love, we are both at fault.

We didn’t anticipate this turn of events.

Our daughter is hurting, and the lies that were thrust upon her by being a Guardian of the Miraculous at the age of fifteen, with you, Adrien, have taken their toll.

So do not fault yourself for my daughter’s disappearance. You had the right to feel angry at the lies; your reaction is not unjustified.”
​

Sabine reached out, her intensity softening as she looked at Adrien. “Our daughter was carrying a burden we had no idea was thrust upon them by Master Wang Fu, the idiot.

Putting a child in harm’s way...” she trailed off, her eyes hardening once more.

“And thank you, Adrien, for telling us the whole truth of the Miraculous two years ago.”

​Adrien was visibly shaken at the honest admission of the adults, their bitter but truthful words showing their unconditional love for Marinette and, by extension, extending that care to him.
​

As the jet began its final descent, preparing to land in the dark, teeming bowels of the beast called Gotham, Tom and Sabine approached Adrien.

They gave him one last, overwhelming hug, solidifying their shared determination just before everything fell apart.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jason Peter Johnson-Todd’s heart hammered as he blasted through Gotham on his Batcycle.

He was fully in his Red Hood persona: tactical vest, weathered red leather, and the bone-chilling, yet somehow comical in the sunlight, red helmet.

He pushed the bike to its limit, relying on his ingrained eidetic memory to carve the fastest route from the upper crust of Bristol, through the tunnels, and down to the dilapidated lower west of the Bowery.

He kept his comms open, listening to Red Robin manning the Batcomputer.

The grim reality was they were alone. Cass, Steph, and Duke were hours away with the Outsiders and Batwoman, embroiled in an inter-related gang war outside of Gotham.

Jason knew he couldn’t pull them out for this new threat……the chaos was already fused.

So, he had no choice but to call the “others” and he meant that literally.

With the established Bat-Family out of state, the only local, available vigilantes were kids, teens, Damian’s age, and he hated it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jason muttered.

“We are activating the WE ARE ROBIN channels, the sleeper Robins,” Tim confirmed over the comms, his voice tight with desperation.

“God when……….” Jason cut off as Oracle’s voice cut through the channel, calm and authoritative.

“Okay guys, sorry for the late missive.

The Birds of Prey just finished their investigation.

Status report: I’m en route, ETA thirty minutes.

Secure the Bowery building. Locate potential threats and the gang who internally works at them.”

Jason’s jaw clenched inside his helmet. Oracle’s arrival was a miracle, but the mission was still catastrophic.

“Roger that, Babs,” Jason growled. “I’m on the ground in sixty seconds.”

He knew his own people in the Bowery would be affected, and there was no way he could ask them to take the brunt of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

This was going to be a solo stand, backed only by a Genius Replacement in a chair and the Birds of Prey.

“And how about Bruce? God, this is his city.”

”I’m afraid Bruce is unavailable. He has already been teleported out of Gotham to handle urgent Justice League affairs. We’re alone on this one, Hood.”

Tim Drake’s grim reminder of their father, the king in the fortress of the Bat, was glaringly absent.

“How about Damian, is he answering our call?” Jason demanded, already knowing the answer.

“I’m afraid not,” Drake added, the frustration sharp in his voice. “He cut off his phone earlier this morning and I can’t track him, as he’s using anti-tracking devices on his person. The little demon brat doesn’t want to be seen.”

“Fuck.”

“Guys, we have a Big Birds……..as in, Bird……..infestation problem,” Barbara Drake cut in over the comms.

“What now, Babs?” Jason demanded, pushing his Batcycle harder through the streets leading to the Bowery.

“The Bowery has Emperor Penguin’s men occupying the abandoned buildings, one of which is your hideout, Hood, and the runaway stalker’s hideout. They are directly at the center of the building you’re going to their basement lounge.

This is not a coincidence, right?

Someone is pulling the strings, and God knows what this all-time fuckery will do to this.”

Barbara’s tense voice suggested the chaos was escalating. The gathering was becoming a full-scale gang war.

“I already alerted Commissioner Montoya to lead an evacuation around the Bowery,” Barbara Gordon continued, her voice precise.

“They’re already in place. Emperor Penguin’s men are aware of the threat. Huntress already told them about the Ghost Dragon Clan’s impending attack.”

Jason grimaced, imagining the scene. “It looks like Emperor Penguin has taken the warning to heart. Hell, it’s Huntress ,a warning with an arrow in the point-blank will do that to you.”

“Exactly,” Oracle confirmed.

“So the Emperor Penguin’s men had already helped with the evacuation of the civilians.

Yeah, they’re criminals, they’re gangsters, but the code to the Gotham civilians is absolute: don’t hurt the people of Gotham, by any means necessary.

That’s kind of the Mob Rule since the Orghams attack a year ago.”

She added gravely, “The Rogues have an explicit understanding, and only the Joker is the exception to that rule.

Leave the broken, helpless civilians at the crossfire, and the Batman and his family would not cross you out. This is a territorial dispute now, Hood, not a massacre.”

Jason felt a sliver of dark relief. It was still going to be a bloodbath, but at least the civilians were safe.

“Roger that, Babs,” Jason growled. “ Emperor Penguin’s crew is taking point on damage control. Got it.

Now tell me where I’m going to park this cycle when it lands.”

Chapter Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, a ghostly apparition anchored to the Bowery, had been trying to snag a much-needed moment of rest when an ungodly banging on the door shattered the quiet.

Instantly alert, she snatched the custom katana she’d stolen from Damian, unsheathing the razor-sharp blade. Beside her, Nooroo remained silent.

Another bang came, followed by a gruff, Gotham native voice. “Ay! Anyone in there! You need to follow us. Boss orders, there’ll be an imminent attack from another gang here at the Bowery.

The police are cooperating with us to evacuate the vicinity.

Your choice: die here or just go with us.

We promise we’re not going to hurt any of you.

We’re in this together.

We’re from Emperor Penguin’s men.

We mean no harm, but the others...”

The voice dropped, suddenly sounding genuine and heavily warned.

“Listen, whatever you got going on down here, you need to ditch it.

This ain’t no regular turf war.

The ones coming in…………they call themselves the Ghost Dragon Clan. They’re not Gotham native as us.

They’re military, Triad, Assassins.

They don’t do threats, they do clean sweeps.

They’re here for territory and a person. If you’re not that person, come with us now.

If you are that person, God help you, because they don’t leave witnesses.

This is your last chance.”

Marinette ran cold at the mention of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

Her Noona,the woman she’d only briefly met.

Her mother’s deeply set secret, her legacy.

Her two years of isolation had dragged her down a rabbit hole to know more of her own heritage, and she knew the brutal criminal record tied to her family name.

She know the true reason for her isolation and why she hadn’t reached out to her parents: the ingrained rejection of her true heritage.

The Lynx, the killer, the assassin…..her mother was coming for her.

She felt a lurch of self-pity again.

She was a ghostly apparition, a walking curse.

Perhaps the gods above, or perhaps Plagg, Tikki, and even Master Fu, had decided this was her punishment for her tainted blood.

The Ghost Dragon Clan was here, and the chaos she had desperately tried to outrun was about to consume her.

The second Emperor Penguin man’s voice, rough and indifferent, was barely audible through the door: “Forget about it, mate. Maybe there’s no one inside.

Let’s go to the other floor. At least we tried. Sorry, whoever’s residing in there, you’re on your own.”

Marinette’s momentary flicker of relief evaporated, instantly replaced by a cold, crushing certainty. This is it. The world she had desperately tried to outrun,the magic, the murder and the assassins.

It was converging on this single, derelict floor.

Putain, this is going to be a bloodbath, and it’s all her own fault.

________________________________________________________________________ ____________________

As the sleek, Eastern-designed jet touched down at the private terminal, a chilling scene awaited them.

Lined up on the tarmac was a phalanx of men in black suits, their faces concealed by masks depicting a snarling, dragon-like Tengu.

Even Gotham’s usual buzz couldn’t compete with their scary, cold vibe, thanks to how they stood and dressed like a killer, reminding him of old school gangs from the East.

Two black, armored vehicles waited silently nearby.

One of the men, clearly the leader, stepped forward and bowed low, his voice a respectful murmur that carried an undercurrent of lethal discipline.

“Greetings, Grand Mistress. We are here to serve.

What are your orders?”

Sabine Li-Cheng, now fully embodying the authority of her clan, dismissed the formality with an icy glare. “Good. I don’t need mere introductions.”

Monsieur Tom Dupain stood tall and broad, his massive frame a shield, his gaze tracking the precise movements of the assassins.

In their descent, he held Sabine’s hand firmly, a source of strength.

Adrien, though accustomed to the terrifying power of Miraculous magic, felt a visceral chill. This was a different power.

One based on fear, loyalty, and organized violence. He recognized it as the absolute control only an underworld heiress could command.

And this terrifying power belonged to the mother of the girl he loved.

It was a shocking, sobering understanding of the powers united to get Marinette back.

Sabine gestured toward Tom. “My love, bring Adrien with you, please. And I know you’re not going to stand still.

Mayhap you can lead the public legal approach first. Go to the GCPD and take a look at the stalker and restraining order against our Marinette. See what we can take by legal means.”

Yet, the look in Sabine’s eyes told a different story, one that Tom grasped without a sound.

“You’re right,” he agreed, his voice low and firm.

“Thankfully, I’m prepared.” He produced an official Interpol European Division badge. The gentle baker was gone, replaced entirely by the experienced, ruthless Manhunter.

With one last, deep kiss to Sabine’s cheek, Tom-Dupain-Cheng took the lead toward the second armored car. Adrien followed close behind, offering one final, determined wave to Madame Sabine Cheng before the door shut.

The investigation and their strategic plan had officially started.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tim Drake, hunched over the Batcomputer, his analytical mind operating at a terrifying speed. He was running a chess game against an invisible opponent, and the dread was mounting.

Babs was right: the escalation was too precise, the coincidences too overwhelming.

The Ghost Dragon Clan’s elite mobilization, the reports of the two armored cars…one carrying the newly identified Manhunter Thomas Dupain-Cheng.

All pointed to a highly coordinated, external threat.

This is getting worse any minute, any second, he swore internally, taking a long, steady pull from the latte Alfred had graciously provided.

His primary focus, for now, was coordinating the civilian relief effort.

It was a historic, absolute miracle: the Mob had called an immediate ceasefire.

The Bowery was literally being evacuated, with different criminal factions working together for the safety of the people.

The deep, lasting scar left by the Orgham Family’s brutal reign had given Gotham’s Rogues a cautious dedication.

This wasn’t petty villainy; it was a rise against a system that labeled them as monsters.

Today, the criminals were something more.

Deep in his Gothamite roots, Tim knew this was the people of Gotham united in this war. There would be no more innocent bloodshed.

Their turf might be stained, but for the sake of their own broken city, they would do what was necessary to keep the civilians safe.

Tim pushed himself back from the Batcomputer, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Thanks, Alfred, but I just got a feeling this is bigger than the stalker/runaway angle,” he stated, his voice low and intense.

“I felt it is connected somehow, something more elaborate. The stakes are too high for coincidence.

Yes, we were blindsided, but Bruce had warned us something was happening at the Bowery with the Gotham Renovation investment plan. So I made my own beeline research...”

He turned to the screen, his fingers flying across the holographic keyboard, pulling up a new set of data.

“What, Master Tim?” Alfred’s asked.

“Okay, okay, this is too far-fetched, but this is Gotham…..there are no coincidences in this grand scale, never,” Tim insisted.

“One of Bruce’s potential investors was the Fathom Industries. They are US-based and aligned with the Kane military structures

It is part of the military-industrial complex, boiling for war, the blood of the innocent on them. And their last heir was deceased four years ago from an unknown sickness.

So I checked the current heir now, you would not believe this but...”

Tim paused for dramatic effect, then pulled up an image on the main screen.

“Good heavens, Master Tim, who is this young man?” Alfred inquired.

The Batcomputer released the image of a young man…..Damian’s age, with blonde hair, an intimidating, hawkish stare, and the spitting image of the stalker’s ex. a cousin , a possible twin.

“Felix De Vanily Fathom.”

“He was in Gotham a day ago, meeting with Bruce earlier.”

Tim added one final chilling detail, pointing to a logo.

“Don’t call me superstitious, but the Fathom Industries is investing a sizeable sum of money in the Bowery Renovation lot.”

Alfred sighed, the weariness clear in his voice. “And this, Master Tim, is a good deduction. A conflict of interest, something sinister.

We will only know when they show their hands, I’m sure, Master Tim.”

Tim pulled up one last location ping: “And now Adrien Agreste with Thomas Dupain are inbound at the GCPD. Coincidence my ass.”

The entire board was in motion. This wasn’t merely a conflict between gangs. And the focus of the entire conspiracy was one elusive stalker run-away heiress.

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne sped through the main tunnels into the city’s hidden parts on a Kawasaki Ninja 400, its strong, black body cutting through the thick air. Wayne Tech’s matte, anti-surveillance finish hid the bike, letting them move through the city unnoticed.

Damian didn’t just hear the engine’s roar; he felt it, a physical vibration in his chest, a persistent, ominous note in the city’s chaotic soundscape.

He had disabled his phone and enabled all of his anti-tracking tools.

He sped up, and the speedometer needle quickly exceeded the speed limit. Each breath hitched as a chilling terror clawed at his throat, the world blurring into a frantic, chaotic dance.

Mia Mizoguchi was his only ballast.

She wasn’t just holding on; she was clinging to him like a desperate, unhinged sunshine incarnate, her slight weight pressed intimately against the tactical vest on his back.

Her warmth and frenetic energy were the only things keeping the city’s darkness from overpowering him.

He missed this.

It wasn’t the suffocating heat of Gotham’s slums, but the silent, meaningful closeness of her trust.

In that moment, her tight grip and shallow breath on a sharp turn created a small, precious safe space within the terrifying experience.

He was incredibly protective of her, the “Ave Maria of the Gotham slums.”

However, her brother, Kyle Mizoguchi, was already lost to the darkness, a victim of the Joker Endgame war like so many others; with each passing kilometer, the burden of this loss grew heavier for him to bear.

He’d failed Kyle; he wouldn’t fail Mia.

Each tremor of the Ninja 400, each sinking feeling when it hit a bump in the road, was a theatrical echo of his disappointments.

Mia participated solely to keep her friend Olive Silverlock from losing touch with reality. He was happy they rescued Olive from Calamity’s insanity, yet he consistently feared she would succumb to it again.

The city will eat you alive, he thought, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached inside the helmet.

It tried to eat Kyle, and it almost ate Olive. It won’t take you too, not on my watch.

The bike lunged forward, his mind a volatile mix of cold, calculating speed and molten, protective fury, hurtling them both into the hot, chaotic bowels of the Bowery.

He knew only one thing: a fight was coming, and he was damn well going to be there to meet it.

Damian Wayne slammed the brakes, swerving the Kawasaki Ninja 400 into an alley corner as they approached the choked access point to the Bowery.

The bridge connecting the area to Bristol and Northern Gotham was jammed with traffic, but a more astonishing sight drew his attention.

Ahead, a disciplined line of people poured out of the Bowery in an organized exodus.

Manning the perimeter were GCPD officers standing back-to-back with Emperor Penguin’s men.

The city’s notorious criminals and the police force were working in tandem, organizing the desperate citizens fleeing the heat.

This wasn’t the pathetic chaos of the war during the Orgham invasion last year; this was a unified, efficient operation.

The surreal image of the legal system and the criminal world uniting to rescue citizens took aback Damian. The situation was completely unprecedented in Gotham, something he couldn’t have imagined.

He considered the significance of events in the Bowery, his instinct to protect momentarily giving way to a detached curiosity.

The convergence of opposing forces created a threat that was huge, unlike anything seen before, and much more than a simple struggle for territory.

The abrupt quiet after he cut the engine highlighted how serious the planned evacuation was. He had to get more information before he got involved in that chaotic situation.

Mia Mizoguchi, already at the center of the evacuation effort, was helping an old woman back to her feet.

Damian approached a police officer, asking if they could enter, but the officer immediately denied him. “This is a mandatory evacuation for an incoming threat.”

“What threat?” Damian demanded.

The officer sighed, his gaze flickering toward the organized flow of the crowd. “A tip from the Batman associates.

They said the Ghost Dragon Clan from Shanghai is launching an immediate attack that will plunge the Bowery into chaos.”

Damian Wayne stilled.

Goliath’s beard.

Somehow, his genius misdirection had backfired.

A minuscule, fabricated threat had become a terrifying reality.

This small thread connecting to Marinette Dupain-Cheng was now threatening to consume the city whole.

The Ghost Dragon Clan was here, and it wanted blood.

This was more reason than ever to get Dupain-Cheng to safety.

He converged with Mia. Her face, usually so sunny, was now serious, her obsidian eyes fixed on something small she held in her hand: a Robin Initiative sleeper communicator pin had begun beeping.

Mia, her voice a rush of nervous energy, spoke into the pin.

“Hey, Boss, it’s been a while. I missed, you know Red!

What emergency are we working on?

Uh, uh, I’m on the Bristol Bridge checkpoint, yeah, North Gotham, looking at the Bowery.

Is there something happening?

What?

Robin Activation?

Ooh, eh, how did I get here?

I…………I said that a classmate brought me here? Would you believe it?”

A voice crackled over the pin, now amplified and undeniably the strained, exasperated tone of Tim Drake, Red Robin.

“I’m triangulating your position right now, MAPS Mizoguchi, no need to lie.

I know the Demon Spawn is with you.

Damn it, Maps, I know we’re desperate to call the Robin Initiative, but you don’t have to put yourself into danger.

Helping the civilians is the priority,” Tim’s voice cracked.

“And tell my brother, for the love of God above, please, open his comm online!

This is bigger than all of us, and he’s not benched.

We need every soldier we can have for this war!”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, clad in her Midnight Sonata, knew this was serious.

She rapidly packed her minuscule bag, gripping the katana she had stolen.

The specific magic granting her invisibility was absolute, rendering any weapon or item she actively carried completely unseen as well.

Her mind raced, desperately reviewing the roster of Gotham threats. Emperor Penguin’s monocle, the one she was looking at….was the legitimate, ancient successor, straight from the First Founder of the Cobblepots. His lineage was a confirmed danger.

Mr. Freeze’s thermal goggles weren’t her only concern; they possessed an inexplicable magical property, born of his desperate hope to save his cryogenic wife.

It is a twisted resonance of the unhinged Gabriel Agreste as Hawkmoth.

She still wasn’t sure about Two-Face, but maybe his insanity was what allowed him to glimpse her.

But none of that mattered now.

A sickening shatter of glass tore through the quiet of her flat.

A black silhouette stood framed in the broken window, accompanied by a flash of green glowing magic….an old, chaotic energy that violently reminded her of Plagg’s nature. Someone had just crashed her hiding place.

She stilled herself, her breathing shallow, instantly becoming a ghost of a statue.

As the figure moved, she recognized the man, dread turning her blood to ice. It was none other than Monsieur Red Hood, Outlaw, Damian’s older brother, Jason Todd.

She was freaking screwed.

In the corner as Monsieur Hood swept the room. He moved with brutal, tactical efficiency, his dual-wielding pistols blazing with green, old magic that pulsed along the barrels. He was looking for her.

She was searching for an escape route,the ruined window or the closed door.

The drop from the window was excessively tall. Even with her minimal ability to float, survival was not guaranteed. The closed door was a possibility, but Monsieur Hood would definitely sense her escape, making the effort futile against the Mad Dog of the Outlaw himself.

So, she waited.

He clicked across the floor, his eyes.

Or rather, the mocking, skull-themed visor of his Red Hood helmet with its embedded demonic teeth.

Scanning every corner, drawing inches closer to her hiding spot. This wasn’t the vigilante; now she was the freaking target, and the realization was terrifying.

She held her breath, trying not to move.

Monsieur Hood spun his head, weapons poised to fire, but stopped short, staring at a nearly invisible crack in the wall: her secret hiding place.

He opened it.

The sound that escaped Marinette’s lips was a silent, internal scream:

Putain de merde.

Exposed within the recess was her shrine: a carefully crafted altar dedicated to Damian Wayne, complete with a framed portrait, a small collection of his discarded items like a broken throwing star, a frayed length of silk, and a single, flickering candle.

Monsieur Hood stilled.

He lowered his pistols, the green magical glow dimming as his focus narrowed entirely on the disturbing display.

His single word, filled with disbelief and fury, reverberated through the flat’s disordered quiet.

“WHAT THE FUCKING HELL is this?”

Chapter Text

The atmosphere at the Gotham City Police Department was a coiled spring.

Armed officers were deployed for mass action, but they did not have any actual crime to stop.

Thomas Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste were presenting themselves through entirely legal means. They were, to all appearances, simply tourists with a peculiar legal inquiry, giving the police no grounds for detainment.

Commissioner Renee Montoya, however, was bound by protocol, so she entertained the façade while her city braced for the anticipated Ghost Dragon Clan explosion.

Her sweeps of Chinatown had turned up nothing; Madame Li-Cheng and her second-in-command had vanished after the airport.

Montoya sat in her office, studying the man before her.

Thomas Dupain-Cheng was a hulking behemoth, his sheer size suggesting he belonged to the very mob rule Gotham was currently mobilizing against.

However, his behavior was distinct: meticulous, controlled, and unsettlingly calm, which brought to mind the impressive professionalism she’d observed in top European soldiers.

She leaned forward, her expression a mix of professional courtesy and weary patience.

“Montoya, at your service,” she said, her voice gravelly but firm.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Dupain?”

Thomas didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

He set the Interpol European Division badge on her desk; the soft metallic sound demanded her focus.

“Commissioner,” he began, his voice low and steady, a powerful presence that filled the room. “My business here isn’t just a legal formality.

I’m here under Interpol sanction regarding the immediate threats against my daughter, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

He gestured to Adrien, who sat ramrod straight, radiating intense focus despite his youthful appearance.

“Initially, the expected procedures. We need a detailed file on the restraining order.

I need information about the person who filed the claim against my daughter, Damian Wayne.

His business connections, financial arrangements, and present whereabouts.

We need to dismantle his case legally before it becomes a distraction.”

Thomas paused, allowing the weight of his badge and his demands to sink in. His gaze hardened, meeting Montoya’s head-on.

“Second, the truth. Commissioner, my wife and I are aware of the impending conflict.

You have assassins and international criminals on your doorstep.

Since you can’t find the Ghost Dragon Clan,I’m here to offer you a way to manage them.

Tell me everything you know about the Waynes, the corporate interests, and every person currently mobilized in the Bowery.

We may be tourists, but we are not defenseless, and we are not your enemies yet.

We are here to find our daughter and to restore order. I suggest we cooperate immediately.”

“Are you threatening this city, Mr. Dupain?

Because if it is, I can secure a warrant for your detainment, Interpol be damned.”
​

Commissioner Montoya showed no reaction. She had faced literal demons and monsters in human skin; The threats she usually faced were more significant than what a mediocre Interpol agent could handle.

Her tenure as the Question and her current role as Commissioner of Gotham City required an indomitable will, and a spine made of steel.
​

She met the large man’s gaze without flinching, her head held high.

“I can give you the information about the restraining order, but that’s all.

Mr. Wayne’s privacy will not be breached by any paltry trick of interrogation you attempt. So be careful.”

​Montoya paused, the silence in the precinct office heavy with implied violence.

“I assure you, I would gladly work with you on this in a diplomatic way, but first, you need to show your helping hand. Let your wife’s Clan withdraw from my city, and then we’ll talk.”

Thomas Dupain-Cheng didn’t flinch, as he took in the Commissioner’s direct threat.

He respected the spine he saw; this woman was a local monster hunter who regarded his Interpol badge as a bureaucratic trifle.

“A detention file, Commissioner? “That would cause a diplomatic incident before my plane even refuels,” Thomas stated, his voice dropping, now carrying a metallic edge that spoke of his old profession.

“I assure you I am not threatening your city.

I am offering you a surgical solution to a problem you are currently attempting to manage with Emperor Penguin and uniformed officers.”

Thomas leaned forward, his hands resting flat on the desk, a display of measured control.

“You’re framing this as a family matter, but the restraining order against my daughter was filed by Damian Wayne, who is part of the Wayne family .

The most influential corporate and political force in this city.”

You are correct; Mr. Wayne’s privacy is protected by law and by fear.

But a restraining order is merely a legal weapon in Gotham.”

I will respect your process. I will not breach Mr. Wayne’s privacy... yet.

But I need the restraining order details immediately to initiate the legal counter-suit,” Thomas conceded.

“And here is my helping hand: Unless I give the word, my wife won’t start her offensive. Although she’ll continue monitoring the situation and remain in position, the Ghost Dragon Clan won’t shed any blood.

That is your immediate ceasefire.

You get to keep your city intact for the next 24 hours.”

He finished speaking, his eyes locked on Montoya, leaving no room for doubt.

“However, in exchange, you will provide me with all the specifics of the present threat situation developing in the Bowery, including corporate influences, parties outside of Gotham, and everything you’ve learned from Batman’s allies.”

Are you requesting that my wife’s people withdraw? Then help me secure our daughter.

I am not your monster, Commissioner. I am the shortest path to your peace.”

Adrien Agreste, sitting beside Thomas, swallowed hard. The room felt less cold and more like a pressurized chamber of warring wills.

Although he was a Parisian champion, the sight of his future father-in-law maneuvering this formidable woman

She was a woman as ruthlessly efficient as Nathalie Sancoeur, but even more so because she was upfront about it.

He remained rigid, determined to conceal his terror.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s life flashed through her mind like a speeding bullet. Putain! She realized she wouldn’t survive this, or at least not unscathed.

A flush of crimson shame and icy dread washed over her as Monsieur Hood remained fixed on her altar, analyzing his discovery.

“Red Robin, are you witnessing this? The Stalker has proven to be far more dangerous than I initially anticipated,” Jason Todd growled into his comm. “She’s constructed a literal altar dedicated to the Demon Spawn.”

His voice sharpened with increased scrutiny. “Wait a second...”

Red Hood’s helmet beam focused closer, revealing a more refined image of Damian wearing the Robin suit.

Jason cursed again.

Beside the portrait, there was another, damning sketch: a detailed rendering of the Batcave’s main console.

The evidence was irrefutable.

This wasn’t just a stalker; this was confirmation that their security systems had been catastrophically compromised.

As Red Hood’s Lazarus-induced rage threatened to engulf him, he violently channeled the chaotic energy, forcing it into focus using his All-Caste training.

He activated his true sight, letting the green magical energy sharpen his senses. He didn’t just feel the room; he knew he wasn’t alone, sensing two powerful, enigmatic signatures lurking nearby.

Voila.

His head snapped to the right corner of the room, the flutter of his leather jacket the only sound of his sudden motion.

A blurry but distinctly human physique, small, around five feet tall, materialized in his enhanced vision.

He didn’t hesitate. With pinpoint accuracy, he aimed his rubber bullet pistol.

It’s barrel blazing with the All-Caste chaos magic.

He fired directly at the phantom image.

The capture of the stalker was now his singular objective.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

In a sprawling, undisclosed hangar, larger than a football field, Madame Sabine Li-Cheng stood amidst her resources.

The vast space was lined with stacked wooden crates, each one containing ancient sand and mud statues

Remnants of the Shang Dynasty.

This was her Tiantiang Zanshi, the Eternal Army of the Bloodless Blade, the horrifying birthright of her bloodline.

It was an army of terracotta warriors, resurrected ghosts waiting for command.

One of the Ghost Dragon elite knelt before her, presenting the Spear of Bie Ling. This sacred artifact held the power not just to resurrect, but to command the eternal legion.

But not today, not tonight.

Sabine’s iron control held the power in check.

This army was a mere back-up; she would not use such a sacrilege for a mere trifling attack.

Yet, she stood rigid, making no mistake: if she did not find her daughter instantly, she would have no qualms about unleashing the Tiantiang Zanshi to secure Marinette immediately.

It was the urgent call from her beloved Thomas Dupain-Cheng that stopped her. He commanded her to hold off any attack for now, arguing that the GCPD will compromise.

Sabine closed her eyes, and deep within the chaotic, humid air of Gotham, she felt something profound: a deeper current of magic. This old city didn’t just breathe; it was alive with chaos magic.

If she wasn’t mistaken, it was the chaotic energy of an older line…..and a terrifying familiarity with the power of Chat Noir.

This magic, more powerful and more ruthless than anything she had ever felt, had the potential to resurrect and empower the Tiantiang Zanshi beyond imagining.

She finally opened her eyes, a predatory calculation hardening her features.

Gotham is not merely a threat, she realized, the sound of ancient clay settling in the surrounding crates. It is the perfect place for the Ghost Dragon Clan to rule.

Chapter Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng reacted instantly, attempting to duck the rubber bullet blazing with chaos magic.

To her shock, the projectile passed straight through her shimmering form. Chaos energy, a twisted and violent relative of Plagg’s Miraculous, did not harm her;

She used the moment of realization to leap away, phasing through a stack of crates.

What the hell was that? Marinette thought frantically. A fluke?

Jason Todd, however, was already recalibrating. He saw the bullet pass clean through and immediately understood the chaos magic was misdirected.

He killed the energy channel in his pistol, the green glow instantly vanishing.

Holy shit, Jason thought, his Lazarus-fueled mind racing. The rogues have been seeing a ghost, and it’s the stalker!

He growled into his comm, though only he could hear the internal monologue of his absolute disbelief:

“Damian.

Goddamn it, Damian.

To anyone getting close to you, it’s a magical runaway heiress of an ancient clan.

All-Caste be Damned, of course his Al Ghul bloodline would follow a lunatic like a moth to the fire.”

Jason shot again, this time using a fast, plain rubber bullet.

He knew, without thinking, that the first shot was a protocol error.

What he perceived as a blur wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.

He sensed the human girl, who might be Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

And he would not let his little brother’s obsessive stalker escape.

“You’re not a ghost!” Red Hood bellowed, his voice distorted by the skull helmet, but carrying a sharp edge of accusation.

He lunged, dropping the pistol and snatching a non-lethal flash bang from his belt.

“You’re a magical security breach, and you’re coming with me!”

He threw the flash bang onto the ground, aiming to disrupt her form with the physical shockwave, since the light wouldn’t affect a ghost.

With a thunderous CRACK, the device exploded, prompting him to leap over the altar and reach out with his large hand to grasp the unseen girl.

‘The Ghost is FUCKING Tangible’

Using his True Sight, Red Hood followed Marinette’s shimmering form, now visible to him.

His combat skills, which he’d developed through training with the League of Assassins and the All-Caste, allowed him to close the distance immediately.

He attempted to restrain the unseen girl using a traditional, harmless headlock.

Yet the “Ghost Stalker” was agile, contorting her frame with unexpected strength and quickness.

She wasn’t just ghostly; she was physically strong, managing to slip the hold before his arm could fully secure her neck.

Before Jason could react, a blur slammed into the side of his helmet, directly attacking his True Sight.

He hadn’t even glimpsed a flying magical, unbound creature until it struck.

The tiny entity, dark and fast, was a chaotic distraction, hitting his visor with the force of a frantic insect.

“Fuck! It’s not just a ghost, but a tiny flying creature. Great, just great,” Jason cursed internally.

He understood the small attacker’s goal immediately: to distract him and free Marinette.

Jason quickly recovered, torn between the girl and the small, buzzing distraction. He calmly re-drew the rubber bullet pistol and tried to follow the creature, but it was too fast.

He couldn’t risk a ricochet or lose Marinette while trying to get a clear shot.

The moment’s hesitation was all the invisible girl needed.

Marinette, seizing the opening created by Nooroo, lunged toward the broken window, katana drawn.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, still recovering from the flashbang, lunged for the broken window.

“Oh no you don’t, Ms. Stalker!

Not on my watch!” Jason Todd bellowed, closing the gap with terrifying speed.

He jumped, his hand grabbing a sizeable piece of Marinette’s dark, invisible hair as she got to the sill.

The abrupt, agonizing halt caused her to let out a telepathic scream.

Jason moved where her hair pulled him, enacting a clean, harmless leg sweep.

Marinette tumbled backward, the impact momentarily rendering her form tangible to him as she hit the floor.

The pain was real, sharp, and overwhelming.

Before she could even scramble, Jason was over her.

He had dropped his rubber pistol and now held a different weapon: a heavier, combat-grade handgun with a matte black finish.

He immediately pointed it directly at her head.

He leveled the threat with icy calm, the truth of his words slicing through her terror.

“Uh uh uh. Magical Fey or whatever you are,” he snarled, his voice a low, mechanical growl through the helmet’s modulator.

“One wrong move, and this girl would not see the sunset. This pistol is no longer rubber. It’s a real one now.”

He was lying about Even though it was a non-lethal round with high-velocity intended to replicate the impact of a genuine bullet without actually piercing, the danger it presented was undeniably present.

He wasn’t giving her time to recover, and the metallic weight of the gun against her temple was enough to stop the runaway ghost heiress cold.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was not a gambler, but the metallic cold of the handgun against her temple was an absolute, non-negotiable end.

Her desperation eclipsed her fear.

She knew the Bat-Family, with their rules and moral blindness to true magical ruthlessness, could not protect her from her mother, Sabine.

Whatever sanctuary they offered would be minuscule compared to the threat of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

Her only path to survival was absolute disappearance.

Bound to Gotham by magic for two years, she was afraid of her dark heritage, yet this same magic now presented a desperate opportunity.

Jason’s chaotic magic, a savage version of the energy that used to be in Plagg, was also, disturbingly, connected to her.

In that fleeting last moment, Marinette didn’t fight back physically.

Instead, she used her connection to Nooroo’s telepathic nature and the chaos energy buzzing between her and Jason’s gun.

She did not merely think a message; she invaded the mind of Monsieur Hood.

Marinette unleashed a telepathic scream, amplified by the raw, resonant energy of the chaos magic Jason was using.

It was a psychic weapon, a primal scream of survival hitting Jason Todd’s Lazarus-fueled mind.

The impact was immediate and disastrous.

Jason Todd’s eyes, hidden behind the skull visor, rolled back.

The energy he’d wielded intensely rebounded, overwhelming him with memories: the Lazarus Pit’s pain, betrayal’s shock, the coffin’s weight.

He dropped the combat-grade pistol with a choked gasp, clutching his helmet as if to keep his skull from splitting.

It worked, but not without a fatal mistake.

As Jason convulsed, his finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger.

The high-velocity rubber round, meant to be a non-penetrating stun, grazed Marinette’s shoulder.

It didn’t penetrate, but the force ripped through her skin, a searing, immediate pain that caused a spray of invisible, yet crimson, blood to bloom.

The pain was enough to break Marinette’s magical focus.

She became fully tangible, the agonizing shock overriding the psychic attack.

But she didn’t collapse.

Driven by pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct, she scrambled to her feet.

She looked at the crumpled form of the Mad Dog of the Outlaws, who was still silently screaming inside his helmet.

She looked at the blood staining the floor near her shoulder. She looked at the broken window.

All gods above, she had to survive this.

With a desperate, animalistic cry, Marinette launched herself forward.

She crashed through the broken window frame, the frigid air rushing past her as she fell. From the edge, the drop to the alley pavement was at least thirteen stories, a sickening view.

She had no time to aim, no ability to stabilize her form, and no idea if her minimal floating ability would be enough to break her velocity.

She was a single, tiny, invisible speck falling through the Gotham noon, propelled by shame, terror, and the desperate prayer that the city that had bound her might just save her one last time.

_________________________________________________________________________

Damian Wayne stood at the foot of the bridge, no longer a civilian.

He was fully clad in his Robin uniform: the dark red trim a nod to Grayson’s circus legacy, and the sweeping, Leviathan-based cape a silent homage to his Al Ghul heritage. He was a Vigilante, defined by the villains who made him.

At his side, Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi presented her own Official Robin uniform.

It rejected the “abomination” green, opting instead for a sleek, tactical cut mirroring Damian’s red lining. Her yellow, diamond-shaped mask was a defiant, cheerful contrast to the lethal mission ahead.

“Oh, thanks, Robin, for the compliment,” Mia deadpanned, striking a mock superhero pose. The yellow mask seemed to glint with sarcasm.

Damian grunted.

“Tt. Back to the mission, Mizoguchi. We need to get across the bridge, and we need a boat.

Getting to the other side will take an ungodly amount of time. It is unacceptable.”

Before Mia could offer an absurd suggestion, the private channel Damian had been ignoring violently burst to life with Red Hood’s voice, raw with Lazarus-fueled rage.

“Red Robin, are you witnessing this?

The Stalker has proven to be far more dangerous than I initially expected! She’s constructed a literal altar dedicated to the Demon Spawn.

Wait a second... Beside the portrait, there was another, damning sketch: a detailed rendering of the Batcave’s main console. This isn’t just a fan; this is a catastrophic security breach!”

Mia was the first to be struck by the silly image of a magical shrine.

Behind her yellow mask, her eyes registered pure, delighted shock.

“A shrine? To you? Damian, that is literally the most ridiculously, absurdly romantic”

The thought died in her throat as Jason’s next transmission ripped through the comms pained and desperate.

“FUCK! She’s not just a ghost! She hit me with... with the Pit!

Psychic attack!

She’s down, and she’s bleeding! She’s visible, and she just jumped!

Thirteen stories! Bowery Alley near the docks! I need backup NOW! She’s hurt, but she’s loose!”

Crushing dread immediately replaced the giddy absurdity.

Mia turned pale. Her mask’s yellow was no longer her focus, just the stern red stripe.

A stalker with a magical altar was funny; a bleeding girl who could psychically wound an All-Caste assassin and survive a thirteen-story fall was an imminent disaster.

“Damian,” Mia whispered, the playfulness gone, replaced by chilling seriousness. “We have to go. Now.”

“About that,” she added, rushing forward to grab his arm. “I’ll explain later, but hold on tight to me.

Trust me, Damian.

Just trust me, okay?”

Damian Al Ghul could only utter a clipped, disbelieving, “Tt,” as Mia gripped him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

The world around them suddenly rumbled.

It was not the sound of traffic; it was a deep, impossible physical tremor.

Through a sickening peripheral rush which was filled with warped space and time, the white lightning danced at their periphery as they were teleported into the white vacuum of space.

They landed with a slight jarring jolt on the rooftop of a building.

It was the Bowery, but they had just bypassed the impossible bridge traffic instantly. Transportation?

Metahuman?

Mia?

What he saw immediately replaced his shock.

In the murky distance, at the level of the tenth floor, a tiny speck of a girl was plunging toward the alley pavement.

He recognized the size and the location from Jason’s desperate transmission.

Marinette was falling.

He cursed himself.

He had wasted precious seconds.

Over the edge of the building he plunged, his grappling hook abruptly breaking free, after which he released his Batglider, which was a tiny assisted -drone.

He plummeted after the girl, praying he was not too late.

Chapter Text

Marinette’s last coherent memory during the fall was the terrifying increase in air velocity, followed by a futile attempt to manifest her fragmented Miraculous powers.

The effort failed.

Though she might appear as a ghost to some, her body was solid, fully fleshed, and she was seconds away from making a catastrophic “splat” on the main road.

This will be over quickly, she thought, the despair of her battle of wills overwhelming her.

The thought of death was no longer terrifying, but the crushing guilt remained: the price for her continued existence was the sacrifice of everyone she loved.

Tikki, Plagg, and Kagami.

This unholy force of guilt devoured her, fueling the chaotic instability of her being.

She briefly made out a flying speck above her.

Robin,his tiny figure plummeting toward her with a grappling hook.

He was too distant.

He would never reach her in time.

I am completely on my own, she realized, and in a final, desperate prayer to Gimmi, she asked for one last favor.

Nooroo, who was barely visible beside her, gathered the last of his strength. In a sudden, chaotic flash, magical, purplish wings.

A fragile and spectral had sprouted from Marinette’s back.

The descent slowed violently .

She floated, guided by the momentary boost, until her feet touched the rough alley pavement.

The wings instantly dissipated.

The agony from the grazed shoulder was a searing distraction, causing her tangibility to go haywire.

She was visibly fading, struggling to hold her form together against the pain and the sheer force of her descent.

Just as she stabilized, Damian Wayne, supported by his Bat glider, descended into the alley corner, his landing precise and controlled.

He immediately cut the engine.

His voice, thick with a need to protect her, was strained as he looked at her, hurt and trapped.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

Marinette, injured and cornered, faces Damian, her not-so-ghostly cohabitation partner.

“It hurts, Robin,” Marinette hissed, the words tight and raw as she pressed a trembling hand to her shredded shoulder.

Ignoring the frantic, urgent voice of Red Hood coming through his comm, he turned his attention to Marinette, his green eyes searching for any compound fractures while giving the obvious injury his immediate attention.

He didn’t get a moment’s respite.

A thick column of Lazarus-green energy slammed into the alley pavement nearby, the air sizzling with arcane power.

Red Hood, engulfed in the caustic mist of his All-Caste chaos magic, descended like a vengeful god.

The sheer, raw power of the energy was visible, coating his helmet and armor in a malevolent, shimmering aura.

He was recovered from Marinette’s psychic attack, operating on pure, amplified rage.

Marinette flinched, not just from the pain, but from the sight of the magic itself.

The violent kin to Plagg’s essence. She gripped Damian’s arm, her eyes wide with frantic desperation.

“Please, Robin, you can’t take me to the Batcave!

Your family is not equipped!

Please!” she pleaded, her voice cracking.

“My parents are not who they are... just help me, please! I’ll tell you everything!

Just let me get out of here!”

She was visibly broken, her sheer will taxed to its limit.

The Ghost Dragon Clan, which was the true nature of her parents, terrified her even more than the assassin, armed and magically enhanced, who was ten feet away.

Damian found himself in the impossible precipice of a decision.

He knew the Pit’s lingering influence compromised Jason and currently operating on a distorted sense of threat.

Seeing Marinette only as the “Stalker Runaway.” Yet, Jason was also technically correct about the danger of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

His primary aim is to neutralize the threat and protect Gotham.

But facing Marinette, beaten and pleading, he felt a deeper, visceral instinct at odds with the mission.

“Good, Robin, you’re here,” Red Hood growled, striding toward them, his pistols.

Now stripped of the green energy is back in his holsters.

“The stalker run-away. We can patch her up and bring her into the hideout.

Clean her up, then we can deal with her parents’ Ghost Dragon Clan.”

Jason’s voice was heavy with command, treating Marinette like a piece of evidence.

The assumption of control snapped Damian’s hesitation.

Damian’s jaw clenched.

He pushed Marinette behind him, shielding her small form with his own body. He looked at his older brother, his eyes cold and resolved.

“No.”

Damian’s refusal hung in the alley, abruptly ending the sounds of sizzling magic and bringing a strange quiet.

He stood solid, his compact form a desperate, necessary shield for Marinette.

Jason Todd’s massive frame stiffened.

The green, residual glow of the Lazarus magic surrounding him intensified, reflecting the surge of confusion and white-hot betrayal.

“What? No?” Red Hood’s voice was a guttural snarl through the modulator.

He took a predatory step forward, and Marinette who huddled behind Damian and flinched violently, her injured shoulder hitting the rough brick.

“Oh, Demon Spawn, don’t tell me you’re acting hero now,” Jason growled, his voice laced with venomous disbelief.

He leveled a finger at Marinette’s bloodied, visible form.

“Let me spell it out for you: this run-away stalker has a fucking altar of you in her apartment!

And she had a detailed sketch of the Batcave’s main console!

Our secrets are compromised!”

Jason froze, his helmet tilting as the truth

Sharp and unwelcome pierced through the haze of his rage.

“Wait... you knew it, didn’t you?”

The accusation was colder, more dangerous than his anger.

He looked from Marinette’s horrified face to Damian’s firm jaw, and the truth of the situation dawned on him.

“FUCK, Robin! Really? And you hid it from us?”

The betrayal wasn’t just about security; it was about trust.

Damian, the last person Jason expected to protect a rogue element over the family’s safety, had done exactly that.

“She is a security threat, Robin! You put a target on our backs!

Even B would be crossed about this!

We have to contain this!“

Red Hood’s voice was a low growl, thick with menace.

His imposing figure exuded danger, his concealed rage, honed by his All-Caste training, barely restrained.

Marinette, a whimper eluding her lips, instinctively pressed harder against Damian’s back, her injured shoulder throbbing.

Damian stood rigid, refusing to yield the ground.

His jaw was clenched, his breath tight.

He knew the cost of his next words, but he spoke them anyway, his voice tight with desperation and the unfamiliarity of true vulnerability.

“Tt, Hood. Let me handle this. This is complicated and I can fix this. Please.”

That single word

Please

Was a catastrophic break in Damian Wayne’s self-control, an act of submission he had never granted to anyone, least of all Jason Todd.

Red Hood froze.

The raw, green energy buzzing around him flickered with confusion.

The pistol that had been halfway drawn stopped, blazing in his hand. Jason’s eyes behind the visor narrowed, the sheer weight of Damian’s plea momentarily shattering his focus.

During that one, frozen moment, a brother’s desperate act of defense provided a delay.

And all hell broke loose.

___________________________________________________________________

Two Days Ago

The dark, gothic architecture of Le Jardin Noire, Paris’s maximum security meta human asylum, loomed like an eternal, oppressive promise.

Within its formidable walls, Félix de Vanily Fathom stood tall, a hawk-like intensity burning in his gaunt eyes.

He was buried in paperwork, securing his control of Fathom Industry and funding his real goal.

He loved Kagami Tsurugi and was solely focused on retrieving her after she was tragically lost in a chaotic magical trade.

Kagami had sacrificed herself for the ungrateful Marinette Dupain-Cheng, a decision Félix could not accept.

He had already experienced dooming the world by his own actions, but Kagami's true last words haunt him to his core: no genocide, no killing.

If his love is genuine; do not put any people in danger.

His mission was not about revenge, but necessity.

The great miraculous powers

Tikki and Plagg were gone.

He couldn’t wait a century for a mystical solution.

For him, the two long years without Kagami are already torture; waiting for Tikki and Plagg to recover is impossible.

Félix turned from the window, his gaze settling on the prison intake ledger.

His grand strategy required precision, and here they detained a master of deception known by many aliases: Lila Rossi, Iris Verdi, Cerise Bianca.

Chrysalis.

However, only her mother, Kagami, and he truly knew who she was.

...Kagami’s estranged, highly dangerous step-sister, Sakura Tsurugi.

Chapter Text

The confrontation between Robin and Red Hood, which was taking place in a green-lit alley and was charged with tension, was abruptly disrupted.

The form of Batgirl, Barbara Gordon, emerged swiftly and soundlessly from the stifling, scorching heat.

Because of the dangerous Chinese Triad, the Birds of Prey had to start working in the daytime, even though the Bat-Family usually operated at night.

Barbara was currently alone,Black Canary was out of Gotham, and Huntress was deep in the Rogues’ hideouts, acting as the tenuous line of communication with the mobilized underworld.

Barbara was the defacto speaker for the Birds of Prey regarding the evacuation.

She descended, her own comms blazing with the chaos Oracle was trying to manage from the Belfry.

Seeing her younger brothers locked in a confrontation at the alley’s choked entrance was the last thing she needed.

She had to make an immediate, impossible choice: intervene and help Red Hood contain the “Stalker” threat, or side with Robin and protect Marinette.

Before she could commit, a chilling detail seized her attention.

A sudden glint on a distant rooftop caught the sun, followed by a tiny, perfect red laser dot that painted the brick wall near Marinette’s head. It was a sniper.

The target was clear: the inbound, not-so-ghostly spectral girl. The threat was imminent, real, and completely external to the Bat-Family feud.

Barbara’s blood went cold.

There was no time to analyze the shooter’s identity.

She was in the right position, and her decision was made instantly.

Protection took precedence over politics.

She didn’t aim for the sniper. She aimed for Marinette.

Batgirl deployed her grappling hook, but this was no ordinary line.

It was coated with an experimental, Zatanna-infused spectral resin, designed specifically to ensnare entities with unstable tangibility.

She fired it not at the girl’s body, but at the space surrounding her, creating a magical energy net.

The shot landed true.

The spectral resin expanded, momentarily encasing Marinette’s bleeding, fading form in a shimmering, purple-hued web.

Barbara immediately engaged the winch, pulling Marinette violently but safely out of the sniper’s line of sight and up toward the rooftops.

Batgirl’s line, infused with the spectral resin, snapped taut, hauling Marinette’s fading form violently upward.

Climbing, Barbara’s amplified voice, sharp and commanding, immediately silenced the arguing brothers, cutting through the chaos of the shared comms.

“Red Hood, stand down! Robin, Meridian,take the sniper!

It’s on your building, sixteenth story floor, eighth window on the right. Do it!”

The order was absolute.

“Right, Boss!“Maps Mizoguchi had confirmed.

She didn’t waste time on the grapple.

In a brief, jarring blur of warped space, she teleported from her location into the sniper’s apartment.

She materialized silently in a cloud of displaced air, her new tactical uniform barely shifting.

The room was empty.

The sniper was gone, vanished in the instant it took to fire the shot. Only the sleek, specialized red-tipped sniper rifle lay flat and abandoned on the polished wooden floor.

Frustrated by the near-miss, Mia hissed into the comms. “Batgirl, the target escaped!

They left the gun, though.

Professional.”

Down in the alley, Red Hood’s Lazarus-induced rage instantly deflated.

Batgirl’s impossible feat and the emergence of a clear, outside danger jolted him back to a precarious state of mind.

Batgirl proved the containment plan faulty, and the sniper’s attempt made it evident the “stalker” was the intended victim of lethal attacks.

His blood ran cold.

If he had continued his attack, if he had taken that final, enraged step toward Damian, the blood of a possibly troubled, secret-laden runaway would have been on his hands.

He was wrong.

Jason dropped his gaze from the rooftop where Batgirl was hauling Marinette.

He slowly lowered his raised fist, the green Lazarus glow receding back into the seams of his armor, replaced by a focused, terrifying resolve.

The threat had shifted, and his priorities snapped back into lethal, protective alignment.

Robin stood frozen for a beat, his mind struggling to process the rapid, violent sequence of events: his plea, Jason’s hesitation, Batgirl’s impossible intervention, and the vanishing sniper.

It was Red Hood’s steady, focused voice, now stripped of its Lazarus rage, that finally broke through the static.

“Robin... We need to go. Now.”

Damian snapped back to attention.

He didn’t waste a second on conversation.

He deployed his grappling hook with brutal efficiency, the line snapping him away from the ground and pulling him upward, climbing toward the rooftop where Batgirl had taken the fugitive.

The dizzying upward velocity and the sudden rush of air left his mind numb, focusing only on one single, paramount objective: the safety of Marinette.

He vaulted onto the roof, finding Batgirl already hunched over Marinette, her own focus absolute.

Barbara was using a specialized, shimmering pair of gloves that pulsed with a faint, residual violet light.

Marinette was visible, but her form subtly wavered, threatening to dissolve.

“Robin,” Batgirl said immediately, without looking up. “Her injuries are non-fatal, but her spectral form is unstable.

I’m using these Zatanna magic-induced gloves to hold her and apply a preliminary first-aid dressing.”

Marinette was whimpering, her eyes wide and running cold with pure, crystalline fear. She grasped weakly at Barbara’s gauntlet.

“Please,” Marinette begged, the word ragged and desperate.

“You can’t help me. Just get me out of here.

The Clan... don’t give me to them, please.”

The word “Clan” was a chilling, alien menace that solidified all of Damian’s worries.

They had successfully secured the target, but they had also just stepped into a war they were ill-equipped to understand.

Batgirl and Robin exchanged a strained glance over Marinette’s trembling form.

Red Hood, perched on the edge of the rooftop, watched them with grim resolve.

Her fear-filled words, “The Clan... please, don’t let them have me,” didn’t fit with the idea of her parents simply asking a legal question.

There were a million horrifying possibilities, but they all converged on the same conclusion: Marinette’s discovery was not just a security risk, it was a catastrophic blind spot for the Bat-Family.

Before any of them could respond or ask the next vital question, the main comm channel crackled, slicing through the tense silence.

It was Red Robin, and his voice was raw with panic, stripped of his usual analytical calm.

“Red Hood, Robin, Batgirl! Shit, shit! This line is compromised.

I repeat, they have compromised this line! Operation Black Vault!

Go dark, now!”

Robin’s mind utterly seized.

Compromised? But how? Tim never went to code unless the worst-case scenario had materialized.

Operation Black Vault was the emergency protocol to immediately cease all digital communication, retreat to a failsafe secure location, and fully initiate a sweep for digital intrusion.

A protocol only reserved for when an adversary had successfully breached their encrypted network and, by extension, the Bat-Cave itself.

Someone had listened to every word, tracked every move, and learned every location.

The frantic chaos of the external threat was no longer an assumption; it was an undeniable, terrifying reality.

The hunt was now on both sides of the comms.

The rooftop went from frantic to fatal in an instant.

The shrill, panicked voice over the radio stopped the three rooftop vigilantes in their tracks. It was more than just a code.

“Batgirl! Oracle has betrayed us! Belfry is a hot spot.

I repeat: Oracle betrayed us!”

Confusion flooded the eyes visible behind Red Hood’s skull visor and Robin’s domino mask.

The comm channel went dead, leaving a thick, terrifying silence.

Red Hood reacted first. His Lazarus-rage, which had just receded, spiked again, twisted by paranoia.

His heavy pistol snapped out, and he pointed it directly at Batgirl.

“Oracle?” Jason growled, his voice a lethal threat. He was looking at Barbara Gordon.

“No, idiot, lower that gun!” Barbara retorted instantly, her focus razor-sharp.

She ripped the comm unit from her ear and tossed it. “I’m not Oracle right now!”

She held up her hands, clearly showing the others the specialized, violet-tinged gloves still holding Marinette.

“That’s the point.

I gave the mantle to someone else after the last city crisis. They were supposed to run the Belfry.”

Her face went grim as the realization hit.

Tim says that the person I relied on to manage the infrastructure has betrayed us. The Belfry functions as a tracking beacon.”

“What’s going on?” Meridian Maps Mizoguchi asked, teleporting into the fray from her sniper cleanup, her yellow mask a jarring contrast to the tension.

She stared wide-eyed at Red Hood pointing a gun at Batgirl.

“The mission is scrubbed,” Damian stated, his voice tight. He pushed Marinette deeper behind Batgirl’s cover. “We have to move.”

Barbara was concluding her somber evaluation of the damaged Bat-Family network when an unseen, immediate bolt of agonizing electricity struck her.

She gasped, her muscles convulsing, the Zatanna-infused gloves falling uselessly away from the now-slipping Marinette.

Barbara’s eyes went up, and she fell, unable to move.

The source of the attack was unknown, but the result was clear: the immediate danger wasn’t just here; it was already inside their defenses.

Red Hood reacted with the speed of pure necessity.

He dropped his pistol to scoop up the unconscious Batgirl in a fireman’s carry.

Tim was offline, the central comms were dead, and the leader of the Birds of Prey was the first casualty. Fuck.

He knew their feuding had just ended. He had to trust his brother now.

“Robin, take... the stalker with you!” Jason’s voice was strained but authoritative.

He met Damian’s eyes, the trust of the moment overriding the earlier conflict.

“Meridian, go dark! Don’t use any Bat-Family hideout protocols. Don’t!”

Jason ripped his primary comms unit from his helmet and crushed it. He was a sitting duck.

“Meridian, drop me to these coordinates,” he commanded, spitting out a private, encrypted location.

“I’ll take Batgirl with me. She needs immediate medical attention.”

He locked eyes with his brother one last time. “Robin, don’t say anything to anyone.

Trust only yourself and Meridian. Okay?

I’m going.”

Damian Wayne, stunned but recognizing the necessity of the command, simply nodded. “Take care, Todd.”

A blinding flash of white portal light and the sharp scent of ozone permeated the air. Red Hood stepped into the swirling vortex with the unconscious Batgirl and was gone.

Robin was left alone, carrying the wounded, terrified Marinette. This was their mission now, stripped of all infrastructure.

No Bat-Family hideouts, no bunkers, and now, even his secret Al Ghul stashes might be compromised if the network breach went deep enough.

They were exposed.

“Umh,” Meridian interjected, her voice tight with focus as she secured the perimeter.

“I know a place.”

She looked at Damian, her typically sunny eyes uncharacteristically serious behind the yellow mask.

“Robin, trust me. Okay? This is the safest place I can think of as of now.”

“Do it.” Damian commanded, his grip tightening on Marinette.

Maps worked fast.

They swiftly found and removed all the communication devices and trackers they possessed, including comm chips, utility belt identifiers, and even Damian’s specialized boot chips.

She threw all the equipment she could identify into a chaotic portal she made, a small, dark opening that led to pointless places in Gotham, to mislead anyone following her.

When she was done, a fresh portal materialized, casting a gentle, ozone-free light over the roof. It was a doorway to an unknown sanctuary.

Damian carried Marinette, and together they stepped through, praying that his choice was right.

Once again within an hour, he completely trusted Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi with his life and the life of the person he was supposed to be guarding.

_______________________________________________________________________

Minutes earlier, in the deep-tech silence of the Bat-Cave.

Tim Drake was chasing the digital footprint connecting the Bowery renovation lots and the flow of money from Fathom Industry.

The financial patterns were complex, but a sudden, related inquiry pulled him into a chilling rabbit hole: the restraining order filed by Damian Wayne against the run-away “ghostly stalker.”

Tim paused.

Damian couldn’t have filed that report.

The girl was a literal digital ghost; the court would never accept it. But when Tim checked the records, the case had been successfully filed and processed.

Not from him, not from anyone in the Bat-Family, and hell, not even Bruce.

His ability to concentrate was overtaken by a creeping sense of dread. He looked over the digital files once more.

A hyper-secure digital signature and verified footprint tied directly to Oracle executed the legal filing.

Tim immediately looked into the source signature and made a grim discovery: the signature was real, but it was not Barbara Gordon’s.

It belonged to the person Barbara had entrusted with the Oracle mantle.

Compromised.

Betrayal.

However, the girl herself was the real mystery. Despite the Bat-Family’s pursuit of a spectral foe, the court case presented real and easily confirmed evidence.

How would one legally serve a digital ghost with documents?

Then came the kicker.

Tim pulled up the personal footprint used in the filing.

It belonged to a legitimate, breathing person: Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

But it wasn’t the girl they were chasing.

Tim realized he had misplaced the target.

The girl being hunted was a spectral anomaly, but the paperwork proved there was a real Marinette Dupain-Cheng currently living in Gotham.

It was like the ghost had manifested a real-world counterpart.

The digital footprint was fresh: a working girl, a clerk at a nearby Gotham charity ball held at the Elliots.

The data was so shrouded, so protected, that it was clearly being contained by Gotham’s financial and social elite.

What is going on here? Tim thought, his mind racing.

The girl they are hunting is a magical problem, but the girl the courts are targeting is a real human being protected by the city’s elite.

The realization was a catastrophic security breach, forcing him to issue the Operation Black Vault warning immediately moments before his line was cut.

He was offline, trapped in the Bat-Cave, knowing he was the only one who understood the terrifying duality of the “Marinette” they were dealing with.

Chapter Text

Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi’s day had gone from boring and drab to absolutely insane.

She was taking a class one second, then the next she was saving her best friend, the vigilante and billionaire Damian Wayne, from a sniper and his angry older brother.

Maps had always been the steady pillar for her Robin extraordinaire. Since Kyle had been gone, and particularly since Damian helped her save Olive Silverlock from calamity’s clutches, she felt a debt of gratitude she was happy to repay.

Their bond had only strengthened when they reunited at Gotham University.

Their friendship truly blossomed, surviving even the drama of Damian’s romantic life.

First, there was Maxine. Maps hadn’t met her, but she sensed the girl’s absolute grace and was genuinely excited for Damian.

That relationship had ended, however, and Maps wasn’t there to console him because he was already halfway across the globe, embarking on a turbulent, world-spanning saga.

That journey led him to Flatline, Nika. Maps had briefly met her and was thrilled, seeing Nika as a cool, meta anti-hero who finally understood Damian to his core.

But all good things must end, and that relationship crashed in one of the most dramatic breakups she’d ever heard of.

Damian spent weeks hunting for Nika, solving her elaborate clues across the globe, fighting missing Rogues and alien invasions, until Flatline decided she needed a permanent cool-off.

Damian was alone again.

Maps felt the weight of his isolation and grief.

She watched him punish himself for outside forces he couldn’t control.

So, she kept the smile fixed on her face, talked to him about his latest field study, and was always just there for him.

She was there today, navigating portals, destroying comms, and proving that sometimes, the safest place in Gotham wasn’t a cave, but a friend’s unconditional trust.

Damian, still carrying the wounded Marinette, looked around the chaotic, enormous cavern.

“Maps, where are we?” he asked, his voice strained.

Maps flashed him a rare, deeply serious look.

“Here? Welcome to my own sanctioned Globe Cave, Monte Carlo 2.0.”

She gestured towards the large, shadowy room.

This enormous cave system below ground, a natural Gotham creation with high ceilings, had been completely and unusually adapted.

The ceiling suspended platforms, which held a functioning laboratory, a sprawling cartography center lit by dozens of focused lamps, and a surprisingly well-stocked medical bay.

It was low-tech, high-utility, and unmistakably hers.

“With the help of Colton, stolen tech, and Pomeline’s witchcraft hexes, we made sure this place is truly isolated and discrete,” she explained, already moving toward the medical bay.

“And uh, uh, no, Dames, I will not tell you the specific coordinates in Gotham.

It’s a secret.” she winked.

She beamed with quiet pride. “I am Meridian.

I cartographed the entire cave system of Gotham at age 15. This is the best, most secluded spot.

This is my sanctuary.”

She led them past a large table covered in topographical maps.

“This was created with the Original Detective Pizza Club, minus my dead brother, obviously.

It’s protected, Dames. Let’s get her down.”

Damian moved with precision, cleaning and dressing Marinette’s shoulder wound in the well-lit medical bay, completing the task rapidly and effectively.

She offered no resistance, lying silent and still, her form disturbingly translucent. She wasn’t truly present in the space.

Next to her, the tiny, dark Nooroo, a winged Kwami, fluttered about desperately, directing what little miraculous power it had left toward her.

The faint purple light seemed to fail in its attempt to push back the spectral figure that was slowly advancing.

“My powers are not enough to stabilize her,” Nooroo cried, his tiny voice cracking with desperation.

“I’m afraid if she deteriorates like this, she’s going to disappear soon.”

Dread washed over Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi.

She stared at the wounded, spectral girl, the impossible reality sinking in.

“We should do something! I can help, maybe?” she offered, already moving toward her supplies.

Damian froze, his hands hovering over the sterile gauze. His voice, usually steady, was laced with shock.

“Disappear? But how?”

Nooroo flew up, hovering between them, his large, terrified eyes focused on the heroes.

“Marinette was the Guardian of an ancient order,” he began, the weight of eons in his small voice.

“She sacrificed herself for the betterment of this world, but her life was ruined by another villain,Chrysalis.

Her boyfriend, Adrien Agreste, was Hawkmoth’s son.”

The atmosphere was thick with the weight of that betrayal.

“When Adrien learned the truth, he lashed out. In grief, they broke up.

Marinette couldn’t take that heartbreak, so she made another wish to Gimmi,the Kwami of Reality.”

Damian and Maps watched, stunned.

“In doing so, a deadly trade backfired: her life for the erasure of Hawkmoth’s name from history.

She accepted it.

But the rest of us, the Kwamis, were adamant not to let it happen.

We decided, together with one of her friends, Kagami Tsurugi, to give our life essence for Marinette’s existence.

But it was not enough.”

Nooroo gestured to Marinette’s shimmering form. “So she became like this: a not-so-ghost.

And every day that passes, the Quintessence of Reality,the universe itself is trying to erase her out of existence.”

Maps’s mouth fell open, her shock absolute. “It sounds like the higher beings are treating her as a virus?

And using the universal antibodies to take her out?

That’s creepy... that’s bad, isn’t it?”

Damian’s face, normally impassive, displayed a disturbing combination of surprise and a frightening, recent realization.

This wasn’t a meta-human problem.

This was fundamental.

He was looking at a person who was fighting a custody battle with reality itself.

_____________________________________________________________________

Red Hood, Jason Todd, slumped heavily into a worn, custom-built chair, his gaze fixed on a bank of crude, self-sufficient monitors.

He was in one of his first, safest hideouts.

This system, established before he rejoined the family, was designed to be off-grid, untouched by Bruce’s tech or the Bat-Computer network.

It was a relic, perhaps a decade old, steeped in the dark memories of his initial, failed campaign to destroy the Batman. He shoved those thoughts aside.

His focus narrowed on the immediate threat: the compromise of the Bat-Family and the fate of the operative who had taken the Oracle mantle.

Barbara was still unconscious, and Tim’s Black Vault code was in full swing.

Jason wasn’t the hacking prodigy that Barbara or Tim were, but he’d picked up a few things from them and his friend, the genius Bizarro.

He’d implemented a desperate, jury-rigged countermeasure, a side-channel security bypass he hoped the primary hacker might miss.

He watched the feeds confirm his worst fears.

The Belfry had been sabotaged.

The Tower was engulfed in flames due to an initiated self-destruct sequence, prompting a fire rescue and GCPD response to the explosion.

The hacker was good; the self-destruct was intended to erase all evidence.

But the hacker wasn’t that good.

Jason’s counter-bypass flickered to life, showing a partial, raw footage of the Belfry console just before the detonation.

He saw the young man sitting at the console,the new Oracle, who had been operating under Barbara’s trust.

Then, a flicker.

A figure emerged, garbed in a dark ninja suit and a chilling dragon mask.

“Fuck, not the League,” Jason muttered, his muscles tensing.

The figure’s movements were efficiently ruthless. Jason picked up a quiet, threatening whisper in the raw audio: “Ghost Dragon Clan.”

The dragon-masked operative struck the new Oracle, delivering a fatal blow straight to the heart.

The young man went limp; he was dead.

The Ghost Dragon Clan operative then initiated the system hack and the subsequent self-destruct.

A wave of uncontrollable Lazarus rage surged through Jason. No, no, stay focused, don’t let the anger win.

He fought the green mist threatening to cloud his judgment.

The team hadn’t been betrayed by one of their own, not intentionally.

One of the new operatives, one of Batman Incorporated’s recruits, had been compromised and murdered.

And the Ghost Dragon Clan was responsible.

The external threat was no longer an assumption; it was a brutal fact, and they had just lost their entire support system.

The Ghost Dragon Clan would pay.

Jason heard a sharp, painful gasp from behind him.

He spun, his heart sinking.

Barbara Gordon, still without her cowl, was awake.

Her hand was clamped over her mouth, and wide, horrified tears were streaming down her face as she looked at the frozen monitor showing the aftermath of the murder.

“Oh, Gus. No. No,” she choked out.

The sound of her raw grief instantly overrode Jason’s own rising Lazarus fury. He moved immediately, his large frame contrasting with her shaking one, trying to calm her.

“Babs, breathe. Please, Babs,” Jason said, his voice surprisingly soft and steady.

He held her shoulders.

“We’re going to find who’s responsible for this. The kid will be avenged.

I swear.”

Barbara collapsed against him, her tears soaking his armor. She whispered, her voice heavy with sorrow, “His name is Gus.”

“He’s Damian’s age.

Oh, what did I do?

He was so young, and he didn’t deserve this.”

The wave of tear-stricken grief washed away her remaining strength.

Jason gently helped her to a nearby chair, his own rage momentarily suppressed by the weight of her pain.

He had to be the rock now.

The Oracle, Gus, who had just been appointed, was killed during her watch, and it was a tragic loss.

Barbara Gordon steeled her nerves. Sorrow felt like a long-standing foe. For years.

From the murder of her mother to her brother’s descent into madness, and the Joker’s bullet paralyzing her.

Had taught her one thing: she would pull through.

Gus hadn’t deserved this.

She would take the matter into her own hands.

“Your console is secure? Hood?” she asked, her voice tight but regaining its clinical focus.

“Ah, yeah,” Jason replied.

“Let me borrow it.”

Barbara moved to the worn console and started typing frantically, working from muscle memory to recreate the back-up of the back-up of the original Oracle program.

It was crude technology, built for pre-Bat-Family hacking, but it would suffice.

“Where are we?

Where are Damian and Maps?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen.

“I let Maps take us here. Batman Incorporated is compromised, along with the Birds of Prey.

We’re in my most secure location, where no one would think I’d be.”

“Where... no, don’t answer. I can guess.”

She finished her last line of code, the screen flickering to life with a map of Gotham.

She looked at the feed, tracking the faint structural vibrations she could sense through the ground.

A small, grim smile touched her lips.

“Oh, you sly mad dog, you are, Hood.

Really?

The subterranean abandoned levels beneath Gotham Central Police Station?

Your bunker.

We’re literally underneath the GCPD?”

Jason smirked, a flash of his old recklessness returning.

“Damn right it is.

No one would think the mad dog would hole up right under the cops, would they?

Now let’s start our hunt.”

Chapter Text

Tim Drake,Red Robin was a figure of raw, intense focus, typing with the furious, unhinged energy of a cornered hornet.

Every synapse fired, compelling him to a state of hyper-intense clarity.

He’d seen betrayals before, but the footage he’d snatched confirmed it was a cold, bloody murder.

The new Oracle,Gus was dead.

Immediately, the chilling truth hit him: the destruction of the Belfry was a distraction for the Ghost Dragon Clan’s next, most critical move.

Tim gripped his knuckles, his gaze locked on the predictive algorithms flashing across his shattered screen.

He knew, within seconds of certainty, where the Clan would strike next: the Batcave itself.

Working with brutal speed, he sent an encrypted priority alert to Alfred, instructing him to hide and use non-lethal deterrents only as necessary.

“These operatives are trained and dangerous,” he warned.

Tim had already rigged the Batcave with a series of traps.

He was the last line of defense, knowing they would arrive any minute now.

He was born ready.

The claws of the Red Robin would be tested. His beak would taste blood,not his own, but that of his enemies.

A looming shadow in his periphery gave Tim Drake a split second of warning.

He moved instantly as projectiles opened fire at his direction.

Using the glided wings of his costume, he executed a sharp, twirling maneuver, simultaneously deploying his own return fire: the blades of his feather suit.

They were non-lethal, but grazed his attackers hard enough to buy him precious time.

He instantly detected six confirmed attackers, all wearing the chilling dragon tengu masks of the Ghost Dragon Clan.

“Tsk. Amateurs,” he muttered, surveying the carnage his rigged defenses had already inflicted.

Numerous confetti mines and various other deathtraps had already taken down the majority of the strike team; only these six survived. “Pathetic.”

But a question lingered.

This was too well-coordinated to be random; the sudden collapse of the Belfry, the quick pursuit here..they had an objective.

Tim knew the smarter move wasn’t a head-on confrontation.

He needed to learn their endgame, if they had one, before engaging.

He melted back into the shadows of the cave, letting the six operatives believe they had the advantage.

________________________________________________________________________

Renee Montoya’s patience was a wick quickly burning down to oil.

The sheer arrogance of this Parisian contingent, here to claim a runaway heiress, was putting her nerves on edge.

She watched as Lieutenant Ramirez, her subordinate, efficiently entered the room.

Ramirez placed a fresh file on the desk: the restraining order, the detailed profile of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and her current address.

“Oh, they made a mistake,” Montoya muttered, scanning the documents. “She was not in the Bowery.

The tip was wrong. But why?” There were lines of connection that didn’t add up, but that wasn’t her problem right now.

The problem was that the girl’s parents were willing to burn Gotham to the ground to get her back.

Montoya knew the Elliot Charity Ball was tonight.

The missing runaway was there, unknowingly pitted in the middle of a mob war.

She noted that one of Gotham’s wealthy heiresses was shielding the girl, but the reason was secondary.

Let her father worry about that.

She thrust the folder across the desk, handing the decision off to Thomas Dupain.

Adrien Agreste, sat uncomfortably in the deafening silence.

Thomas, however, read the file, and his mood shifted dramatically.

The rigid composure of the ruthless manhunter dissolved, replaced by the manic, happy smile of a baker.

“Merci, Commissioner. Thank you,” Thomas said, “So my daughter was really here.

Adrien, make haste.

We can meet her right now.”

He paused, offering a chilling promise. “Thank you again, Commissioner.

I will tell my wife to move all the hostility right away.

Gotham will not burn... yet.”

Thomas Dupain’s last words, cold and perfectly delivered, completely pierced Commissioner Montoya’s composure.

“Get out of my office,” she hissed, utterly done with the entire diplomatic farce.

________________________________________________________________________

Red Hood and Barbara finished their plan, their faces grimly focused on the flickering console beneath the GCPD.

They had intercepted the fabricated paper trail: the documents pointed to a supposedly “living” Marinette Dupain-Cheng at the Elliot Charity Ball, and now Thomas Dupain and Adrien were heading straight there.

“This is so complicated it loops back around to simple,” Jason scoffed.

“Someone is manipulating someone, and we have no idea why.

A tactical misdirection for what?

And if there is a real girl, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, not related to the ghost stalker... how?”

He laughed mockingly. “Of course, Gotham is full of weirdos. Maybe a lost twin, I bet a lost twin, or…”

Barbara cut in sharply. “Or a distraction. Let’s check the usual suspects.”

She checked the status of Gotham’s known shapeshifters.

“Yes, our metahuman mimic, Jane Doe, is still incarcerated in Blackgate.

So, we can dismiss the doppelgänger angle being a direct meta attack.”

“But check Clayface’s whereabouts and his daughter, Katherine,” Red Hood insisted.

“Clayface’s erratic behavior,sometimes vigilante, sometimes villain….makes him a delicate situation.

He has the means to impersonate, to use his abilities for this kind of tomfoolery, and Katherine Karlo, the shapeshifting Clayface daughter, is a potential suspect.”

Barbara quickly typed, then shook her head.

“Negative. Clayface is currently with the Outsiders, fighting alongside Batwoman, Cassandra, Stephanie, and Duke.”

“Katherine is...” She paused, clicking a secret channel pin on the console.

It emitted a brief buzz.

A small, stuttering voice replied through the console. “Katherine? This is Oracle. Are you in Maps’s alcove?”

“Oh, yes, a part of me,” Katherine replied, her voice shaky. “Oh, they’re here.

You wanted communication.

I will deliver.”

“Thanks, Katherine. You’re a lifesaver.”

Red Hood stared at Barbara, his helmet slightly tilted. “Wait. Is she part of the Robin Initiative?”

“Birds of Prey and Robin Initiative, actually,” Barbara scoffed, meeting his gaze.

“Don’t tell me you have prejudice, Hood? Her father is a criminal, not her.”

“No, no,” Jason corrected, holding up his hands. “Just surprised.”

A low, encrypted digital footprint blinked across a secondary monitor in Maps’s Globe Cave.

Barbara Gordon, now fully operational beneath the GCPD, had sent a ghost transmission.

A pulse of code so discrete it could only be read by a Robin’s gear.

Damian Wayne accessed the message instantly.

He read the full brief: Gus’s murder, the destruction of the Belfry, Red Robin trapped in the Batcave, and the crucial confirmation of the Marinette red herring.

The code came with a strict, internalized warning: do not expose the ghost Marinette to the knowledge that a fake human identity exists.

The true manipulator’s game was still unknown, and trust in the spectral girl was still too delicate.

Damian acknowledged the message with a nearly imperceptible nod, the responsibility settling heavy on his shoulders.

He was the only Robin with full situational awareness across all three fronts.

Meanwhile, Red Hood was already preparing for the hunt.

He moved through the cramped, subterranean bunker, reloading his twin pistols, strapping combat knives, and adjusting the gear on his helmet.

His destination: the Elliot Charity Ball at Elliot Hall, a towering, opulent building near Gotham Hospital.

It is the epicenter of old Gotham money.

“If this is the opening salvo of a gang war, they picked the right spot,” he growled. “Affluent, arrogant, and heavily armed with private security.”

Barbara had reclaimed her persona as Oracle 1.

She was a blur of motion at the crude console, retrieving encrypted backup communications with Alfred and discreetly establishing a secure channel to Tim Drake.

The status was grim: Belfry ruined, Batcave status unknown, and Gus gone.

Minutes were paramount.

Bit by bit, she was weaving the severed threads of their network back together, preparing their counter-attack.

Both she and Jason knew the endgame wasn’t just survival; it was drawing the true mastermind out of the shadows.

Chapter Text

The Batcave’s vastness was filled with an unnerving silence, broken only by the stealthy movements of the intruders.

Red Robin perched in a secluded, blind spot corner. He was alone, but all his masterful precautions were in place.

He noted the intruders weren’t lobbying or searching randomly; they knew exactly what they wanted.

Their aim was in the section of Batman’s trophies: the hidden, reinforced room where the most dangerous villain artifacts were secured.

Red Robin moved, tracking the energy spikes.

The containment field at Sector 3 had been instantly breached. The Ghost Dragon Clan operatives had opened a rectangular hatch, large as a chair.

Inside, gleaming faintly, was the component key for the Telemachus Engine.

A deadly piece of lost technology from the failed Orgham invasion a year ago.

“No shit,” Tim whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. Of course it was related to the Bowery and the financial trails he was tracking.

The key to controlling the minds of thousands of Gothamites was secured here, but not for long.

Tim launched his attack.

In a flurry of calculated movements, he struck, prioritizing speed and disruption. He subdued three of the remaining operatives almost instantly with expertly placed Batarangs and precise strikes, dedicating himself to keeping the Engine component out of their hands.

He engaged the remaining three in brutal, one-on-one combat.

The Ghost Dragon Clan fighters were masters of Jiu-Jitsu and sophisticated weaponry, their skill level terrifyingly high.

But Red Robin had fought a thousand battles; he was adept, utilizing speed and leverage. He quickly incapacitated two more, leaving only one operative standing.

As he closed in on the last fighter, a blinding purple portal ripped open in the air nearby. The remaining operative, clutching the Telemachus Engine key, dove through the shimmering tear.

“Tsk,” Tim spat, frustration boiling over.

The prize was gone.

He looked down at the subdued Clan members, but they weren’t subdued for long. They began to shimmer and vanish, their forms dissipating into a purplish haze, leaving nothing but their chilling masks and uniforms.

A single, stylized feather fell silently to the ground, the only evidence of the chaos.

Red Robin knew where they were headed next.

He had just witnessed a magical escape combined with a high-tech theft.

The Elliot Hall was a subterfuge for Thomas Dupain and the authorities.

The Ghost Dragon Clan’s true objective was not here, but still tied to the Engine.

The thread was casually pulling together now: a lost Orgham tech was stolen, and it pertained to controlling the souls and minds of Gotham’s populace.

But what were they looking for now?

Tim grabbed his staff, snapping it to life.

He executed a powerful acrobatic vault over the remnants of the broken vault door, his mind already calculating the energy signature of the purple portal.

He slammed his fist into the console, pulling up the city’s power grid.

To locate the source of the immense energy burst, which was the portal, he needed to track the Engine key.

“Oracle, this is Red Robin. The target was the Orgham Telemachus Engine key.

They have it.

I need you to triangulate the largest, most contained purple energy signature currently spiking in the city.

The Elliot Hall is a decoy. They’re taking this thing straight to the Bowery.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Barbara Gordon was not in the comforting familiarity of the Belfry; she was deep underground in a separate, heavily shielded command center beneath the GCPD headquarters,Red Hood’s bunker.

The air was thick with the scent of recycled coolant and stale coffee, but Barbara barely noticed.

The array of screens surrounding her pulsed with critical data.

She was the calm nexus in the eye of the technological storm, casually pulling the threads of the crisis as a control spinner would.

“Affirmative, Red Robin,” her voice was steady, the sound carrying clearly over the comms despite the urgency.

“Red Hood is on the way to Elliot Hall, that front is contained, it’s a necessary decoy.”

It’s too dangerous not to look on two fronts.”

Sending Jason to handle the expected mop-up or trap allowed Tim, the intellect, to pursue the real prize.

Her fingers danced over the consoles, instantly calculating and deploying resources. “You take the Bowery, Red. I’m patching up Robin and Meridian with the coordinates right now.”

She knew only half the Bat-Family was currently operating in Gotham, but that half was fiercely capable.

They would confront this new danger, regardless of its magical or technological nature.

The countermove was set, sprung from her unmatched skills of deduction and strategic planning, working seamlessly with Tim Drake’s immediate field analysis.

Her steely resolve was absolute.

The painful memory of Gus’ death hardened her resolve, driving her purpose. This was more than a fight; it was a commitment. The only acceptable outcome was Justice, not vengeance.

________________________________________________________________________

Damian Wayne, Robin, internalized the coded message from Oracle.

He let out a silent sigh, acknowledging how vulnerable the complex plot had left them.

Most of the family was scattered, but the core three,Drake, Todd, and Gordon.

Were already fighting.

He remembered those desperate days on Apokolips, when his father and siblings faced down legions of Parademons and Kalibak, the son of Darkseid just to retrieve and revive him.

They never gave up on him.

Now, Gotham was calling, and his siblings were answering.

Damian looked determinedly at Maps. “The enemy has made its move. The Ghost Dragon Clan just stole a piece of an artifact from the Batcave.”

“What is it?” Mia ‘Maps’ Mizoguchi asked, her face tight with concern.

“It is a component of the Telemachus Engine.”

A loud gasp escaped Maps. “Wait, the Orgham attack a year ago?

Where the whole of Gotham was mind-controlled by the villains?

Like we became one entity, following the orders of the mad queen of Svartálfar? Geez, I don’t want to remember that.” Mia cringed at the terrifying memory of lost will.

“Indeed,” Damian affirmed. “We cannot let the Ghost Dragon Clan have that power.”

Nooroo, the Kwami, flew nearby. Marinette, despite her weakening, soul-bound state, was intently listening, her resolve clear.

Next to Maps’s console, a glistening, miniature clay amoeba form was currently their sole connection to Oracle 1.

This was Katherine Karlo’s current state,a clone directly tied into Maps’s Globe Cave, Monte Carlo 2.0, acting as their primary alert and communication system.

“Marinette, it seems familiar, is it?

The Telemachus Engine? We made research about it, right?” Nooroo spoke, an unfamiliar, weirdly unsettling optimism coloring his tiny voice.

“Oui, Nooroo, why…” Marinette paused, her translucent form shifting.

“Don’t tell me what you are thinking, Nooroo!

That’s dangerous.” Her eyes widened, and she sat straight up, looking horrified.

“Uhmmm, what are you two talking about?” Maps demanded, leaning forward.

Nooroo, driven by sudden clarity, rushed out the truth.

“That’s it!

The Telemachus Engine! We did research on it when we were here a year ago, too.

That dreadful machine,chaos magic, specifically was used.

And we debated that it is one of the keys to make Marinette whole again.”

Damian and Maps gasped in unison.

“Say it again,” Damian commanded, his voice barely a strained whisper. “How?”

But before Nooroo could answer, Marinette steeled her resolve.

She spoke with a certainty that sliced through her spectral weakness.

“The Engine controls the will of the people of Gotham.

That act of mass control is akin to making a wish, comparable to Tikki and Nooroo summoning Gimmi, the Kwami of Reality.

But the Engine is powered only by destruction and chaos.

As we already surmised, Gotham is a chaos and destruction miraculous hotbed.

Gotham soul is real; ask about your brother, Jason Todd.

Gotham’s soul is a blend of its people's will and the ancient chaos magic.

Since the wish that happened two years ago, we’ve been missing the counter-force,the Ladybug, or luck, or creation. But if the Ghost Dragon Clan has that Engine piece...”

Her voice dropped, thick with dreadful realization. “I know the only thing missing now is my mother’s spear.

It was carried by one of the Ladybug’s chosen holders during the Shang Dynasty.

The Spear of Bieling.

It’s covered in luck and creation magic. It can animate or remake the dead.”

She looked at her friends, her form shimmering with the gravity of her confession.

“It’s here, with my mother’s assets.”

Marinette had spoken the whole truth.

There was a dreadful, selfish way to remake herself, but could she truly fathom trading thousands, millions of souls for her own existence?

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne, his diamond mask discarded and his face bare, leaned close to the shimmering, spectral form of Marinette.

His voice was low, cutting through the tense air of the Globe Cave.

“No, Dupain-Cheng,” he stated, utterly without apology, his expression a complicated mix of condescension and absolute conviction.

“We would not do that. The people of Gotham are not less important than the likes of you. So don’t think about it.”

He delivered the words with his most sincere, deeply judgmental gravity, effectively telling the fading girl to accept oblivion rather than consider the catastrophic sacrifice.

Maps’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open in comical horror.

“No, Dames!” she thought, mentally screaming at her best friend’s spectacular failure to be human.

Did you seriously just tell the girl who’s fighting reality to stay focused, and by the way, go die, and don’t think about it?!

Marinette, however, simply tilted her translucent head, a faint, almost heartbreakingly small smile touching her lips. “I know, Damian,” she whispered, her spectral voice barely audible.

“Thank you for the reminder.”

“Tt,” Damian snapped, cutting off Maps’s internal panic and seizing the moment. “I’m not done talking. Cease your prattling.”

He advanced, his emerald eyes burning with a fierce, fiery intensity, reflecting the ghostly outline of Marinette.

“As I already told you about my trial in the desert... I was expected to survive seven days.

The blazing heat, no water, snakes, poison, scorpions. A normal man would perish, buried in the sand.

But not me. I had the belief I would triumph.”

His voice grew softer, laced with a rare, raw vulnerability.

“I had my mother, who, however distant, always showed her support in battle, and her unnerving belief I could survive.

My grandfather... he may be a monster, but make no mistake, he cherished us, all of us, in his own way.

My cousin,we may have been pitted to the death, but after the grueling work, we laughed, we shared a bond.”

Damian leaned in further, his intent absolute.

“I’m saying is this: if you think we will surrender to the odds of reality wanting to end your existence, perish the thought, Dupain-Cheng.

I, Damian Al Ghul Wayne, will make sure we survive this, and no Gotham soul would be sacrificed for your freedom.

I demand it.”

He didn’t just look at her; he commanded her with his entire being.

Marinette was utterly speechless.

Her transparent form seemed to collect light, making her momentarily more substantial.

The terrible burden of her decision, which was whether to live or let the city be spiritually enslaved, was overwhelming her.

She didn’t want to live at that price, but the slow, inevitable slide toward oblivion had been exhausting her will.

It was surprising to hear Damian Wayne, who typically assesses people’s value by their perceived shortcomings, make such a resolute, arrogant, and determined promise.

She saw past the condescension, past the Al Ghul pride.

In his blazing emerald stare, she didn’t see a Robin demanding obedience; she saw a boy who had survived the impossible, clinging to the smallest thread of connection.

He wasn’t demanding she live; he was demanding she fight alongside him for the integrity of existence.

A single tear, spectral and shimmering, traced a path down her face.

“Damian,” she whispered, her spectral form momentarily stable, eyes wide with the realization.

“You would... you would rage against reality itself for me?” Her heart, though fading, throbbed with a terrifying mix of awe and profound, impossible emotion.

She loved him.

Not just the fierce, dedicated hero, but the vulnerable boy who measured love in acts of tyrannical protection.

“Of course,” he affirmed, pulling back slightly, his expression softening just a millimeter.

“I don’t tolerate failure in my vicinity, Dupain-Cheng. Especially not yours.”

“Woo,” Maps thought, watching the emotional exchange. That was smooth, Dames.

She mentally translated his hostile sincerity into the deepest, most Damian-ese way of saying “I cherish you.”

That was her best friend, and she was mentally cheering him on.

If they survived this…and oh, they would.

She vowed to be the best wingwoman in all of Gotham.

Shipping these two was officially Mia Maps Mizoguchi’s personal, highly dangerous mission.

Chapter Text

Adrien Agreste sat opposite the man who had been a dearly cherished, second father figure for the last three years.

The gentle warmth of Monsieur Thomas Dupain was back, as if the preceding days had been erased. The brooding, scary man, so eerily reminiscent of Adrien’s own distant father, had vanished.

Adrien was genuinely glad they were finally going to meet Marinette at the gala.

Once this was done, they could go back to Paris and have a peaceful existence. Gotham’s bleak and stifling air physically affected him.

He felt a haunting familiarity with the place, an awful echo he couldn’t get rid of. Green, old chaos magic. Like when his using the power of Plagg, Chat Noir.

Drowning in this chaos, he is burdened by memories of his time in the suit, shared with his dear friend, who was also his mentor and, a father figure.

He dearly missed Plagg right now.

His friend was gone, vanishing shortly after Ladybug’s own mysterious disappearance.

Adrien sighed, looking out at the midday sun battling the heavy, Gothic architecture of Gotham, a jarring landscape where brutalist towers wrestled with remnants of 16th-century Baroque design.

He watched the Ghost Dragon clan operative’s driving, and near him, Tom looked peaceful, smiling as though he were about to see his daughter.

However, Adrien sensed something was amiss, like a piece of the puzzle was missing. It had become effortless, and they expected a fierce struggle to find her, but it was too simple; was this true power?

On a whim, can you command someone to come to you? Much like Gabriel, his late father.

He chose to end his life rather than fight for survival and face the consequences of his actions in Paris.

He now understands the weight of revealing everything, erasing his memories, and the complete negative consequences of the wish, which had transformed his father into the outcast, the terrifying figure, and the ultimate villain of their world.

He currently is and will continue to be that way always.

However, there are still recollections of his father as well as his mother, and those memories are pleasant ones.

“Are you all right?” Thomas Dupain asked gently, his smile warm and reassuring.

“Soon, we will be reunited with my sweet daughter.

Gotham has separated us for too long. I will be delighted to see her once again and leave this dreary place at once. But before that...”

He paused, a strange clarity coming into his eyes. “I had to make some arrangements. If the Waynes hadn’t crossed the line and made this stalker case a public debacle, I wouldn’t be forced to do this.

But son, what do you know about Bruce Wayne?”

Adrien felt puzzled but answered easily. “Ah, he’s the billionaire philanthropist with a dozen adopted sons and daughters. And the one who filed the restraining order was Damian Wayne, right? His only biological son?”

“Oui,” Thomas confirmed. “And he was the ultimate bachelor, even back in my day. I remember now, so vividly. I had met that man,or rather, his past self.

Before all of this, before I was just a baker...”

Now, Adrien was truly curious. “How? When?”

Thomas Dupain leaned forward slightly in the seat, his previous gentle demeanor hardening as he recounted the past.

“It was exactly two decades ago,” he began, his voice dropping to a low, clear narrative tone. “I was an operative working under Monsieur Henri Ducard, widely considered the greatest manhunter of his time.

Ducard was at the top of Interpol’s chain of command. He also had a son, Morgan, an accomplished man in his own right.”

Thomas gestured faintly with his hand. “When the young billionaire orphan, Bruce Wayne, washed up in Paris, looking for... ‘thrills,’ or so his weak excuse went, he ended up training under Monsieur Ducard.”

A shadow crossed Thomas’s face. “But during one fatal mission, Bruce discovered the dark dealings of Ducard.

He wasn’t just an Interpol agent; he was a ruthless manhunter, and worse, a hitman.

Bruce Wayne couldn’t accept that. So, he devised a plan to sabotage the mission,an incident that became known across Europe as the Parisian Incident.”

Thomas clenched his fist tightly, the memory still raw.

“Morgan pledged to kill Bruce for the betrayal, but Bruce was stronger, smarter, and desperate enough to melt into the shadows.

He vanished from Paris, leaving the Ducards tangled in a worldwide corruption scandal that made them enemies of many powerful people.”

Thomas sighed, releasing the tension in his shoulders. “As I was one of Ducard’s students, I was prepared to die, to kill, to protect the organization. But Henri Ducard, in a final act, freed me of my duties.

I was granted a new life. And then, I met Sabine.”

The long, elaborate story captivated Adrien Agreste. It was haunting, deeply connected to the man sitting beside him, and tragically tearful.

“I wished that the story ended right there, and we would never cross the path of the Waynes,”

Thomas Dupain continued, his voice growing grave.

“But a murder case a decade ago resurfaced. Morgan Ducard, Henri’s son, had taken on the villain persona of Nobody, an invisible killer.

He targeted the Waynes.

It was a bloody night that resulted in his own death, and you would not believe this, son, but the killer...”

Adrien, listening intently, felt curiosity overriding caution. “Who?”

Thomas’s eyes, devoid of any baker’s warmth, were locked on Adrien.

“It’s his son, Damian Wayne.”

“What? Wait, was he just a kid back then? Probably ten years old? How is that even possible?” Adrien demanded, his confusion mounting.

Thomas pulled out his phone and showed a piece of heavily guarded footage. “I only clipped the puzzles when I got this through the GCPD and my back-channel dealings. This is a coveted piece of evidence.”

Adrien watched the grainy, blurry footage on the small screen: a bloody, brutal murder inside a confined, burning space,like a submarine hatch.

The video clearly showed the man being shot at point-blank range, a flash of pure rage.

Adrien felt a rush of cold sickness, but his history as Chat Noir, the experience of casually dying and remaking himself, had hardened him slightly against the shock of murder.

“How could you get this, if the Waynes buried this?” Adrien asked, his voice low.

Thomas smiled,a cold, calculating gesture that wiped away the gentle baker persona completely.

“I am a manhunter, too. And this murder confirmed my suspicions: Damian Wayne is a menace that I will not let my daughter face again.

I will do anything, by any means necessary, to put this man away and secure him behind bars.”

“What... what did you do, Monsieur Tom?” Adrien felt a prickling fear on his skin.

Thomas’s face was seething with a manic superiority, chillingly akin to the expression his late father, Gabriel, wore as the terrifying Hawkmoth.

This time, Adrien didn’t fear Thomas; he felt a sudden, profound fear for Damian Wayne’s life.

He knew what it was like to be publicly vilified and hated.

Now, he was certain Thomas had just done something that would ensure Damian Wayne was not just caught, but publicly branded a certified villain in the eyes of the masses.

“The arrangements I made,” Thomas whispered, his eyes gleaming with triumphant vindication as the car slowed to a halt outside the opulent Elliot Hall. “They were for the media,and let the vultures eat the Waynes from within.”

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne’s own admission and his firm belief that he could find a way to save the not-so-ghost Marinette from vanishing had steeled his resolve.

He held the conviction that no force could destroy his greatest fears today, not tomorrow, or ever. He would recover and relinquish the deadly magical trade.

The erasure of Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s existence.

He refused to cower now, just like his father, whose tireless crusade fueled him.

He looked at the spectral, black-suited girl, smiling, broken but fiercely unyielding.

He was with her; he was her human anchor at the backdrop of this cosmic struggle.

Sisyphus had been right: the struggle is part of living. The boulder would be lifted, and this otherwise meaningless existence had given him something profound: a person to fight for.

He hoped Marinette understood that message.

He looked at her, longing, intently examining her features. A deep red crept across his cheeks.

No.

He was falling for her, too,and for a specter, a not-so-ghost, perhaps even a stalker, no less.

But who was he to judge?

He admitted it to himself: he was not a good person.

He remembered the countless times he had lied to boost his ego with the Teen Titans, how much he belittled them, puffing up his head to lie adamantly about his own purpose, constantly needing to be the center of attention.

He knew the reason.

It stemmed from an upbringing devoid of warmth.

And when he finally returned to his father, he was forced to fight for attention with four more siblings.

His inferiority-superiority complex was ringing its ugly head yet again.

He had abandoned his post in the Teen Titans because his colleagues and friends simply could not tolerate his pompous leadership anymore.

He was better alone, anyway.

Then there was the break-up of the Super Sons. Not for some inane drama, but because Jon had been called away and came back older, wiser.

Damian felt the dynamic change; he almost didn’t recognize Jon Kent. As the years progressed, Jon was still his best friend, but life had changed rapidly for both of them.

He had also failed in his intimate relationships, which were often a chaotic mix of love and hate. He thought of the girls he had loved:

There was Maxine, the caring, no-nonsense girl who could stand beside him and never accept his bullshit.

Then there was Nika, who showed him how to live dangerously, unburdened by the legacies that defined his life…the indoctrination of the League of Assassins and his father’s crusade.

She taught him how to balance the past and follow the future.

Flatline offered him care and love amidst the chaos of a family heist, life, and death on Lazarus Island, leading to the most painful, raw breakup he had ever experienced.

He had truly thought Nika would be the one, someone to be cared for until his last remaining days, but of course, his dead grandfather ruined everything.

Nika’s lies about Ra’s al Ghul possessing her, the betrayal, and the cold indifference she offered him led to bitter fights where they laid bare the truth: it wouldn’t work for them.

The shadow of the Al Ghul family had taken too much from him and from Nika, a grandfather unwilling to go gently into the good night, destroying the one thing Damian loved the most.

Now he was isolated, back in Gotham, taking a pre-med track. Only Mia Mizoguchi had stayed; only she smiled and remained. And now, he was here, with one final young woman whose life was at stake.

A peril he couldn’t even comprehend.

This was his last chance for something he desperately sought. He hoped so dearly that all the betrayals and wrongdoing he had committed would be forgiven, paving the path for his atonement.

​He was drawn from his deep reflection by a sharp, red ping.

Katherine Karlo’s voice and Oracle 1 rang from a speaker: “Robin, do you hear me? Open any media outlet, the internet, just open it.”

Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi, instantly curious and concerned, opened the single computer console in her customized Monte Carlo, a setup courtesy of Colton Rivera, master tech extraordinaire.

The link Oracle provided exploded onto the screen, pulling headlines from the Gotham Gazette, social media sites, and KordTube.

“WAYNE SON, ALLEGEDLY A KILLER?”

The screen showed pixelated footage of an old, bloodied murder committed by a child in an undisclosed location.

Everyone in the alcove gasped.

Mizoguchi was visibly shaken. This was a side of her closest friend she had never known.

Meanwhile, Marinette, a spectral presence, instantly hovered closer, clasping Damian’s hands and gripping them tightly, even while ghosting, desperate to show her support.

“Damian! What is going on?” Maps asked, her voice tight with fear as more damning evidence piled up: reports painting Damian Wayne as a ruthless menace, detailing his record at Gotham Academy, destruction of private property, theft, bullying, and his expulsion courtesy of “Mr. Hammerhead.”

“No! No, no, it’s all wrong!” Maps adamantly denied everything on the internet.

“Damian only did that to save me, or to find the real culprit of the Inish Tree Quill Pen! What are they talking about?”

Then another tabloid report appeared: Gotham News showed a blurred image of Damian kissing someone in his teens and featured the shocking exposure of him allegedly dating two female siblings at the same time.

“Oh, hell no, that’s not true!” Maps exploded, slamming her hand on the console. “Maxine is his girlfriend, and Rachel was only a friend!

This is fabricated! It grates my nerves!” She was furious at the lies designed to destroy Damian’s credibility.

While Damian stood utterly still, Marinette hovered fiercely, whispering apologies. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This wouldn’t happen if I didn’t go with you.”

“What are you talking about, Dupain-Cheng?” Damian asked, his voice low, measured, and dangerously calm.

Marinette, visibly shaken by the Gotham news painting her friend, her savior, her anchor, as a cold, philandering killer, finally looked up.

“I know this tactic,” she said, her spectral form shimmering with fear and cold realization.

“It is a dual smoke screen.

And I know who controls the passage of information. I know who did this.” Her worst fears were coming true: everything she touched was slowly being taken away, destroyed.

She was a curse.

“Dupain-Cheng, look at me! Please, who?” Damian demanded, gripping her ghostly hands tighter.

Marinette shuddered, the confession heavy and terrifying.

“It’s... it’s my father.”

Her loving father, a man with a ruthless, manhunting side she desperately wished she had never known, was using his knowledge to dismantle the only support she had left.

He was painting Damian Wayne as the villain because of her. If she had simply swept away and wasn’t obsessed with Damian, none of this would be happening.

It was all her fault. Damian is bearing the consequences of her actions.

Chapter Text

Damian Al Ghul Wayne had made his decision, He was sure all the accusations had a veneer of truth, but the murder…it was too raw, too real.

He was ashamed; the hateful, naive ten-year-old child had done that deed to protect his father’s kingdom.

It had caused him unending grief, fueling his fear that he would become the Nobody someday.

Now, the ghost of Nobody was haunting him, accusing him of that killing, threatening to make his atonement for naught.

But he looked at Mia Mizoguchi, whose resolve was firm. He could face her, but her defiant naïveté, her sunshine amidst the dreary darkness, pushed back his spiral.

“Dames, don’t give me that look,the self-loathing one.

No, we will fight this, you hear me?” Mia’s voice was sharp but gentle.

“We are adventurers, and this is the darkest moment for us. Our bonds won’t quell because of this, okay? So stay with us.”

Marinette, hovering nearby, added her support, her resolve making her spectral form’s invisibility and transparency waver.

“Damian, I know it is my curse. But I want to help.”

He looked at them. Nooroo hovered around, and he knew Katherine’s clone was nodding at the table as well.

He was not alone. His family was fighting for him, fighting for Gotham.

He sighed.

He had taken the diamond mask and placed it back on, determined that he would not let the guilt consume him.

Today, he had comrades. Today, he knew he was loved.

_______________________________________________________________________

Barbara Gordon, hunched over the main console, watched the media circus feast on the headlines, turning the Waynes into monsters and a public ridicule.

She hated the tactic.

She knew how to counteract it…not by adding fuel to the fire, but with a simple, direct approach: take the accusations head-on.

As luck would have it, the Elliot Ball was scheduled for tonight, and all the chess pieces were converging on that one location.

She knew this was risky.

Red Robin ,Tim Drake had already called Wayne Tower to begin counteracting the lawsuits and calm the public.

This was no longer just a Bat-Family issue; this was the public Wayne legacy itself, and they needed a united front to stop the bleeding,not as Batman Incorporated, but as the Family.

“Damian,” she said into the comms, her voice cutting through the tension. “I know it’s a lot, but you have to make a public appearance.

Tim and I can shield your digital footprint, but the more you hide and don’t say anything, the deeper this drama will get. They are threatening to release something much darker if you don’t resurface.

I’m afraid Robin will need to bench the cowl for a while, and we need Damian Wayne tonight.”

The silence on the line stretched long and tense.

Finally, Damian Wayne’s voice came through: “Affirmative.”

Barbara flopped back in her old, creaking chair, exhausted, her eyes bloodshot.

This problem had escalated from supernatural to cosmic and now, to a public, malicious vendetta.

She was tired.

But she knew that if she wanted to fight for her family, she had to push through. And so she worked.

Oracle 1 had an ace up her sleeve.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jason Peter Johnson-Todd had already infiltrated the upcoming gala. Shedding the Red Hood costume, he was now one of the faceless security personnel, hiding in plain sight.

Thanks to his brute force, he’d taken down an innocent guard, already gagged and asleep in a utility locker.

He completed his sweep, looking for the decoy Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She was not here.

He checked the guest list again; her name was on it, but not as a guest,she was listed as part of the staff.

Neat.

An accomplished eighteen-year-old part of Gotham’s fashion underground.

This version was so different from the spectral “ghost” he had met.

Something was fishy, or perhaps something more complex was at play. Someone was lying,either this real girl or the ghost.

He needed to be sure.

He walked the perimeter, learning the exits and observing the early preparations for the gala. It was approximately two hours before the circus was scheduled to begin, and he was already seeing staff and early socialites gather and mingle.

He knew this Elliot Charity Ball was a potential hotbed for a major attack. The rumored inclusion of the Ghost Dragon Clan only amplified the risk.

Maybe a rogue attack later, he thought, hoping he wasn’t jinxing the night.

But fuck it, it’s Gotham. He genuinely wished no one would die today.

As he walked, he didn’t sense the young woman who bumped straight into him.

“Uhm, sorry, Monsieur,” she rushed out. “I’m just a klutz sometimes. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

She wore a striking black and red dress, and her short hair framed a face wearing a sleek, black, diamond-incrusted mask.

He froze, recognizing the familiar, deep bluebell eyes.

Holy shit. This is the decoy, isn’t it?

She looked so completely different from the spectral ghost he had met.

A sophisticated, real, eighteen-year-old socialite.

Yet, the eyes, the way she moved, and her delicate facial structure were too perfect to be anyone other than the runaway stalker heiress.

Jason swiftly extended his hand, holding her arm to stop her from rushing away. “H-Hm, Miss,” he asked, visibly confused by the disparity between his two experiences. “Are you Marinette Dupain-Cheng?”

Her eyes widened slightly behind the mask. “Oui, ah, yes. I am. What is the matter, Monsieur?” she asked, her voice steady but a hint of nervousness flickering in her pupils.