More advance chapters on Patreon./Saintbarbido.

  -0-

  Throughout the year, Damian's reputation at Gotham Academy had reached a boiling point.

  The students didn't know whether to admire him, fear him, or avoid him altogether.

  He was untouchable, both academically and physically.

  Teachers were too intimidated by his sharp too discipline him, and his cssmates were too scared to cross him. Only Helena ied with him as a friend.

  But beh the surface, tensions were brewing.

  Trevor and his ckeys hadn't fotten their humiliation, and their quiet whispers of revenge were spreading.

  Damian had bee a target—not just for the boys he had beaten but for the entire system.

  It all came to a head during a rainy afternoon in the school courtyard.

  Damian was walking alone, as usual, wheiced a otion by the fountain.

  A group of boys had surrounded someone—a girl, small and hunched over, her backpack spilled across the wet pavement.

  It was Helena.

  Damian's eyes narrowed as he approached, his footsteps steady and deliberate.

  The boys were ughing, kig her belongings around the courtyard. Trevor stood at the ter, a smug grin on his face.

  "You think you're special, huh?" Trevor sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Just because your daddy was some big-shot mobster? You're nothing."

  Helena didn't respond. She simply k on the ground, gathering her books with trembling hands.

  "Leave her alone," Damian said, his voice cutting through the rain like a bde.

  The group turo face him, their ughter fading. Trevrin twisted into a smirk.

  "Look who it is," Trevor said. "The rich kid e to py hero."

  Damian stepped closer, his expression cold. "I said, leave her alone."

  Trevhed, gesturing to the others. "You hear that, guys? Ghost Boy thinks he's in charge."

  One of the boys lu Damian, but he didn't even flinch. A full year of steady training in his adopted father's massive gym had made him so deadly, he could take on a dozen people eyes closed and hands tied behind his back.

  With a swift, calcuted motion, Damian sidestepped the attad drove his elbow into the boy's stomach.

  The boy crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

  The other boys hesitated, their fidence faltering. But Trevor wasn't bag down.

  "You think you scare me?" Trevrowled, stepping forward. "You're just some spoiled brat pying tough."

  Damian's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Try me."

  ---

  Trevor didn't wait. He swung a wild punch, aiming for Damian's head.

  But Damian was even faster now than their st enter. He ducked uhe blow and tered with a precise strike to Trevor's jaw.

  The fight escated quickly. The rain-slicked pavement became a battlefield as Damian took oire group.

  His movements were sharp and effit, his strikes calcuted to disable without killing, while delivering the maximum level of pain.

  Someone grabbed him from behind, but Damian shifted his weight, flipping the boy over his shoulder and onto the ground.

  Another charged at him with a yell, only to be met with a brutal kick to the knee.

  By the time it was over, the courtyard was silent except for the sound of rain and the groans of Trevroup.

  Damian stood over Trevor, his knuckles bloodied, his chest heaving. Trevor tried to crawl away, but Damian grabbed him by the colr, pulling him up to meet his gaze.

  "If you ever touch her again," Damian said, his voice low and dangerous, "I'll kill you."

  He shoved Trevor back to the ground and turo Helena, who was still crouched by the fountain, her eyes wide with shock.

  "Get up," Damian said, his tone softer.

  Helena nodded quickly, scrambling to her feet and gatherihings.

  --

  The aftermath of the fight was immediate. Teachers rushed out into the courtyard, horrified at the se.

  Trevroup, bruised aen, poihe bme squarely at Damian.

  "He attacked us!" Trevor shouted, clutg his side. "He's a psycho!"

  Damian didn't deny it. He stood silently as the teachers demanded an expnation, his expression unreadable.

  Helena tried to speak up. "They started it! They were—"

  "Enough!" the principal snapped. "Both of you, to my offiow."

  --

  Later that evening, Damian sat in the Wayne Manor study, waiting for Bruce. His fists were ched, his body tense. He could already feel the lecture ing.

  When Bruce finally ehe room, his expression was a mix of frustration and disappoi. He tossed a copy of the school's report onto the desk.

  "Damian, what were you thinking?" Bruce demanded.

  "They deserved it," Damian said ftly.

  "Do you even hear yourself?" Bruce said, his voice rising. "You 't keep doing this! You're not in the underground rings anymore. This isn't about survival—it's about trol."

  "They were hurting her," Damian shot back. "What was I supposed to do? Stand by and watch?"

  "Yes, if it meant handling it the right way!" Bruce said. "Violence isn't always the answer."

  Damian's eyes narrowed. "Says the man who puts on a mask as criminals every night."

  Bruce froze, the words hitting harder than he expected. Damian knew he was Batman? How? Bruce had done his best to hide that part of his life from the boy.

  "This is different," the older Wayne said, his tone quieter but still firm.

  "No, it's not," Damian said. "You're just a hypocrite. You act like you're better than me, but you're not."

  Bruce's patience finally snapped.

  "That's enough!" he said, his voice eg through the study.

  The room fell silent.

  "Do you even care about a yourself?" Bruce asked, his toting. "Do you care about the people who are trying to help you? Alfred? Me?"

  Damian stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Theood, his voice cold.

  "You don't care about me," Damian said. "I'm just another project to you. Another broken thing you think you fix to make yourself feel good, just like your other adopted son. I wonder if he left because he saw through your bullshit."

  Before Bruce could respond, Damian turned and walked out of the room.

  ---

  That night, Damian packed his belongings into a single bag a Wayne Manor without looking back.

  His time being a spoiled rich brat was over. Now he was baaking his own rules and living how he wanted.

  As he walked through the dark streets of Gotham, Alfred's words echoed in his mind: ("If you ever need a way out, Master Damian, there's someone you call.")

  Damian pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

  The name and number of Alfred's old MI6 tact stared back at him. A grin tugged at his lips. He'd miss The Old butler more than Wayne.

  Alfred saw him for who he was rather than who he wanted him to be. And that had earned Damian's respect.

  With nowhere else to go, Damian dialed the number.

  The line rang twice before a clipped, professional voiswered.

  "This is Barton," the man said.

  "I need a job," Damian said without hesitation.

  There ause. "Who gave you this number?"

  "Alfred Pennyworth."

  Another pause, lohis time. Then the voice softened slightly, though it remained guarded. "If Alfred sent you, you must be in trouble. Who am I speaking to?"

  "Damian Wayne," Damian replied.

  "Wayne?" Bartoed, his tone sharp with reition. "As in Bruce Wayne?"

  Damian's jaw tighte fetting he was no longer a Wayhat's not important. Are you going to help me or not?"

  Barton sighed. "Alright, kid. Meet me at the er of Hart and Fourth in one hour. And don't be te."

  The li dead.

  --

  Exactly one hour ter, Damian arrived at the designated meeting spot—a nondescript diner on a quiet er.

  The neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a sickly glow over the cracked pavement.

  Inside, Barton sat in a booth by the window. He was a grizzled man in his te forties, with sharp features and a scar running down his left cheek.

  His eyes were cold, sing Damian as he approached.

  "You're just a kid," Barton said, leaning ba his seat.

  "And you're just a washed-up spook," Damian shot back, sliding into the booth across from him.

  Barton's lips twitched in amusement. "Alfred said you'd have an attitude. He didn't mention you'd be suicidal enough to use it with me."

  "I don't have time fames," Damian said, leaning forward. "I need work, and I'm good at what I do."

  Barton raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you do?"

  "Anything that o be done," Damian replied. "I'm fast, effit, and smarter than anyone you've got. You'd be an idiot not to take me on."

  Barton chuckled, shaking his head. "You've got guts, kid, I'll give you that. But this isn't a pyground. The kind of work we do will eat you alive."

  "I've been surviving sihe day I was born," Damian said, his tone icy. "I ha."

  Barton studied him for a long moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail—the scars on his knuckles, the calm fiden his posture, the barely tained fury behind his eyes. Finally, he nodded.

  "Alright," Barton said. "You want a ce? You've got one. But if you screw up, you're on your own. Uood?"

  "Uood," Damian said.

  ---

  Barton didn't waste time. Within days, Damian was being briefed on his first assig—a simple courier mission.

  "The job is straightforward," Barton said, handing Damian a small metal case. "Take this to the docks at Pier 17. Meet the tact, hand it over, and walk away. No questions, no improvisation. Got it?"

  Damian nodded. "And if the tact doesn't show?"

  "Then you wait," Barton said. "But if anyone else approaches, you leave. Don't engage."

  Damian smirked. "You don't trust me to handle myself?"

  "I trust you'll follow orders," Barton said sharply. "Don't make me regret this."

  ---

  The docks were quiet that night, the air thick with the smell of salt and oil. Damian stood in the shadows, his sharp eyes sing the area for any signs of movement.

  The tact was te.

  He tapped his fingers against the metal case, his patience wearing thin. Barton's instrus had been clear, but Damian wasn't oo sit idle. Especially in an uable pce like Gotham.

  Every instin him screamed to take trol of the situation, to hunt down the tastead of waiting.

  But then he saw them—two figures approag from the far end of the pier.

  Damian tensed, his hand slipping into his jacket to grip the hilt of a small bde. The figures stopped a few feet away, their faces obscured by the shadows.

  "You're the Ghost, right?" one of them said.

  "Who's asking?" Damian replied.

  The figure chuckled. "Rex, kid. We're the tact."

  Damian didn't move. "Prove it."

  The sed figure stepped forward, holding up a small card with a symbol Damian reized from Barton's briefing.

  Satisfied, Damian handed over the case, his movements swift and precise.

  The figures exged a gnce before one of them spoke again. "You've got guts, kid. I'll give you that. Most people wouldn't take a job like this their first time out."

  "I'm not most people," Damian said coldly.

  The figures chuckled and disappeared into the night, leaving Damian alone on the pier.

  ---

  When Damiauro the safehouse, Barton was waiting for him.

  "Well?" Barton asked.

  "Done," Damian said, tossing the empty case onto the table.

  Barton nodded, a faint smirk on his lips. "Not bad for your first job. But don't get cocky. This was the easy part."

  "I'm ready for the hard part. Preferably a mission that takes me out of Gotham." Damian said.

  Barton's smirk faded, his expression turning serious. "We'll see about that. Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real work begins."

  ---

  As Damian y on the worn cot in the er of the safehouse provided by Barton, his mind raced with thoughts of what y ahead.

  He didn't trust Barton, and he didn't trust anyone who worked with him. Fortunately Barton's operations were not involved with the known gangs or supervilins of Gotham, lessening the ces of Damian ing across 'him'. The Batman. Bruce Wayne.

  -0-

  In the shadows of the Gotham night, Batman stood atop a rooftop across the Warehouse, staring down.

  He had been following Damian's trail, trying to piece together the boy's movements since he left Wayne Manor.

  "What are you pnning, Damian?" Bruce murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the wind.