Chapter Text
Gotham is not what he expected.
Damian stares out from the rooftop ledge, the city sprawling beneath him like a rusted machine—loud, ugly, and alive. The air is heavy with the scent of rain and exhaust, and the night trembles with sirens and the distant whine of a train. It smells like rust and rot and something worse—something feral. A place with too many shadows and not enough light.
But it doesn’t scare him. Not exactly. It thrills him. This is where his father made his legacy. This is where he will carve his own.
Damian tightens his grip on the rusted fire escape, balancing easily as he perches at the edge of the tenement building. He’s dressed in black and charcoal gray, the colors blending seamlessly with the stormy skyline. He will not announce himself. Not yet. He’s not here to make introductions. He’s here to be seen . He had been told almost nothing. A simple directive.
“You will go to Gotham. You will assist your father. It is time you learn how to operate under his guidance.”
Nothing more. No names. No coddling.
They hadn’t even told him who Batman was. Only that he ruled this city like a myth, and that Damian—his only biological son—was to learn from him.
But Damian does not want to be a student. He has trained since birth. He has drawn blood with a blade no taller than his arm. He has earned his name in combat rings long before other children learned to walk upright.
No. He would not beg for Batman’s approval like some orphaned stray.
He would earn it.
Damian grips the small mask tucked into his belt. He has studied Gotham’s infrastructure, its sewer access points, and its weak security loops. He has hacked low-grade surveillance systems in the Narrows and constructed a network of dead drops across the city.
He’s already chosen the name.
Crow.
Not as sharp or majestic as a falcon. Not as elegant as a hawk. But clever. Unassuming. Overlooked—until it wasn’t. Crows remember. They adapt. They survive.
Nightwing. Red Hood. Even the one they call Robin—each of them was a vigilante before they became anything else. Before they were accepted. Damian would follow suit.
He didn’t need Batman to bring him into the fold. He would be impossible to ignore .
It had taken a week to gather the materials. His gear is scavenged and repurposed. Reinforced gloves patched from his stitching. His mask is cracked down one side from a botched fall on night two—he keeps it anyway.
He tells himself it builds character. Pain is irrelevant. He has a mission. He will clean the streets. He will strike from the dark. He will learn his father’s city before he ever learns the man’s name. Below, a scream cuts through the air. A woman, stumbling into an alley. Two men follow, slurred threats cutting through the misting rain.
Damian doesn’t hesitate. His hand slips to his dagger. The alley is narrow. Good. Let them underestimate him.
The man is twice his size and three times his weight, but he moves like a drunk elephant — all brute force and no discipline. Damian dodges low, sweeping the thug’s knees out with a kick. The man collapses hard, skull cracking against the concrete with a satisfying thud . His breath hitches, shallow and steady. Rain trickles down his mask, soaking into the collar of his hoodie. He steps forward, calm and quiet, unsheathing a blade from his belt.
No one is watching.
No cameras. No witnesses.
This man had a gun. Had pressed it to a teenage girl’s ribs and demanded she empty her backpack. He would not stop until someone made him stop. Damian raises the blade. A clean strike. Quick. Final. It would be easy. But then— a whisper . Not from the street. Not from the man begging at his feet.
A whisper from memory .
“Batman does not kill.”
He hesitates. His fingers curl around the hilt.
“You will assist your father. You will follow his rules.”
He grits his teeth. The thug whimpers, blood from a broken nose mixing with the rain. Damian lowers the blade.
He steps back, pulling a zip tie from his belt and binding the man’s hands behind his back. It’s messier than killing. Less… clean. But he cannot fail this test. Not before it’s truly begun. He is Crow. He is in control .
“Wow,” a voice drawls above him. “The vigilantes keep getting younger and younger, huh?”
Damian’s head snaps upward.
A figure leans casually over the edge of the roof, head tilted, posture loose and confident. Red and green catch in the city’s low light, a yellow cape fluttering behind him like a banner. Casually leaning against his bö-staff like he’s watching a game of football.
Robin.
The current one. He’s smirking, of course. Hair ruffled, expression just this side of amused. Damian narrows his eyes beneath the mask. He decides he does not like him. At all.
Damian’s boots slap against the wet pavement, heartbeat pounding in his ears as he cuts down a narrow alleyway. His breath comes hard and fast through the mask. His side aches from a hit he took earlier, but he pushes through.
He has to lose him – The sidekick. The third. The heir to the throne, if the rumors are true. Damian doesn’t know the identity under the mask — not yet — but he knows one thing for certain: He cannot be caught by him.
Not before he’s had a chance to prove himself.
He darts into the maze of lower Gotham — where scaffolding and construction sites twist the city into a decaying labyrinth. He leaps over a busted dumpster, narrowly avoiding the barbed edge of an old fence, and vaults into a side lot with crumbling bricks and fire escapes like spiderwebs.
He’s memorized the maps. Studied the city’s evolution. Learned the street names, the building blueprints, the flood paths, and the back alleys. He knows Gotham like an exam. Like a war plan.
Damian slows as he ducks behind a rusted-out truck, his chest heaving. He scans the rooftops. Nothing. Silence.
No trace of red, green, or gold.
Crow smirks beneath the mask. Gone.
His head snaps toward the alley exit—just in time to get tackled.
“Ghk—!”
He hits the ground with a wet smack, shoulder pinned, wrist twisted behind his back before he can blink. The weight on him is precise. Controlled.
Infuriatingly professional.
Robin leans over him, his smile just this side of amused, as rain drips from his cowl. “Don’t celebrate too fast, rookie.”
Damian growls low in his throat, writhing beneath the hold like a trapped animal. Robin tightens his grip, just slightly. Damian does not like him – his voice is grating, annoyingly unserious, like he’s enjoying every ounce of this.
Then, “What do they call you?” he asks, voice calm like he’s genuinely curious. Like he expects an answer.
Damian stiffens. His first instinct is to lie. Or to say nothing. To growl something threatening in return. But he doesn’t. He remembers his mission. He must not anger his father’s allies. He must prove he is capable.
But perhaps…
Perhaps he can prove it by escaping.
“Let go of me,” Damian hisses. “Or I will make you regret it.”
Robin laughs. Laughs. “Oh, that’s cute.”
And that’s when Crow moves.
A twist of his hips, a sharp knee aimed for the ribs, his free hand darting toward a pressure point in Robin’s forearm. He breaks the grip with sheer instinct and flips them—if only for a second—before Robin wrangles him again.
They crash into the wet gravel.
Robin’s smile slips into something tighter. Focused. “You’re fast.”
“You’re in my way,” Damian snaps. Robin’s eyes widen, and his smile grows. It’s strangely predator-like. He tries again, and again—like a wild thing that refuses to quit.
Damian narrows his eyes at Robin, who’s still smiling, annoyingly. He twists again, but Robin presses against him with more force, twisting his arm so that it’s on the precipice of painful and uncomfortable. He’s better than Damian gives him credit for.
Damian knows he could easily escape — he could dislocate his arm. He has a dagger on his belt that could easily find its way into the white slits of Robin’s domino mask. All that he’s learned to escape requires harming Robin, killing him, or otherwise. That would be easy. The hard part is escaping without hurting the sidekick to the point of no return.
It’s infuriating, but Damian doesn’t do anything. Not yet, anyways.
Instead, he shifts, allowing more pressure to be placed on his shoulder and letting his head fall onto the dirty rooftop. He wants to be seen as complicit, a young kid who has just realized his dream of being the next Robin has been dashed.
He feels Robin lean back, satisfied. Now, all Damian needs to do is wait. Though if he has to listen to Robin’s incessant yapping the entire time, he may as well start employing the League’s torture-resistant tactics.
“Y’know, you look a bit young to be doing this. Especially without backup.” Robin smiles, but there’s an edge to the charismatic grin. If Damian didn’t know any better, he looks a bit… sad. “Are you going to answer my question, or am I going to be stuck in this position forever? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I have plans tonight.”
Damian does not roll his eyes. But he is tempted. He grits his teeth — attempting to move only sends more shocks of pain through his arm.
He hopes not all of Father’s allies are this annoying. Still, Damian doesn’t answer. He can feel Robin picking through his backpack, eyes widening at the plethora of weapons, materials, etc. that Damian has managed to scavenge.
He lets out an amused huff when he uses his free hand to pick up a League-grade dagger — its golden handle is decorated with roses and vines. A parting gift from Mother.
Damian feels a flash of anger, but doesn’t say anything. Finally, after what feels like millennia, Robin zips up his backpack, still smiling— yet, it’s softer now. Gentle.
“Listen kid, I know you wanna help. But, it’s really dangerous out here. You’re going to get yourself killed.” Robin says, and Damian clicks his tongue.
He’s almost tempted to reply sharply, but then, he feels it. A shift, a realization that tells him that now is the chance to act. He dislocates his shoulder, rolling Robin off, and striking him with his elbow. He begins to run, hearing Robin’s dismayed cries behind him.
“Are you kidding me?” Robin shouts as Damian slides gracefully over an AC unit and slides under a gap in the chainlink fence, towards a fire escape.
He hopes that Robin realizes it’s a lost cause. That, he simply isn’t worth it. He doesn’t hear Robin behind him, and before he drops off the building into a planned safe route, he shouts out, “I go by Crow!”
Then, he crawls upward, his all black gear serving as a way to melt into the night.
* * *
The kid disappears into the night. Tim is still reeling from the sound of the kid’s shoulder snapping, and of course, the blood slowly trickling from his nose. He sighs, feeling just slightly embarrassed that a small vigilante who is barely 5 feet tall managed to best him.
Tim stays where he is, splayed on the rooftop with blood dribbling down his upper lip and the sharp throb of a forming bruise under his ribs.
“Crow,” he mutters aloud, blinking at the night sky like it personally offended him. “Seriously?” He presses a gloved hand to his nose, winces, and mutters, “Of course he picked a dramatic bird name.” Then he sits up, slowly, groaning as he rolls his shoulder. He touches his comm, flicking the mic on.
“B,” he says, and then clears his throat again. He’s not winded—he’s not—but he is mildly humbled.
“…I found a new kid for you to adopt.” There’s a pause. Then, through the comms, comes the quiet sound of Bruce sighing.
Tim smirks, hearing Dick’s distant laugh. “Totally unrelated, by the way, we have a new wannabe vigilante. Goes by ‘Crow’.” Tim picks up the dagger from his pocket and smiles at it. “We may have a clue.”
* * *
Damian rifles through his backpack, breath quickening as his fingers meet nothing but scraps, wire, and empty cloth. His other, stolen weapons greet him. But the dagger — his dagger — is gone. A hot, electric surge of panic and anger shoots through him, snapping down his spine like a whip. His fists clench tightly until his knuckles turn white. With a growl, he swings at the rotting wood of the wall beside him, ignoring the bloom of pain in his hand and the way his bones shift and groan like the hull of an old ship battling rough waters.
Fine. Let it hurt.
He strips off his gloves, fingers trembling, and wraps his bloodied knuckles with precise movements, forcing his breath to slow. Mother wouldn’t want him to spiral. She would demand control — the mind like water, fluid and clear. Emotionless. Unshaken.
The anger simmers beneath his skin like coals, but he buries it deep as he peels off his makeshift costume. The scarf-mask that hides his face, the too-tight shirt with armor padding sewn in by hand, the gloves — all tossed aside until he stands in nothing but his scavenged civvies.
Robin has taken the dagger. The only thing Damian truly cares about.
And he’ll do more than that. He’ll take his place beside Batman. His Father. If Damian doesn’t move quickly — if he doesn’t escalate, build a reputation, strike harder — he’ll lose everything. The League has given him a year. Twelve months to prove himself. To become worthy.
He sinks into the floor, hunger twisting his stomach. He needs new materials. Needs food, better equipment, and a plan. He huffs, kicking off the bottom half of his uniform and throwing on some smaller clothes he managed to grab from an unsuspecting Laundromat. He’s swimming in the clothes — he’s only wearing a white tank top, a thick black hoodie stained with bleach, and thick cargo pants that drag onto the floor. Even with Damian’s careful stitching and cutting, the pants are still too big to avoid suspicion.
Tomorrow, he’ll get food. He’ll find his dagger. And, he’ll find a better place to stay. But, for now, he’ll grab a bite to eat. It’s near the end of patrol for the Bat — he knows that they always end patrol when night melts into dawn, and that’s why Damian always patrols at that time—more chances to find Robin and show him what the son of Batman can do.
When Damian wakes, it’s still early morning. He finds it hard to sleep for longer than a couple of hours at a time, a habit he’s picked up from his training. Still, he does his usual early morning rituals. Checks all the exits of his safe house to see if the broken glass he placed by the windows and doors has been disturbed. The bottle on the doorknob is still steadily balancing, and the powder he scattered on the fire escape before he went to bed has no footprints.
Satisfied, Damian creeps down the broken stairwell of the abandoned apartment and heads toward Gotham’s quieter corners. He knows what he looks like, but it seems that a kid as small as he is and as shadowed as he looks is no surprise to the citizens of Gotham, which is a relief.
He hops a bus, flashing a tired look at the driver, who doesn’t even ask for fare. Maybe a couple of weeks ago, the thought of using public transportation and sleeping on the streets would be the stuff of nightmares, but he knows he must try everything to earn his spot among his Father. Even if it is engaging in behaviors that no prince should. Damian slumps into a seat at the back, scanning the streets while his thoughts return to last night’s patrol.
If he were to run into Red Hood, who would most likely be more violent than the cheerful Robin, he would need some form of protection. He’s heard the rumors, of course – The Protector of Gotham’s Children – but it sounds more like a fairy tale the children of Crime Alley tell themselves to sleep better rather than a legitimate claim. He has never been favored, in his time as an Assassin, due to his age. In fact, it seems to be his greatest source of failure. He’s not as strong, not as tall, and cannot pack as much muscle. Even his Mother has acknowledged he’s small for his age, which is a source of… It’s fine.
He hops off at Blüdhaven. He knows there’s a good spot for discarded clothing and weapons, though Damian recognizes this specific section must be crawling with thugs. Still, it’s a better place than any – he still needs to steal, as he hasn’t gained any credibility as a vigilante just yet. Perhaps in the future, when people recognize him and he gains more experience fighting, he can trade.
But for now, Damian has relinquished himself to not being able to pick and choose – dumpster diving would be the civilian word. In the middle of going through the trash, his stomach twists, and his hand flies to rest on top of his abdomen. He’s gone hungry before, no doubt about it. But he hasn’t found the time to establish a consistent place for food. He, thankfully, got a small free meal from a kind waitress at a run-down diner, and when he stopped by a bodega earlier to scout out places to stay, the old, crow-footed man’s eyes nearly filled with tears when he spotted Damian digging through his trash.
The old man told him to stop by whenever he was hungry. Of course, Damian can’t exploit the man too much – it might cause him to change his mind.
So, yes, Damian was feeling slightly weak. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t feel the hours that have passed since he began his search. It’s nearly midday by the time he decides to call it quits.
With a sigh, he adjusts the straps on his backpack, peering down at the ground with all the focus he can manage, trying not to think about the delicious sandwich the old man gave him days prior.
That is entirely why he runs into a man – a solid wall of Kevlar, black boots, and gentle hands.
A cop.
Damian’s eyes snap up. Curly black hair, warm brown skin, a face scattered with small scars, shining under the sun — and the bluest eyes Damian has ever seen. He smiles, soft and open, like he hasn’t just been body-checked by a ten-year-old.
“Hey kiddo,” the man says, bending down to Damian’s height, which irks him. “I’m Officer Grayson – do you need any help with your bag? Looks pretty heavy.”
Damian’s eyes narrow. The man thinks he’s stealing. He’s going to take Damian’s stuff. His gaze flickers to a section of the alleyway that he’s pretty sure he can slip past — quite easily, he thinks with amusement. The man seems like an imbecile.
“You’re not in trouble,” Grayson says, still smiling, voice casual. “But these parts of Blüdhaven are pretty dangerous for a kid.”
His eyes flicker to Damian’s face again. Damian knows what he looks like. Knows that he has too much fat on his cheeks to be considered dangerous, knows that his eyes are young, and worse — that they seem inexperienced.
The man is watching him with a flicker of something soft. Pity , Damian realizes with a flare of heat in his chest. He adjusts his hoodie and steps back, feeling the weight of his backpack shift with him.
The man’s eyes snap to the movement, and his mouth opens.
Damian sidesteps — quick, sharp — and shoves past the man with all the force he can muster. He pulls on his hood, ducks his head low, and takes off, diving over an abandoned car and disappearing towards an old warehouse across the street. He hears the officer shout after him, voice chasing him down like a leash.
“Kid! Kid, don’t go near there! It’s dangerous!” He yells, to Damian’s frustration. I know, Damian thinks bitterly as he throws open the door.
This place is dangerous — Damian made sure of it. He researched this warehouse. He knows it’s crawling with gang members, knows that no officer with a working brain would follow him in just to catch a runaway.
He climbs the banisters of the warehouse easily, hands gripping rusted iron, feet skipping over the creaking beams as he avoids the areas most commonly used as stash points or meeting zones. It’s morning, so odds are slim that anyone’s still here, but Damian knows Grayson won’t risk it.
Who would be stupid enough to—
The door slams open.
Like a bull in a china shop, the cop storms inside, boots echoing through the warehouse, voice ringing out.
“Kid! Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but—hey! I’m not here to hurt you!”
Damian freezes for half a second, perched in the rafters.
Either this officer is the stupidest man Damian has ever seen… or he thinks Damian is the stupidest kid he’s ever seen.
Either way, it won’t do him any good to stay here. The gang has most likely hidden all their materials for the day — using the abandoned warehouse to their advantage, unsuspecting in the light and alive in the dark.
Damian grits his teeth, eyeing his options. Grayson is still moving, clearly trying not to make too much noise, but failing miserably . He’s got cop instincts, sure, but not assassin reflexes — not League reflexes. He’s loud. Clumsy. Careful in all the wrong ways. He’s not like Damian.
But he’s also not backing down. Damian’s heart kicks harder. If he doesn’t get out now —
A soft clatter to the far left of the warehouse makes him freeze.
Oh.
They’re still here.
His eyes go to the officer.
There’s no way Damian has to save this man.
His gaze flickers to a nearby skylight, just close enough to the metal railings to avoid detection. He could slip through it easily, vanish into the morning light, leave the officer to his fate, and return to his safehouse without so much as a scratch. But Batman protects civilians. If Damian can’t prove himself worthy of being his father’s son — even without the costume — he’ll be cast away. He’s sure of it.
Damian groans under his breath. Why must civilians always insert themselves into dangerous situations, then act surprised when it affects them negatively?
He hears shouting in the distance — harsh, angry — and begins to crawl down silently, dropping a few feet behind Grayson. It should be silent. But the man turns around instantly , eyes sharp, pressing a finger to his lips like Damian is the one in danger. Like he’s protecting him . It’s strange — unsettling, even — how quickly Grayson detected him. No normal man would’ve heard him. Not at that angle. Not with that kind of precision. Damian blinks, trying to push the thought to the back of his mind, trying to focus.
He gestures sharply for Grayson to follow him, pointing toward the edge of the warehouse where he knows it’s unguarded.
But the man shakes his head , motioning in the opposite direction like he knows something Damian doesn’t. Like he’s done this before. Damian stifles another groan, jaw tight, and instead settles for glaring harder. He follows closely behind the officer, boots silent, muscles tense.
He hopes he doesn’t have to protect this man any more than he already has. Especially not without armor.
The sunlight filters weakly through cracked windows, dust motes swirling lazily in the air. The warehouse is quieter than it should be — only a handful of gang members scattered around, more like a routine check than a full operation. Damian notes this with a sharp edge to his thoughts: Not many of them. Probably just their usual patrol, making sure the territory’s still theirs.
“Stay close,” Grayson whispers, voice low but steady.
Damian barely nods, eyes sharp as shards of glass, scanning for threats.
Suddenly, a gang member bursts from behind a stack of crates, swinging a battered baseball bat in a wild arc. Grayson lunges forward, shoving Damian back — but instead of stepping away himself, he twists and takes the full blow square in his ribs, his body absorbing the impact like a shield.
What a stupid thing to do, Damian thinks, jaw tightening. He just met me five minutes ago and would gladly take a hit for me.
Before Grayson can recover, another thug charges with a crowbar, snarling. Damian’s instincts snap into action — he launches himself forward, tackling the second attacker to the ground. The crowbar strikes his wrist instead of Grayson’s ribs, sharp pain shooting through his arm, but Damian holds firm, twisting the thug’s arm until it clatters to the floor.
Grayson springs into action, fists and feet a blur of precise, controlled strikes, each move designed to incapacitate, not maim. Damian follows, weaving through the chaos with practiced agility, using his smaller size to slip behind attackers and deliver quick, disabling hits.
The man moves like no one he’s ever seen before. Damian has seen quick-witted, has seen strength, but Grayson moves like he’s the embodiment of fighting itself. He’s smooth, surprisingly effective, and knows where and when to hit.
Within moments, the gang members lie sprawled unconscious across the concrete floor, groaning and twitching but out cold.
Grayson turns, chest heaving. “Kid! Are you oka—”
His words cut off. The warehouse is empty. No gang members, no sound but the distant city hum. Grayson blinks, confusion flickering across his face.
Damian’s out the other entrance, rubbing his wrist, which he knows is fractured. All because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he had known that the officer was better at fighting than he looked, he would have just taken the easy way out. Still, there was no way the man had tracked him. That would take a level of stubbornness and pure –
“Hey, kid!” A voice calls out – Damian’s blood runs cold, and he breaks into a sprint. He hears Grayson running after him, talking about “needing medical attention”, and “not needing to be a hero”. Despite the constant crime, the dirty streets, and a city known to be the ‘depths of hell’, all its citizens were surprisingly friendly and caring.
It was infuriating.
Damian takes a sharp turn, glancing back to see Officer Grayson gaining on him. Damian quickly dodges an open door where a tired graveyard-shift worker leans, rubbing heavy eyes framed by dark bags.
The cop is quick, stubborn, and, most annoyingly of all, kind. The type of kindness that means he won’t leave until he’s certain Damian is okay.
Damian stops by a chainlink fence, realizing that:
- Climbing the fence with a broken wrist would be painful, slow, and suspicious, especially if he wants to leave quickly.
- Even if he escapes, Grayson would chase after him, bleeding heart and all.
- It would be painful.
Damian whips around, seeing Grayson jog to a halt, hands platingly out like Damian is some cornered cat who keeps on swatting at the big, buff cop trying to offer treats. And somehow, the man is not out of breath, in the slightest. Most adult civilians could barely keep up with Damian without throwing out their back or heaving deep breaths. But Officer Grayson slowly walks up to Damian like he were just on an evening stroll.
“Kid, I’m not trying to hurt you, I swear. I just wanna take a look at your wrist, okay? I don’t want you to injure it more.” Grayson says, his voice gentle, like he’s coaxing Damian out of a cage. Which, Damian thinks, is almost what he is doing.
Damian shakes his head, backing up. “Leave me alone,” he snaps. Then, thinking harder about tugging the man’s heartstrings to leave him be. “Please,” he says, trying to make his voice soft and teary-eyed.
The man’s face cracks open.
“I will,” Grayson says quietly, “I just wanna check your wrist. Pretty brave of you to take that hit for me, kiddo.”
Damian wrinkles his nose involuntarily at the nickname. When Grayson steps closer, his hand reaching out suddenly—
Damian flinches. He doesn’t mean to – but the man has shown himself to be a capable fighter, and Damian’s hands naturally come up to protect his face.
That stops Grayson dead in his tracks. He curses at himself for the reflex, hating the way the man’s eyes sharpen at him, like they’re reading him, analyzing him like some puzzle that’s still missing a couple of pieces.
“I’ll stay here,” Grayson says, voice low and gentle. Damian swallows something thick in his throat. His eyes rake over Grayson’s face, scanning for deception—for the flicker of a trap, the tell of a smile twisted into cruelty. Maybe, if he lifts his arm, the man will grab it. Twist it. Twist until he’s crying. Until the whip comes out—
“Hey,” Grayson says softly.
Damian blinks. When he looks up again, the man’s face is unchanged—brows drawn, gaze steady, mouth bent in a quiet line of guilt and concern.
He’s only doing this so Damian can escape, he tells himself. That’s all this is. Damian offers his wrist.
He glares at Grayson, who crouches slightly to inspect the injury, touching him with a kind of featherlight caution Damian hadn’t expected. His fingers move with a gentle efficiency, checking the bend, the swelling, and where they brush over his skin, warmth seeps in. It pools in Damian’s bones, unwelcome and traitorous.
He hasn’t been touched like that since…
He finds himself leaning in—just a fraction—before realizing what he’s doing. He pulls back abruptly, breath catching, pain lancing from wrist to elbow.
“That’s definitely broken, kiddo,” Grayson says, and Damian wants to punch him for the nickname again—but he doesn’t. The officer pulls a card from his pocket and holds it out. “It’s a free clinic. Bruce Wayne’s,” Grayson says. “No cost. No police. Completely anonymous.”
Damian eyes the card. His mouth is a tight line. Then he turns, marches to the fence, and starts climbing—every inch a defiant refusal to let the pain slow him down. His wrist pulses, screaming with each movement, but he doesn’t stop.
When he drops down on the other side, Grayson’s there again. That damn face—soft, worried, like Damian just handed him his heart and walked away. Like he’s seen straight through the armor and into the hollow underneath. Damian turns his back fast.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t.
* * *
By the time Damian stumbles into his safehouse, he’s swaying on his feet. He drops to one knee, the floor tilting beneath him as his backpack hits the ground with a dull thud. One hand finds the wooden wall, fingers curling against it, steadying himself on splinters that press into thick calluses.
He breathes. Just once.
Then he forces himself upright, digging through the bag for a half-smashed protein bar and the apple he snagged off a tree overhanging someone’s fence. He eats fast—mechanical. The sugar hits his system, the vertigo dulls, but the tremble in his legs doesn’t vanish. He still feels like a stiff breeze might topple him.
Stupid. So stupid – if he hadn’t been stopped by the cop or taken a hit for the man, he may have had time to stop by the dumpster of a nearby grocery store. He could have gotten lunch . Instead, it’s almost time for patrol, and he has no food to show up for it.
Damian doesn’t like being out late in his civvies – it opens too many possibilities to be followed, for cops to tail him when he’s out, or traffickers to see a small kid, and their next victim. But, biting the inside of his cheek, he also knows that he can’t go out on patrol like this.
His mind goes to the free clinic Grayson mentioned. Rising with a grunt, he grabs a wrap from his hole in the wall, wrapping it tightly around his wrist until he can move it with minimal pain. He switches his backpack out for his more casual one, vowing that he can skip patrol for one day.
The clinic isn’t far. He keeps his head down, his voice small and unassuming when asking for directions, playing the part of a lost boy. A child. Just another face in Gotham.
When he enters the clinic, his hand instinctively finds the hilt of his dagger, hidden beneath his hoodie. The bright lights and antiseptic air put him on edge. It smells like sterility. Like hospitals. Like League med bays.
A woman behind the desk greets him kindly, too kindly. He freezes. Realizes. And bolts.
Her voice calls after him, but Damian is already out the door. He doesn’t need help.
If he can’t endure pain, what use is he?
Hitching another bus ride to the wealthier parts of Gotham, he spots a nearby grocery store, framed by glass windows and enough ‘Organic’ signs, that he knows he’ll have no shortage of food to grab. He jogs over to a small trash bin on the back of the store, plucking out small items that he knows are still good to eat, but are seen as disgusting by the more wealthy shoppers.
His stomach lurches when he smells the scent of freshly baked bread wafting through an open window – shaking his head, he resumes his task.
He sits behind the dumpster, too hungry to think about staying hidden. He scarfs down an abandoned sandwich still in its wrapping, staring out at the city sky. Despite the smell, the smog, the place where most would say the world has abandoned its citizens, Damian finds he does not…hate Gotham.
Sure, one cannot see the stars as easily as Nanda Parbat. It rains far too often for Damian’s taste, and he has heard the summers are miserable. Yet, it feels like Gotham has welcomed him. Like, perhaps, even when he is not Ibn al Xu'ffasch, or heir to the League of Assassins, or the blood son of Batman, the city sees him. Perhaps that is why people gravitate towards it.
It doesn’t have the charm of Metropolis. Or the relative safety of Central City. But it has grit. It has survivors, civilians who see people hurting and help them anyway.
It is the most naïve thing Damian has ever seen.
After his makeshift dinner, he heads to his safehouse – though, he doesn’t trust that place for too long. He’d picked it out of desperation, a place that has slipped through the cracks, and whose infrastructure shows it. He climbs the fire escape, careful not to disturb the glass he’d laid out, and the powder he’d laid out.
But, before he can enter, he spots a small nick on the powder. A place where it was hastily covered up. Damian feels something twist in his chest. He doesn’t enter and just listens. Instead of deep-set breathing, perhaps the twist of cold breath showing in the moonlight, he spots an orange tabby, rubbing up against his makeshift bed.
His chest twists, and he lands softly, dropping his bag against the floor and leaning over. He pauses, then clicks his tongue, rubbing his fingers together. The feline stares at him warily – then comes up to him, rubbing against his baggy shorts. Damian fights – and fails – to hide his smile, scratching at the base of the creature’s ears.
“You must be hungry,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. From his bag, he pulls a small slice of lunch meat—part of tonight’s haul—and offers it. The cat sniffs it suspiciously, wrinkling its nose before delicately taking a bite.
“You look like a Laundry,” Damian decides, for no particular reason.
Ra’s al Ghul loved animals – but recognized that pets cannot be good for missions, and Damian was always instructed to leave them alone.
As Damian watches Laundry, he recognizes the knot in his chest as something he remembers very well – loneliness. His hand itches for warmth, for those featherlight fingers to grab at his hands, for his mother’s hands to get caught in the curls of his hair. Instead, he twists his injured wrist – the warmth of pain and blood rushing in his ears almost feels like the warmth of touch.
Then, moving through the safehouse, he places down some more lunchmeat and dawns on his gear. His armor is a patchwork of salvaged protection: cloth strips and shredded jackets turned into wraps, abandoned kneepads, cracked forearm guards. He’s reinforced it all with what he could find—thread, stubbornness, and sheer will. The front is spray-painted with a shadowy figure of a crow. His belt is a torn length of wrap, tied at his hip. Small cloth bags hang from it, makeshift pouches for smoke bombs, backup daggers, bandages, and the painkillers he hoards like gold. His old backpack had been too noisy, too unwieldy for rooftops. This setup moves with him.
He wraps his free hand, tight and methodical, and breathes deep as he pulls the hood over his head. His mask slides into place, black and sharp and worn. Now he’s Crow, and he’s itching for something to prove.
With a huff, he launches himself from rooftop to rooftop, his gloves holding onto the surface of each nearly missed jump, testing the pain of his wrist. It will heal – and Damian cannot afford to wait. He cranes his head for movement, for the telltale sign of the start of a gang fight.
He moves through the city, learning how it seems to grow alive with every minute the night passes over. With his new materials, taking down criminals and bigger and bigger fish becomes easier – if Damian doesn’t pay attention to the sharp rise of pain in his wrist, the feeling of his breath scraping against his bruised ribs, then he would say he’s fallen into a sort of rhythm.
Almost like he belongs here.
Smiling down at the criminal zip-tied to a light pole, Damian rolls forward onto the balls of his feet. He’s tossing his dagger up and down, studying the man with something colder than hatred— disinterest , almost. The criminal shifts, fear beginning to override the bravado he'd worn earlier like a cheap jacket.
“You attempted to assault that woman.” Damian’s voice is flat. His gaze is distant, already calculating what alley he’ll clear next, which lead he’ll chase for intel. This kind of work—scum like this—it’s a waste of time. There's no challenge in it.
He could slit the man’s throat right now. A quick flick of the wrist. He wouldn’t feel guilty. No one would miss this man, and Damian certainly wouldn’t.
He stares at the zip-tied hands twitching helplessly, his grip tightening on the dagger. There’s a flash of temptation—cut small slits along the man’s arm. Take out an eye. Leave a message. Maybe even kill him. He tilts his head. Would Father mind?
He says he doesn’t kill. But maybe that rule bends, just a little, in certain cases. In the League, this wouldn’t even be a question. This man would’ve been discarded like trash on the spot.
“This man contributes nothing,” Damian mutters to himself. His voice doesn’t tremble with rage or disgust—it’s simply fact. He stands tall, every muscle poised, calculating.
Then the man writhes and lets out a high, garbled sound through the gag.
Pathetic.
Damian punches him, sharp and fast. The man’s head snaps against the light pole with a crack. Unconscious. Probably a mild concussion. Damian grimaces, not from remorse—but because he let his impulse dictate the force. Sloppy , he thinks. He tucks his dagger away with precision.
Focus, Crow. He scolds himself, turning back towards the night.
“Fuck, Kid. You don’t hold back, don’t ya?” A mechanical voice cuts through the night – Damian searches the rooftops for some of Batman’s allies, but he sees nothing except the empty black sky. Then, a figure steps out of the dark like it was carved from it: tall, broad-shouldered, armored in red and black with a bat symbol half-spray-painted over his chest like an afterthought. A red helmet masks his face, but not the weight he carries.
Damian flinches, backing up. Does this man think that Damian is a criminal? He has heard of Hood’s violent tendencies – Damian wouldn’t put it past him to maim him just for looking at him strangely.
Damian drops into a low stance, flicking up his dagger into his good hand. Red Hood simply stares at him, tilting his head, which seems weirdly…out of character. Strangely, it reminds Damian of Robin.
“Don’t tell me the Bat has adopted another child soldier,” the man bites out, voice hard. Damian blinks, caught off guard. He shakes his head – ‘ I am not affiliated,’ Damian hopes it says.
“Do you…not like Batman?” Damian asks, unable to stop the words tumbling out. His voice is a little hoarse – today has had the most amount of talking he’s done in days.
Red Hood laughs – sharp and unexpected, like it’s been tugged out of his chest with barbed wire. It doesn’t sound very humorous, though, like Red Hood is enjoying a joke that Damian doesn’t know about.
Interesting.
This vigilante feels distinct; different than the carefree and charismatic Robin. Red Hood feels familiar in a way – concealed violence that Damian has been trained to learn from and respect. He straightens, crosses his arms, and waits for Hood to stop laughing.
He doesn’t quite understand why it is so funny. It is infuriating, though, to be unaware of a joke and still be the butt of it.
“The Bat’s an asshole,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Damian wants to point out how that doesn’t answer his question, but Red Hood cuts in. “So, you’re new, huh?” He circles Damian like a predator, though Damian has a feeling it’s more of an act rather than something legitimate. Still, his hand rests on the pouch containing his smoke bomb, just in case Damian needs to make a quick escape.
He eyes Damian’s victim, and Damian can just hear the smirk in his voice, “Nice going kid. Fuckin’ hate rapists.” He walks over to the man, kicking his unconscious body with enough force to break a couple of ribs. The tension in Damian’s shoulders lessens.
He may not be an ally of Batman, but he approved of Damian’s methods. Which, Damian doesn’t necessarily mind.
“Still, you look a little young to be doing this by yourself. Got the proper tools?” He asks. He doesn’t say it’s too dangerous, or prod why Damian is out here. It’s a breath of fresh air.
Damian nods.
“Hm,” Hood says, shrugging. “Good.”
Then, watching Damian with a gaze that feels like it’s slowly dissecting him, he mutters out, “Stay safe out here kid. And, if you ever need help…” He tosses something. Damian catches it mid-air on instinct. A device, no bigger than a coin, with a single recessed button and a faint hum. A signal beacon, if he had to guess. “Use this.”
And then—he’s gone .
One moment, Red Hood is hulking in front of him, and the next, he's vanished into the Gotham skyline like smoke in the wind. Damian blinks. For someone so massive, the man moves like a phantom.
Damian’s fingers roll over the device before he tucks it into his belt. Logically, it cannot be a tracking device. As violent as Red Hood is, he doesn’t harm innocent civilians. Perhaps the rumors about protecting children are true, though Damian still thinks this is a one-off interaction.
Once Hood realizes that he’s the son of Batman, he doubts their next interaction will be as friendly.
Nonetheless, Damian is pleased with himself, albeit a little confused. He’s gained the respect of one vigilante, which is better than zero. Perhaps Batman doesn’t have as many allies as he thinks. There’s still Batgirl, Blackbat, Robin, and Nightwing – though Damian has only run into one so far.
If Red Hood claims he is not allied with Batman, why wear the symbol? Why hasn’t Batman tried taking him in? Questions still swirling in his mind, Damian scales a nearby building using a rusted water pipe.
Then, he hears it: gunfire. He smiles, dashing towards it like a child in a candy store. It’s a couple of blocks away, but Damian can get there just in time if he’s quick enough. He sprints across the rooftops, boots hitting concrete with practiced lightness. The closer he gets, the more he can hear—the pulse of a villain’s monologue, the thud of impact, the unmistakable crackle of electricity from a weapon.
He slides to the edge of a rooftop and drops low, cloaked in shadow. Below: a warehouse lot, abandoned and overgrown with rusted vehicles and half-collapsed crates. And in the center of it all— Nightwing .
Damian freezes, breath caught in his throat.
It’s him. Escrima sticks gleam under the orange streetlight, arcing through the air as he keeps pace with something huge. Monstrous .
Killer Croc.
Bigger than Damian could’ve prepared him for. Croc moves like an avalanche on legs, swiping with claws the size of shovels and snapping teeth that look wrong —too long, too many, like they just kept growing past evolution’s patience.
“C’mon little birdie, I’m feeling a little hungry tonight,” He growls – his voice low enough to rumble the ground. Damian presses further into the shadows, calculating the best point of entry. But something shifts. Croc’s nostrils flare—and his gaze locks onto Damian’s position like a missile. “Looks like we have a little friend, huh?” he purrs, lips curling back into a jagged grin.
Damian doesn’t flinch. He straightens instead, stepping out of the dark and dropping down to the pavement with feline precision. His landing is near-silent.
Across the lot, Nightwing’s eyes go wide.
“C’mon, Jones,” Nightwing calls, not even sparing a second glance at Damian’s way. His voice is maddeningly relaxed, like this is some casual argument in the frozen food aisle. “Pick on someone your own size. Or are you that much of a coward?”
Damian blinks.
Is this man seriously antagonizing the villain?!
Croc roars—because of course he does—and lunges for Nightwing, who flips out of the way like it’s second nature. He lands next to Damian, his easygoing expression falling as he stares at Damian. “Run away, Kid. This isn’t your fight.” He says, voice hard. Damian shakes his head – both of them roll away as Croc strikes down with his fist, crumpling concrete like it’s made of foam.
Damian’s stomach twists. Croc turns towards Nightwing – and Damian throws a dagger towards the base of his neck. He roars, his tail sweeping towards Damian; he barely manages to jump and roll out of the way.
Nightwing is back again, flipping and dodging like it’s in his blood. “Run!” He shouts, and Damian grits his teeth.
He shakes his head, using Croc’s momentary focus on Nightwing to climb the creature’s back. Killer Croc shakes violently, his claws coming down to scrape at Damian – he manages to climb away, slashing at the creature’s back with more of his daggers, then swiping at its eye.
Killer Croc howls, rage vibrating the alley walls, as Damian slashes across the thick scales of his back. His daggers skim off with sparks— too shallow . Croc’s skin is tougher than he expected, like cutting through tire rubber. But Damian doesn’t stop. He adjusts, shifts his grip, digs the next blade in with a grunt, and pushes downward , trying to find muscle underneath the armor.
Croc screeches, twisting violently. His clawed arm swings up and connects —a backhand swipe that slams into Damian’s ribs and sends him flying .
Damian hits the side of a crate, the air leaving his lungs in a single, panicked exhale. The metal shrieks as it bends under his body.
“ Kid! ” Nightwing shouts, his voice cracked open with panic. Then, he turns back to Croc, his smile turned feral. “Guess you’ve started picking on little boys now?”
Damian coughs, spitting blood. The world shivers sideways, blurry at the edges—but he gets up. His body screams, his wrist burns, but he gets up .
“I said run !” Nightwing is next to him now, one escrima stick pressing into Croc’s shoulder like a lightning rod while the other creates distance. His mask is torn, exposing a sliver of blue eye—furious and worried and so annoyingly adult.
“I’m not a child,” Damian snaps, voice hoarse and blood-flecked. “I can handle myself.” He glances back at Killer Croc, fighting against the urge to simply kill the creature. That would be too easy, now, wouldn’t it?
Nightwing stares at him—just for a second. Like he’s seeing him now.
There’s no time to argue. Croc slams one fist into the ground and barrels forward, eyes bloodshot and jaws wide. Damian flanks left, Nightwing goes right, and together they move in a rhythm that shouldn’t exist between strangers. A pattern forged in necessity.
Nightwing distracts, drawing Croc’s attention with blinding fast strikes to the shins and ankles.
Damian climbs again, this time vaulting off a pile of debris to land on Croc’s shoulders.
He has one final dagger, blade jagged from earlier hits. He wraps both arms around Croc’s thick neck, jamming the dagger into the seam between vertebrae and skull—an opening small but real. Croc howls, his head whipping side to side, but Damian holds on with a white-knuckled grip.
“ NOW! ” Damian yells.
Nightwing doesn’t hesitate. He launches forward, slamming both electrified escrima sticks into Croc’s chest at the same time. The creature’s roar turns into a shriek as the current pulses through him.
They all collapse together.
The silence that follows is dizzying. Croc isn’t moving—unconscious, breathing, but down. Damian rolls off him, gasping. He lands on his back, staring at the sky. His ribs ache. His wrist is on fire. He might’ve fractured something—again. Footsteps approach, then pause beside him.
Nightwing’s face appears above him, mask cracked, lips parted in disbelief.
“…What the hell is a kid like you doing out here?” he murmurs, voice thick with something heavier than anger. Something like concern.
Damian turns his head, blinking against the dizziness. “Proving myself,” he mutters, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He forces himself upright—but the moment he straightens, his knees give out. Nightwing is already there, catching him before he can hit the ground.
“Whoa, easy,” Nightwing murmurs, steadying him with practiced hands. “You need to head home after this. This isn’t a playground—you’re going to get yourself killed.”
Damian scoffs, but says nothing. He doesn’t fight Nightwing’s grip, though. Not because he agrees, but because he’s too tired to push back. Nightwing eases him down gently, crouching in front of him. His fingers rise to his ear, and Damian’s eyes narrow.
He knows that movement. A comm. A report.
Without thinking, Damian’s good arm lashes out and grabs Nightwing’s wrist, halting him mid-press. Nightwing blinks but doesn’t move. “Relax,” he says evenly. “I wasn’t calling Batman, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just signaling Robin—he’s been tracking Croc too.”
Damian frowns, suspicion still prickling, but after a beat, he exhales and lets go. Only when Damian gives a tiny nod does Nightwing activate the comm. “Killer Croc is incapacitated,” he says, voice calm and casual, “Corner of 47th and 5th. Oh—and I found your little ‘Crow.’”
Damian goes rigid at the name. He keeps his face carefully blank, biting back the retort that threatens to rise in his throat. He’s not some lost bird. He is Crow . He chose it.
Nightwing smiles faintly at whatever Robin says in return. His eyes flick to Damian, like he’s trying to match the voice to the figure beside him. “Yeah, I know. Well, you know me.”
The words sting in a way Damian can’t explain.
It feels like something is finishing—like his part is done here. He pushes himself upright, despite the pulsing in his skull and the electric shocks still radiating down his arm. Nightwing reaches out instinctively, his fingers grasping Damian’s injured wrist. Damian tenses. Pain flares white-hot under his skin, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.
The most Nightwing gets is a shift in his stance.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Nightwing says firmly, his tone dropping into something stern and unshakable. “Not with a probable concussion and a wrist like that.”
Damian scowls, the comparison forming fast and sharp in his mind. He looks at Nightwing and sees a babysitter. Not a comrade. Not a soldier. A chaperone .
Why are all of Batman’s allies so insistent on not leaving him alone? Their quips and jokes are already irritating enough – throw some overprotectiveness and pity, and that’s every interaction Damian has had with them. When he’s under Batman’s wing, he will be sure to show them how serious and gritty a sidekick should be.
Like Red Hood.
“I am fine, Nightwing,” Damian snaps, tugging his arm away from the man’s grasp. “This is not my first time out, and it certainly will not be my last.”
Instead of arguing further, Nightwing simply lets out a sigh, head bent towards the sky like he’s praying for something. “You kids...” he mutters, quiet enough that Damian barely hears it. Then, he stands. “I can’t convince you not to do this. But, you need to get better gear if you’re going to be out here.” His eyes scan Damian’s outfit, and he feels his cheeks flush.
His uniform is sufficient. And he says so as such.
“Sure,” Nightwing replies. “If we’re rating on a scale of ‘cardboard armor’ and ‘misplaced confidence.’”
Damian glowers.
Nightwing suddenly laughs – it’s light and airy and completely different than the sarcastic, almost biting laugh of Red Hood. Damian can tell the laugh is genuine – and it only further makes Damian dislike the man even more. Even if it loosens something in Damian’s chest.
It loosens annoyance. Obviously.
Nightwing slings his escrima sticks back into place and gestures vaguely to Damian’s gear, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Damian scowls, tugging his hood further over his eyes. “It serves its purpose. I am not here to look fashionable.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Nightwing’s eyes dance over the details—old armor plates, scavenged utility belt, boots at least half a size too big. “You’ve got some good instincts, but the gear’s slowing you down. Your right gauntlet is cracked, and your boots don’t have traction. You almost slipped scaling that building three blocks back.”
Damian stiffens. So he’d been followed.
Nightwing only shrugs, as if reading his mind. “Relax. I wasn’t stalking you. I was just... observing.”
“You were tailing me,” Damian growls. “Like I’m some child in need of surveillance.”
Nightwing blinks owlishly, “I mean—yeah. You kind of are.”
Damian’s glare sharpens, but he says nothing. There’s no point. The more he protests, the younger he sounds, and the more Nightwing looks at him like that—like he’s a problem to be solved, not a person to be trusted.
Nightwing sobers, gaze flicking down to Damian’s arm. “You’re still bleeding, by the way.”
Damian grits his teeth, shifting to hide the gash that’s reopened across his side. He doesn’t respond. Nightwing sighs again. “Look. I’m not going to make you go with me. You clearly don’t do well with orders.”
Damian hesitates. The fact that Nightwing offers instead of demands throws him. He’s not used to being given space. Control. Autonomy. Especially not from someone who outranks him.
“I just want to know…” Nightwing trails off, crouching slightly, no longer looming. “Why ‘Crow’? Why not something more intimidating? You clearly know how to fight. You’ve got skill. So why pick something... small?”
Damian’s lips press into a tight line. He hates that question. He hates how it makes him feel—seen, somehow. Picked apart. “Because crows are smart,” he finally says, voice low. “They learn. They adapt. They thrive even when the world is full of predators. And they don’t need to be big to be dangerous.”
There’s a long pause. Damian looks away, suddenly feeling too exposed. But when Nightwing speaks again, his voice is quieter, expression tight.“...That’s a good answer.”
They sit in silence for a beat, Killer Croc still unconscious, the city buzzing faintly in the background. Then—
A flicker of movement on the next rooftop. Robin. Damian tenses immediately. Nightwing doesn’t miss it. “Relax,” he says gently. “He’s just checking in. He’s not going to drag you off.”
He might try, Damian thinks. But I won’t let him. He should have learned that from yesterday. He’s still a little smug about that, but doesn’t let it show.
Robin lands silently, boots skimming the gravel. He’s halfway to them when he pauses, mask narrowing. His eyes move to Nightwing, then to Damian—and something changes in his posture. He knows .
Damian shifts subtly, hands tightening into fists. Nightwing straightens, noticing the tension. “Hey, don’t panic,” he says, hand coming up. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Damian bites. Then, before Robin can take another step forward, he turns to Nightwing, jaw set. “I appreciate your concern. But I don’t require your help.”
Nightwing looks like he might say something—might argue, might joke, might offer again—but instead, he simply nods. “Alright, Crow. Message received.”
Damian’s gaze locks onto Robin, eyes narrowing. A low ring starts in his ears, tension coiling in his chest. “You have my dagger,” he says, voice clipped. It’s not a question.
Robin doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he shrugs, expression tilting toward guilty—like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Finders keepers?” he offers with a sheepish grin.
Nightwing snorts beside him. Damian does not find it funny. His eyes flick to the bo-staff Robin leans on like he’s posing for a training poster, then to the way he checks an imaginary watch with exaggerated flair.
Oh, Damian hates him.
He turns without a word, limping towards a dark alleyway. Every step grinds against bruised bone and exhausted muscle, but he refuses to let them see him falter. He vaults over to the next chain-link fence, teeth clenched, vanishing into the night.
Nightwing watches him go, arms crossed. “…You’re not gonna follow?” Robin asks, glancing sideways.
Nightwing’s brow furrows. “No. I think if I do, he’ll actually punch me.”
Robin exhales—half groan, half laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a quiet beat, broken only by the wind rustling through the skyline.
“…You saw it too, right?” Nightwing murmurs. “The way he moves. His face. His eyes.”
Robin doesn’t answer at first. Then his gaze drops to the faint smears of blood where Crow once stood. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I saw.” A pause. “…Might’ve been kind of an asshole about the dagger.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Nightwing replies, already walking toward the other end of the warehouse lot.