More advanced chapters on P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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-Gotham's Narrows – Midnight-
The rain came down in sheets, soaking through Damian's hoodie as he stalked through the narrow alleys.
His ribs ached from last night's fight, but he ignored the pain. Pain was fleeting, just another obstacle to push through.
Tonight, he wasn't heading to the underground rings—he'd already made enough money for the week.
Instead, he had something else on his mind. The man he had seen on the TV—the man who had watched him fight. Bruce Wayne.
'What does he want with me?'
Damian hated unanswered questions. Information was power, and Bruce Wayne was a puzzle he intended to solve.
But before Damian could act on his curiosity, the shadows shifted around him.
He stopped walking, his sharp instincts flaring. His hand twitched toward the knife hidden in his jacket pocket.
"You're being followed," a voice said from the darkness.
Damian spun around, his eyes narrowing. A man stepped into the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, his movements calm and deliberate.
It was Bruce Wayne.
Damian's first instinct was to attack, but something about Bruce's posture—completely relaxed, unthreatened—made him pause.
"I don't like people sneaking up on me, Mr.Wayne." Damian growled, his tone sharp and challenging.
Bruce raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Fair enough. But I think we can both agree you're not the average twelve-year-old. I'm not here to fight you."
"Then what do you want?" Damian's fingers twitched, ready to grab his knife if Bruce made a wrong move.
"To talk," Bruce said simply. He stepped closer, his piercing blue eyes studying Damian carefully. "You're talented—too talented to be wasting your time in places like this. I've seen what you can do."
Damian's jaw tightened. "And you think I need your help? That I'm some charity case?"
Bruce shook his head. "I'm not offering charity. I'm offering opportunity. You're smart enough to know the difference."
Damian scoffed. "I don't need your money, and I don't need you."
Bruce tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Maybe not. But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."
He handed Damian a card with his name and a phone number. Without waiting for a response, Bruce turned and walked away, disappearing into the rain.
---
Back in his apartment, Damian sat on the edge of his cot, turning the card over in his hands. The name Bruce Wayne stared back at him in bold, embossed letters.
"What's your game, Wayne?" Damian muttered to himself.
Part of him wanted to throw the card away, but he hesitated. Bruce Wayne wasn't like the others who had tried to manipulate him. There was something different about him—something that made Damian uneasy.
He tossed the card onto the desk and lay back on the cot, staring at the cracked ceiling. Sleep didn't come easily.
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Wayne Enterprises – Two Days Later.
Bruce sat in his office, reviewing reports on recent activity in Gotham's underground.
The footage of Damian's fights played on his tablet, the boy's movements sharp and precise. It was clear that Damian was no ordinary street kid. But for all his investigative prowess, his origins remained a mystery.
"League of Shadows?" Alfred asked, setting a cup of tea on Bruce's desk.
Bruce shook his head. "Maybe. But there's no record of him in their ranks, and I haven't found any connection to Ra's al Ghul. He's a complete ghost. No birth certificate, no school records—nothing."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Yet you think he's worth your attention?"
Bruce leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "There's something about him, Alfred. Something I can't quite put my finger on. He's dangerous, but… he's also disciplined. Calculated. It's almost like he was trained."
Alfred's lips thinned, but he said nothing.
Bruce's phone buzzed on the desk, interrupting his thoughts. When he glanced at the screen, his eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Speak of the devil," he murmured.
The caller ID read, 'Unknown Number.'
---
The next evening, Damian arrived at Wayne Manor, his sharp eyes scanning the grand estate.
The towering gates, the pristine gardens, the sprawling mansion—it was all so… excessive.
He hated it already.
A butler opened the door, his posture perfect and his expression warm.
"Master Wayne has been expecting you," Alfred said. "Please, come in."
Damian hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. His worn sneakers squeaked faintly on the polished marble floor, a stark contrast to the luxury surrounding him.
Bruce was waiting for him in the study, seated in a leather armchair by the fireplace.
"You came," Bruce said, his tone neutral.
"Don't get used to it," Damian replied. He stayed near the doorway, his arms crossed defensively.
Bruce gestured to a second chair. "Have a seat."
Damian didn't move. "Let's skip the pleasantries. Why did you call me here?"
Bruce leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You're smart, Damian. Smarter than most adults I've met. And you're a fighter—one of the best I've seen at your age. But you're throwing your life away in those rings."
"I do what I have to," Damian shot back. "I don't need a lecture."
"I'm not lecturing," Bruce said calmly. "I'm offering you a way out. One Orphan to another."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," Bruce replied. "But if you stay on the path you're on, you won't make it to twenty. You're too good for that."
There was a long silence as Damian studied Bruce, trying to find any cracks in his armor. Finally, he spoke.
"Why do you care?"
Bruce hesitated for the briefest moment before answering. "Let's just say I see something in you. Something I understand."
Damian didn't trust him—he didn't trust anyone really. But the curiosity that had been nagging at him since their first encounter wouldn't let him walk away.
"Fine," Damian said at last. "I'll see what you've got. But don't think for a second that I'm buying into this whole 'concerned billionaire' act."
Bruce smiled faintly. "Fair enough."
Wayne Manor – The Next Morning
The sunlight streaming through the massive windows of Wayne Manor felt intrusive to Damian as he sat stiffly at the dining table.
The sheer size of the room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, felt ridiculous—pointless extravagance for one man and his butler.
Alfred approached with a plate of food, setting it down in front of Damian. Eggs, toast, bacon—perfectly arranged, the kind of meal Damian had only seen in advertisements.
"You've been quiet," Alfred said, his voice calm.
Damian glanced up, his sharp green eyes studying the older man.
"This place is a joke," he said flatly. "No one needs this much space or this much food."
Alfred raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Master Wayne has been known to indulge, but this estate has been in the family for generations. It's not just a home—it's history."
Damian didn't reply, stabbing a fork into the eggs as if they'd personally offended him.
Bruce entered the room moments later, his suit perfectly tailored and his demeanor as poised as ever. He glanced at Damian before addressing Alfred.
"Has he said anything about last night?" Bruce asked.
"I can hear you," Damian said, not looking up from his plate.
Bruce smirked faintly and took a seat across from Damian. "Good. Then let's talk about what's next."
"What's next?" Damian repeated, his tone mocking. "You make it sound like I signed a contract."
"You did when you walked through the gates," Bruce said calmly.
Damian glared at him but said nothing.
Bruce leaned forward, his expression serious. "You're here because you need a chance to start over. Whether you want to admit it or not, you're better off here than in those underground rings. But I can't help you if you don't help yourself."
Damian's jaw clenched. "What do you want from me?"
"For now? Go to school. Learn something. And try not to get kicked out."
Damian laughed bitterly. "School? You're joking, right? Those idiots don't have anything to teach me."
'Self educated as well? Impressive.' Bruce thought. Even still, it would do Damian well to socialize with peers.
"I'm not joking," Bruce said. "Gotham Academy is one of the best schools in the country. It's not just about academics—it's about learning to interact with people."
"I don't need people," Damian snapped.
"You do," Bruce said firmly. "Whether you want to admit it or not, no one survives alone. Not in this world."
There was a long silence as Damian processed Bruce's words. Finally, he gave a small shrug. "Fine. I'll play along. But don't expect me to be a model student."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Bruce said, smirking faintly.
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The polished marble floors and pristine hallways of Gotham Academy were a stark contrast to the streets Damian was used to.
The students, dressed in their pressed uniforms, walked in groups, laughing and chatting about things Damian couldn't care less about.
He moved through the halls like a predator among prey, his sharp eyes taking in everything. The cliques, the social hierarchies—it was all so predictable.
Whispers followed him as he passed. His white hair and piercing green eyes made him stand out immediately, and the rumors started almost as soon as he arrived.
"Who is that?"
"Some rich kid Bruce Wayne adopted."
"Why does he look so… intense?"
Damian ignored them, his expression cold and indifferent. He found his locker and began unloading his books, his mind already calculating the quickest way to get through this charade without wasting too much time.
A boy approached him—a tall, athletic senior with a confident smirk. His entourage followed close behind, their laughter obnoxiously loud.
"Hey, new kid," the boy said, leaning casually against the lockers. "You lost?"
Damian didn't look up. "No."
The boy chuckled. "You don't talk much, do you? What's your name?"
"None of your business," Damian said, slamming his locker shut.
The smirk faded from the boy's face. "Listen, kid. I don't know how things worked wherever you came from, but here, you show respect to the upperclassmen."
Damian turned to face him, his eyes cold and unflinching. "Respect is earned, not given. And you've done nothing to earn mine."
The boy's face twisted in anger. "You've got a big mouth for someone so small."
Without warning, he grabbed Damian's collar, shoving him against the lockers. The hallway fell silent as the other students watched, their eyes wide with anticipation.
Damian didn't react immediately. Instead, he studied the boy—his stance, his grip, the way his friends stood slightly behind him, ready to step in if needed.
"Let me go," Damian said quietly.
"Or what?" the boy taunted.
Before the words had fully left his mouth, Damian moved.
His hand shot up, breaking the boy's grip on his collar, and in one fluid motion, he twisted the boy's arm behind his back and slammed him face-first into the lockers.
The crowd gasped.
"Don't touch me again," Damian said, his voice calm but laced with menace.
He released the boy, who stumbled back, clutching his arm and glaring at Damian with a mixture of pain and humiliation.
"You'll regret this," the boy hissed before storming off with his entourage.
Damian adjusted his jacket and walked away, ignoring the stares of the other students. He didn't care about making friends—or enemies.
He just wanted to get through the day without being bored to death.