More advance chapters on P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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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 tongue to discipline him, and his classmates were too scared to cross him. Only Helena interacted with him as a friend.
But beneath the surface, tensions were brewing.
Trevor and his lackeys hadn't forgotten their humiliation, and their quiet whispers of revenge were spreading.
Damian had become 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, when he noticed a commotion 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 laughing, kicking her belongings around the courtyard. Trevor stood at the center, 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 knelt on the ground, gathering her books with trembling hands.
"Leave her alone," Damian said, his voice cutting through the rain like a blade.
The group turned to face him, their laughter fading. Trevor's grin twisted into a smirk.
"Look who it is," Trevor said. "The rich kid come to play hero."
Damian stepped closer, his expression cold. "I said, leave her alone."
Trevor laughed, gesturing to the others. "You hear that, guys? Ghost Boy thinks he's in charge."
One of the boys lunged at 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, calculated motion, Damian sidestepped the attack and drove his elbow into the boy's stomach.
The boy crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.
The other boys hesitated, their confidence faltering. But Trevor wasn't backing down.
"You think you can scare me?" Trevor growled, stepping forward. "You're just some spoiled brat playing 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 last encounter. He ducked under the blow and countered with a precise strike to Trevor's jaw.
The fight escalated quickly. The rain-slicked pavement became a battlefield as Damian took on the entire group.
His movements were sharp and efficient, his strikes calculated 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 Trevor's group.
Damian stood over Trevor, his knuckles bloodied, his chest heaving. Trevor tried to crawl away, but Damian grabbed him by the collar, 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 turned to 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 gathering her things.
--
The aftermath of the fight was immediate. Teachers rushed out into the courtyard, horrified at the scene.
Trevor's group, bruised and beaten, pointed the blame squarely at Damian.
"He attacked us!" Trevor shouted, clutching his side. "He's a psycho!"
Damian didn't deny it. He stood silently as the teachers demanded an explanation, his expression unreadable.
Helena tried to speak up. "They started it! They were—"
"Enough!" the principal snapped. "Both of you, to my office. Now."
--
Later that evening, Damian sat in the Wayne Manor study, waiting for Bruce. His fists were clenched, his body tense. He could already feel the lecture coming.
When Bruce finally entered the room, his expression was a mix of frustration and disappointment. He tossed a copy of the school's report onto the desk.
"Damian, what were you thinking?" Bruce demanded.
"They deserved it," Damian said flatly.
"Do you even hear yourself?" Bruce said, his voice rising. "You can't keep doing this! You're not in the underground rings anymore. This isn't about survival—it's about control."
"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 and beats 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 echoing through the study.
The room fell silent.
"Do you even care about anyone but yourself?" Bruce asked, his tone cutting. "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. Then he stood, his voice cold.
"You don't care about me," Damian said. "I'm just another project to you. Another broken thing you think you can 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 and left Wayne Manor without looking back.
His time being a spoiled rich brat was over. Now he was back to making 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 can call.")
Damian pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
The name and number of Alfred's old MI6 contact 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 voice answered.
"This is Barton," the man said.
"I need a job," Damian said without hesitation.
There was a pause. "Who gave you this number?"
"Alfred Pennyworth."
Another pause, longer this 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?" Barton repeated, his tone sharp with recognition. "As in Bruce Wayne?"
Damian's jaw tightened at forgetting he was no longer a Wayne. "That's not important. Are you going to help me or not?"
Barton sighed. "Alright, kid. Meet me at the corner of Hart and Fourth in one hour. And don't be late."
The line went dead.
--
Exactly one hour later, Damian arrived at the designated meeting spot—a nondescript diner on a quiet corner.
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 late forties, with sharp features and a scar running down his left cheek.
His eyes were cold, scanning Damian as he approached.
"You're just a kid," Barton said, leaning back in 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 for games," 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 needs to be done," Damian replied. "I'm fast, efficient, 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 playground. The kind of work we do will eat you alive."
"I've been surviving since the day I was born," Damian said, his tone icy. "I can handle it."
Barton studied him for a long moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail—the scars on his knuckles, the calm confidence in his posture, the barely contained fury behind his eyes. Finally, he nodded.
"Alright," Barton said. "You want a chance? You've got one. But if you screw up, you're on your own. Understood?"
"Understood," Damian said.
---
Barton didn't waste time. Within days, Damian was being briefed on his first assignment—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 contact, hand it over, and walk away. No questions, no improvisation. Got it?"
Damian nodded. "And if the contact 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 scanning the area for any signs of movement.
The contact was late.
He tapped his fingers against the metal case, his patience wearing thin. Barton's instructions had been clear, but Damian wasn't one to sit idle. Especially in an unpredictable place like Gotham.
Every instinct in him screamed to take control of the situation, to hunt down the contact instead of waiting.
But then he saw them—two figures approaching from the far end of the pier.
Damian tensed, his hand slipping into his jacket to grip the hilt of a small blade. 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. "Relax, kid. We're the contact."
Damian didn't move. "Prove it."
The second figure stepped forward, holding up a small card with a symbol Damian recognized from Barton's briefing.
Satisfied, Damian handed over the case, his movements swift and precise.
The figures exchanged a glance 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 Damian returned to 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 lay on the worn cot in the corner of the safehouse provided by Barton, his mind raced with thoughts of what lay 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 supervillains of Gotham, lessening the chances of Damian coming across 'him'. The Batman. Bruce Wayne.
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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 planning, Damian?" Bruce murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the wind.