Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Echoes of Belonging

Damian Wayne had always felt like he was walking a razor's edge, teetering between two worlds that refused to merge. On one side was Gotham—a city that demanded restraint, justice through mercy, and a refusal to kill. On the other was the League of Assassins—a legacy that whispered promises of power, control, and the authority to dictate who lived and who died.

He had tried to live in both. Tried to honor his father's code and his mother's teachings. But no matter how hard he fought, he always felt out of place—like a ghost haunting two worlds, belonging to neither.

And now, after years of struggling to find his place, Damian found himself standing at a crossroads where a choice had to be made.

He couldn't belong to both. He had to choose.

Damian stood at the edge of the rooftop, staring down at the glimmering chaos of Gotham below. Rain slithered down his face and soaked his clothes, but he barely registered it. He welcomed the cold sting against his skin—it felt grounding, more real than the restless noise in his head. Tonight, the city's glow seemed distant, as if the lights belonged to another world, one he couldn't quite touch. He was waiting—waiting for a sign that this city, this life, still made sense.

The weight of Gotham pressed down on him like a heavy fog. Below him, the streets slithered with flickers of movement—criminals ducking into shadows, cops chasing ghosts, and ordinary people rushing home beneath the cover of umbrellas. The rain made it all blur together. It was chaos, pure and unrelenting, and yet Gotham thrived in it. It adapted. It survived. But Damian didn't know if he could. Not anymore.

The comm in his ear crackled to life, static interrupting the rain's steady rhythm.

"Damian, fall back," Bruce's voice filtered through, tight with tension but calm, the way only Bruce could be in the thick of things. "We have Freeze cornered. Don't engage alone. Wait for backup."

Damian's jaw tightened, the irritation in his chest flaring. "I can handle it," he snapped, already knowing the response coming his way.

"Not alone," Bruce repeated, more steel than warmth in his voice now.

Damian rolled his eyes beneath the mask, biting back a curse. His father always said those two words like they were law—not alone—as if that rule was supposed to mean something. As if it ever did. Damian's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. Backup would be too slow. He didn't need them.

"Father," Damian muttered into the comm, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut, "I don't need permission."

Before Bruce could respond, Damian was already moving. He stepped off the rooftop without a second thought, plummeting toward the alley below. The wind howled past his ears, and for a fleeting moment, he felt free—weightless, unbound by the rules that suffocated him.

He landed in a crouch with feline grace, his boots splashing in the shallow puddles that lined the alley. Mr. Freeze stood just ahead, a hulking figure of cold steel and frost, surrounded by ice-coated debris. His cold suit hummed with mechanical precision, the thick tubes along his arms feeding the armor with supercooled air.

Freeze turned toward him, his helmet catching the dim streetlight in a dull shimmer. "Wayne," he growled, his voice distorted by the machinery keeping him alive.

Damian's fingers curled tightly around his sword. His heartbeat slowed, his mind sharpening with brutal focus. This wouldn't be an arrest. Freeze was a threat, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Damian knew predators—and he knew how to end them.

The League's training whispered in the back of his mind, smooth and familiar. Strike first. Strike fast. Strike without hesitation.

He darted forward, a blur of motion faster than Freeze could react. His blade sliced through the air, catching one of the thick tubes along Freeze's arm. The metal hissed as it tore, releasing a burst of steam and cold vapor into the air.