Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Heart of a Warrior

Damian Wayne's hands had been forged in blood long before he ever touched the streets of Gotham. His earliest memories were not of toys or stories but of swords, drills, and bruises. Under the watchful gaze of his mother, Talia al Ghul, and the cruel tutelage of assassins, Damian had learned that survival was the only form of strength. In the League of Assassins, kindness was weakness, and hesitation could be fatal. He had been trained to become a warrior—and a leader—one with a heart as cold as steel.

Then his world had changed. His father, Bruce Wayne—the Batman—had taken him away from the darkness of the League and into a new life. Gotham was not a place of peace, but it was governed by rules Damian had never known: mercy, compassion, and restraint. At first, it had seemed foolish. Why spare criminals who would strike again? Why tie your hands with a moral code that only made your enemies stronger?

But over time, something in Damian softened. The warmth of Alfred's tea, the laughter he shared with Dick Grayson, the brotherhood he reluctantly found with Tim Drake—all of it chipped away at the walls he had built to survive. In Gotham, for the first time, he wasn't just a weapon. He was a boy. And in rare moments, he dared to believe he could be both.

Still, the warrior in his heart never stopped whispering. And every night, as he patrolled the streets alongside his father, a question echoed in his mind: What kind of man am I meant to be?

The night felt heavy with tension as Damian leapt across rooftops, his cape snapping in the wind. Beside him, Bruce moved like a shadow, silent and precise. They had received word of a hostage situation—a minor crime lord threatening to burn an entire apartment complex if his demands weren't met.

It was the kind of situation that Damian knew could be solved with a single blow. If he could just end the man's life, the hostages would be safe, and the problem would be gone. Permanently.

But that wasn't the Bat's way.

They landed silently outside a broken window, slipping inside the building undetected. The scene was tense—the villain stood surrounded by his men, armed with makeshift torches and guns. Hostages knelt on the floor, trembling with fear. Damian's hand hovered near the hilt of the sword strapped to his side, his instincts screaming at him to end this quickly.

Bruce placed a firm hand on Damian's shoulder. "No killing," he whispered, the warning clear in his voice.

Damian clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to argue. He had heard the lecture a thousand times. No killing. No exceptions. It was the code Bruce lived by—the code Damian had been trying, and failing, to follow.

As Bruce moved to engage the thugs, Damian stayed back, sword still sheathed. But when one of the criminals grabbed a hostage and pressed a knife to her throat, something inside Damian snapped. He moved faster than thought, his hand flying to his sword.

The blade gleamed in the dim light, and in a single fluid motion, Damian disarmed the man with brutal precision. The hostage stumbled away, gasping for air. Damian's sword hovered over the criminal's neck, inches from delivering the fatal strike.

He wanted to do it.

It would be so easy.

But Bruce's voice echoed in his mind: No killing.

With a low growl of frustration, Damian pulled back, sheathing his sword. The criminal gasped in relief, crawling backward across the floor.

When the fight was over, and the thugs were bound for the police, Bruce turned to Damian. His eyes, shadowed by the cowl, searched his son's face.