The Quiet Goodbye

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The manor was quiet that night—quieter than usual. It wasn't the eerie silence that often filled the halls when the Bat family was out on their missions, nor was it the kind of peace that came with the late hours when Gotham itself seemed to take a breath. No, this silence was different. It was heavy, like the air before a storm, pressing down on everything, filling the rooms with an unspoken tension.

Damian stood in the doorway of Bruce's study, his hand resting on the frame. The room smelled like it always did—a mix of old leather, polished wood, and faint traces of gunpowder from the night before. Bruce had always kept the study organized, but lived-in, papers scattered across the desk, maps of Gotham pinned to the walls. To anyone else, it would seem chaotic. But to Damian, it was a familiar kind of chaos, one that he had grown up with. One that had once felt like home.

But not anymore.

He stepped into the room, the soft thud of his boots barely audible against the thick carpet. His eyes scanned the space, taking in every detail—the grandfather clock that hid the entrance to the Batcave, the photographs of his parents on the mantle, the small knick-knacks Bruce had collected over the years. It was all so familiar, and yet so distant, like it belonged to another life. A life Damian no longer felt a part of.

In his hand, he held a small envelope, folded neatly, the weight of it so light and yet so crushing. His name was scrawled across the front in his usual sharp handwriting, the ink slightly smudged from where his hand had trembled while writing it. He hadn't meant for it to be a farewell letter, not at first. It had started as a simple note, a way to explain why he was leaving for the mission alone. But as he wrote, the words had shifted, the truth bleeding onto the page with each line.

Now, it was a goodbye.

He walked slowly to Bruce's desk, the envelope clutched tightly in his fingers. The moonlight streamed in through the large windows, casting long shadows across the floor, the pale light dancing on the surface of the desk. He placed the letter down carefully, positioning it exactly where Bruce would see it when he returned from patrol. There would be no missing it. No avoiding it.

Damian's chest tightened as he took a step back, staring at the envelope, as if waiting for something—anything—that would make him change his mind. But there was nothing. No second thoughts, no last-minute doubts.

This was it.

He didn't expect Bruce to care. Not really. It wasn't that Bruce didn't love him; Damian had come to accept that, in his own way, Bruce did. But it wasn't the kind of love that Damian needed. It was distant, conditional, wrapped up in expectations and duty. Damian had always felt like a soldier in Bruce's army—an asset, a tool to be honed and sharpened, used when necessary, and put aside when his flaws became too obvious.

He had tried. He had tried so hard to be the son Bruce wanted him to be. He had followed the rules, adopted the methods of the Bat family, fought alongside them, saved the city countless times. But it had never been enough. Every victory was met with critique, every success with reminders of what he should have done differently. He was never quite right in their eyes. Too violent. Too reckless. Too much like his mother.

And now, after everything, Damian had made peace with the truth.

He wasn't meant for this life. He wasn't meant to fit into their mold.

The mission he was about to undertake wasn't sanctioned by the Bat family, and he had no illusions about its outcome. It was dangerous, suicidal even, but that didn't matter anymore. For the first time in his life, Damian didn't feel the weight of expectations pressing down on him. He didn't feel the need to prove himself, to show that he was capable of more than they thought he was.

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