Ghost of a Son

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The cold, damp air of the cell clung to Damian's skin like a second layer of clothing, chilling him to the bone. His wrists were raw, bound tightly by the heavy chains that held him against the rough stone wall. His head ached from the concussion he had sustained during the initial ambush, and his body was covered in bruises from the beatings he'd endured since. His once-steely resolve had been reduced to a simmering rage, mixed with something much more unfamiliar: fear.

It had been days. He wasn't sure how many—three, four, maybe even five. Time had become an abstract concept in this hellhole. His captors had made it clear that they had no intention of killing him outright; they wanted him to suffer. They wanted to break him. And the worst part? No one had come.

No one even knew he was missing.

Damian's mind had been his greatest weapon, his sharp intellect and discipline forged from years of training. But now, it was a double-edged sword, turning inward on itself, gnawing at his confidence with relentless thoughts.

Where are they? Why haven't they come for me?

He knew his father, Bruce, had contingency plans for everything. There was always someone watching, some kind of protocol for a missing Bat-family member. But as each day passed without rescue, the doubts started to creep in, poisoning his thoughts.

Had he done something wrong? Had he pushed them too far this time? Maybe they weren't looking for him at all. Maybe he had become such a burden that his absence was a relief.

No. They wouldn't just leave me.

But the silence that surrounded him, the isolation, gnawed at his sense of belonging. He had always prided himself on his independence, on the fact that he could stand alone. But here, in this cold, dark place, being alone was terrifying.


It had all happened so quickly. One moment, Damian Wayne, the youngest member of the Bat-family, was perched on a rooftop in Gotham's East End, surveying the streets below with a practiced eye, alert and aware. The city pulsed beneath him, alive with the sound of traffic and distant sirens, a symphony of chaos he had learned to navigate with finesse. He was scouting the area after hearing whispers of a new player in the underworld, someone who had been making waves and drawing attention from both law enforcement and criminal elements alike.

In his mind, he had considered himself more than capable of handling this new threat alone. There was a rush in patrolling solo, a thrill in the idea that he could make a difference, however small. He felt invincible, fueled by adrenaline and the confidence that came with being a Wayne. So, he hadn't informed anyone where he was going—not out of recklessness, but because he believed he didn't need to. He could handle it. He always could.

Except this time, he hadn't.

The darkened alleyways seemed to breathe around him, shadows shifting as he moved through the night. His senses heightened, he scanned every corner, every flicker of movement. It was then that they appeared, seemingly out of nowhere—black-clad mercenaries, trained and precise, their faces obscured by masks. They descended upon him like wolves, and in that moment, he realized he had underestimated them.

He fought fiercely, drawing on every lesson Bruce had imparted to him, every grueling training session that had honed his skills to razor-sharp perfection. But there were too many of them. He could feel his muscles straining, his breath coming in short gasps as he parried and struck, moving with the fluidity of a seasoned fighter. But the odds were stacked against him. A tranquilizer dart pierced the skin of his neck before he even realized what was happening. His last conscious memory was the cold, hard ground rushing up to meet him as his vision blurred and darkened into oblivion.

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