Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Weight of Silence

The night was thick with shadows, the Gotham skyline smudging the horizon like dark ink. Damian sat on his bed, staring at the city lights through his window. The silence of Wayne Manor was almost oppressive, settling heavily around him, amplifying his every thought. Every whisper of the night seemed to echo back his anxieties, his fears, his loneliness.

The walls of the mansion seemed to be closing in on him, trapping him in a world that wasn't his, a legacy that felt like a prison. This place, which was supposed to be his home, had become a cage. The responsibilities, the constant push for perfection, the shadow of his father's expectations—all weighed on him like a chain, binding him to a role he hadn't asked for.

For years, he had kept everything locked up inside: the nightmares that haunted him night after night, where shadows became monsters; the endless cycle of fear and anger that churned in his gut. And then there was the anxiety—a quiet, creeping dread that ate away at him. A weight that never lifted, pressing down on him even during the quiet moments. He had tried, in his own way, to reach out, to find solace, but he was always met with silence or well-meaning platitudes. "You're strong, Damian," they'd say. But he didn't feel strong. He felt tired. Hollow.

On the outside, he was Robin: fearless, unbreakable, the perfect protégé of the Dark Knight. But inside, he was anything but. He was a fractured person, held together by duty and anger, constantly wrestling with shadows that his family never saw. They were too busy, too focused on their missions to see the boy struggling under the weight of his own mind. Bruce had trained him well, but that training had made him a soldier, not a son. In his father's eyes, he saw only expectations, never comfort.

The pressure had chipped away at him, piece by piece, until he was barely holding himself together. The thought of voicing his struggles was laughable; his family would likely dismiss it as weakness, a failure of discipline. He didn't know how to explain to them that every night was a battle, every morning a silent endurance test. He was alone in a house full of people, surrounded by family yet utterly isolated.

And now, as he sat there in the dead of night, Damian knew he couldn't stay here any longer. He had nothing left to give. The weight of silence had finally grown unbearable, and he needed to escape.

He reached for a small piece of paper and scribbled a few short sentences, each word deliberate, like a knife slicing through the final tether holding him to this place. The words were simple, almost brutal: Don't try to find me.

He placed the note on his bed, the empty space around it seeming to grow as if his absence had already settled in. He left the room with nothing but the clothes on his back, no costume, no gadgets. Just Damian Wayne disappearing into the night like a ghost, leaving only an echo of himself behind.

As he slipped through the halls one last time, a strange calm settled over him. He knew that he was abandoning his family, that they would look for him, maybe even worry. But they didn't understand the battles he fought every night, the war raging within him that they had never noticed. And maybe they never would.

With a final glance at the mansion, Damian stepped into the shadows of Gotham, becoming one with the night. He was free now, drifting away from everything he had ever known, like a haunting fading into the darkness.

Years passed, and Gotham adapted, as cities always do, filling the empty spaces left by those who vanished. The Bat Family adjusted, though each in their own way. Bruce, despite the relentless demands of Gotham's criminal underworld, continued to search occasionally, tracking down any whisper, any lead that might point him to his son. Yet every effort turned to dust—Damian had vanished without a trace, a shadow slipping into the night as if he had never been.