Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Nothing Left To Lose

Damian wandered the alleys of Gotham, the darkness closing in around him like a shroud. Bruce's words replayed in his mind, each one carrying the weight of finality. "You're reckless, Damian. This isn't just about you anymore. You've left me no choice—Robin is no longer yours." It was like a sentence handed down from on high, a rejection that cut deeper than he had thought possible. The name, the suit, the life he had built for himself within the shadows—all stripped away with a few cold, unyielding words. He could almost still see Bruce's face, stoic and immovable, the disappointment plain in his eyes. No plea, no apology, just that sentence—a hammer falling.

The thought of returning to the manor, to the cavernous silence that would meet him there, felt like a cruelty he couldn't bear. He wasn't Damian Wayne in that house; he wasn't even Robin anymore. He was just a shadow, a disappointment that no one knew how to address, a storm no one wanted to weather. The ache of it pressed down on him, sinking deeper into his chest with every step he took.

As the hours stretched on, his feet carried him through Gotham's underbelly, his presence unnoticed in the night. The neon lights from rundown bars flickered, casting shadows over the cracked pavement, and the muffled sounds of laughter and scuffles drifted through the alleys. He didn't know where he was going—maybe he didn't care. All he wanted was for the ache to dull, for the wound Bruce's words had left in him to stop bleeding, if only for a little while.

That was how he found himself in the underground fight clubs, places even the Bat family rarely ventured into. They were tucked away in forgotten basements and abandoned warehouses, their locations changing every few nights to avoid police raids. Here, the crowd was brutal, the fights bloodier than anything he had seen on Gotham's rooftops. And for the first time in his life, Damian found a strange sort of relief in being unknown. No one whispered about the Wayne legacy, about Robin, about the name he'd grown up both hating and clinging to. Here, he was just another fighter, his past invisible to those who cared only about the thrill of the fight.

The rules were simple: no limits, no mercy. He showed up each night, his fists clenched, his mind a blank slate of raw fury and hurt. Punches and kicks flew, blood splattered, bruises bloomed, but the pain was a relief, a reminder that he was still here, still alive, even if it didn't feel like it anymore. Each fight was an attempt to bury the shame, the bitterness, the hollow emptiness that gnawed at him.

In the dim light of these basements, faces blurred, names became irrelevant, and the rules were simple—no holds barred, no mercy. The noise of the crowd, the taste of sweat and blood, the way his fists connected with flesh—it drowned out everything else. Every punch, every bruise, every hit he took was a way to feel something other than the bitterness festering inside him. In the ring, the hurt had a purpose. It was raw, immediate, tangible. The pain, the adrenaline, the fatigue—all of it carved out a brief escape, something real to anchor himself to.

As he fought, night after night, Damian felt himself grow harder, his edges sharper, his gaze colder. He learned to roll with punches he hadn't seen coming, to anticipate the blows aimed at his jaw or ribs, to use the force of his opponents' strength against them. But it wasn't about winning for him. He didn't care if he was knocked to the ground or left limping by the end of it. The point was to keep fighting, to feel the pain as proof he was still there, even if nothing else made sense.

The people he fought didn't know him; they didn't know his past, his family, his failures. And that was a relief, too—a kind of twisted freedom. Here, he wasn't bound by anyone's expectations, wasn't haunted by the legacy that had defined him. He was just another body in the ring, just another nameless fighter, as insignificant as the bruises he left on his opponents.