Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Shadows Of The Mind Version 3

The Batcave was quiet, save for the hum of the Batcomputer and the faint drip of water echoing in the cavern. Damian stumbled down the stone steps, each footfall heavier than the last. Patrol had been a disaster. Scarecrow had ambushed them, spraying fear gas into his face before disappearing into the chaos. He'd shaken it off—or so he told himself.

"I'm fine," he muttered, brushing past the memory of Bruce's concerned glance. "I'm in control. Always in control."

Damian's mind buzzed, his heartbeat erratic as he walked toward the training area. The cavernous space felt unusually large, the shadows stretching farther than they should. He shook his head, willing his vision to clear. It was just the fear gas playing tricks on him. He was better than this.

"It's just a chemical reaction. Nothing more." He repeated it like a mantra, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. But even as he spoke the words, his chest tightened, and unease curled around him like smoke.

Damian's first hallucination was subtle.

As he approached his quarters, the hallway seemed to grow longer, darker. The lights above flickered, buzzing faintly. He frowned, pausing mid-step. "Tch. Faulty wiring," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

He continued walking, but the floor beneath him felt unstable, like stepping on shifting sand. His pulse quickened as whispers began to creep from the walls, faint and indistinct at first but growing louder with each step.

"Damian..."

He froze, his heart racing. The voice was soft and familiar, and it made his stomach churn. He turned sharply, scanning the shadows. "Who's there?!" he barked, his voice echoing.

The shadows didn't answer. They only seemed to grow, pooling at his feet like living things.

When he reached his room, it was no longer his sanctuary. Instead of his simple bed and desk, he was greeted by the grand hall of Wayne Manor. The space was wrong—twisted and broken. The marble floors were cracked, splattered with dark, unrecognizable stains. The chandeliers above swayed on chains, the crystals clinking together like wind chimes in a storm.

"This isn't real," Damian whispered, stepping backward. "This isn't—"

"Damian..."

He spun around, his breath hitching. Standing behind him was Alfred.

But something was wrong.

The butler's usual warmth was gone, replaced by a hollow, lifeless expression. His uniform was soaked with blood, the crimson stark against the gray fabric.

"You failed us," Alfred said, his voice quiet but laced with pain. "You let us die."

"No," Damian stammered, backing away. "That's not true. I—"

Alfred stepped closer, his face twisting into something monstrous, his voice deepening to a guttural snarl. "How many more will suffer because of you, Damian? How many more lives will you destroy?"

Damian bolted from the room, his breaths ragged. He wasn't sure where he was running to—only that he needed to get away. But every door he opened led to another nightmare.

In one, Dick lay on the ground, his escrima sticks shattered, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. "I trusted you, Dami," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "And you let me die."