Damirae Post-Apokalipz 2020

3: The Demon

    He woke up with the sun. Several opened windows allowed the light to stream onto his red, silk bedding and across his sleeping figure. Damian woke up with the discipline of a leader. After training with his father, and becoming increasingly frustrated with being treated like a child, he returned to Nanda Parbat and took on the the title of The Demon. Damian Al Ghul Wayne was leader of the league of assassins and could no longer act like the brat he once was. Yet this morning, he felt the need to throw a tantrum. A pit in his stomach made him want to swear and cry and yell and burn the world to the ground. After a deep breath, or ten, Damian regained his composure and rose from his bed. He ignored the troubling feelings, pushing them into the back of his mind, and got dressed for his pre-breakfast training.

    He found his way to the private arena, where he battled four of his most skilled followers all at once. He defeated each with a blur of swords and uncalled for rage. He may have been slightly more aggressive this morning, but Damian attributed that to his startling feelings he'd ignored. Unharmed, and still simmering with bottled up emotions, he called more assassins into the arena. The previous night had filled him with unexplainable despair, and the best outlet for it was an intense morning training session.

    After two more rounds of assassins, Damian was exhausted and needed to allow his most respected members to recover. He announced his leave and returned to his private chambers. Soon enough, Damian's composure crumbled.  The build up of inexplicable feelings was unbearable and could not be worked out by his training. He fell to his knees beside his bed and clawed at his chest. His heart was breaking and he didn't know why. Damian was overwhelmed by too many feelings. He was sad, scared, angry, and worst of all heartbroken. But why? He had to get a grip.

    He stumbled into his bathing chamber, removing his shirt in anticipation of a soothing bath, Damian first saw the tattoo. Except, he didn't have any tattoos. Distraught, Damian tore his sleeveless undershirt off, expecting the dark marking to have been a trick of the light. But no, the twisting pattern on his right shoulder reached from the base of his neck to the bottom of his ribs. He traced its design, a calm overwhelming his turmoil of emotions. Was this why he was feeling this way? Someone must've done something to him, cursed him overnight. He needed to see his father; he would have connections to solve this mystery.

    Damian would take his soak, dress properly as the Demon, and make his way to Gotham. One way or another, he would find out who did this to him and why.