[Gotham City – The First Night]
The Gotham night swallowed Jason whole as he stepped out of the hospital, the cold air biting through the thin scrubs they'd dressed him in. The city's skyline loomed—towering spires of glass and steel, their peaks lost in the smog-choked clouds.
Neon signs flickered in the distance, casting sickly reflections on rain-slicked pavement. Somewhere, a siren wailed, the sound swallowed by the labyrinth of alleyways.
Jason's fingers tightened around the stolen cane—his only weapon, his only advantage. He had no money. No ID. No memory of the last three years. But he had instincts and he knows Gotham, and right now, they screamed at him to move.
The first rule of surviving Gotham: avoid the open.
Jason stuck to the shadows, his body still unsteady but his mind razor-sharp. The streets here were a graveyard of forgotten buildings—warehouses with busted locks, condemned apartments with hollowed-out insides. He needed somewhere unseen. Somewhere no one would ask questions.
He found it in the skeleton of an old textile factory near the docks. The sign above the door hung crooked, the letters faded to ghosts: WAYNE TEXTILES – EST. 1942.
Irony.
The door groaned as he forced it open, the scent of mildew and rust thick in the air. Inside, the floor was littered with debris—broken glass, shredded fabric, the carcasses of dead rats. But the upper floor was intact, the metal staircase still clinging to the wall.
Jason climbed, each step sending a dull ache through his legs. The second floor was a cavern of empty space, the windows boarded up but for a few slivers of moonlight cutting through. A desk sat in the corner, half-collapsed, its drawers gutted.
Good enough.
He scavenged what he could—a moth-eaten tarp to block the wind, a length of chain he could use as a lock. A rusted fire axe lay abandoned near the stairwell, its handle splintered but its blade still sharp.
Better.
For the first time since waking up, Jason let himself breathe.
Gotham's underbelly had its own economy, and Jason knew how to work it.
The next night, he slipped into the narrow streets of the East End, where the shopkeepers knew better than to ask questions.
A pawnshop with bars on the windows, a bodega with a flickering OPEN sign—he moved between them like a ghost.
A stolen wallet from a careless tourist got him cash. A distracted vendor let him pocket a switchblade. By the time the sun rose, he had:
- A black hoodie (too big, but it hid his face)
- A pair of boots (stolen from a thrift store donation bin)
- A burner phone (paid for in crumpled bills)
- A map of Gotham (circled with places he knew—the Alley, the Docks, Arkham)
And painkillers. Because his body still screamed with every step.
- - -
The Gotham nights had settled into a familiar rhythm over the past few weeks. Jason Todd spent most of his time perched on rooftops or tucked away in dimly lit safehouses, meticulously mapping out the city's underworld.
Notebooks filled with cramped handwriting littered his workspace—names, locations, alliances. He studied the shifting territories like a scholar poring over ancient texts, committing every detail to memory.
The Falcones still controlled the docks, the Maronis held sway over the East End, and a dozen smaller factions squabbled over the scraps in between.
Other nights, he watched from a distance as Batman patrolled the city. The sight of the Dark Knight moving across Gotham's skyline still sent a jolt through Jason's chest, though he'd never admit it. He tracked the familiar silhouette with his binoculars, noting every movement, every takedown. But it was the smaller figure leaping beside Batman that made his fingers tighten around the lenses.
The new Robin.
The kid moved with a confidence Jason recognized—that same reckless energy he'd once had. The costume was different, sleeker, with more armor and a darker color scheme. It was undeniably cool.
Too cool. Jason's earlier uniform had been bright, almost garish in comparison. He could still remember how the yellow of his cape had flared behind him as he swung through the air. This new version was all blacks, reds and green, like something designed to intimidate rather than inspire.
Which reminded him of his Robin costume during his later years, red and black.
He had been replaced.
The thought settled in his gut like a stone. Five years. Five years since he'd died in that warehouse, since the Joker had beaten him bloody and left him to burn. And in that time, Batman had just… moved on. Found a new kid to fill the role. A new son.
Jason lowered the binoculars, his breath fogging in the cold night air. He wasn't angry at Bruce.
Not really.
He'd made his peace with that, or at least he told himself he had. Bruce hadn't avenged him, hadn't crossed that line Jason had begged him to cross, but Jason understood why. He knew the code, knew the oath Bruce had sworn.
But the Joker was still out there. Still laughing. Still breathing.
That was the part Jason couldn't stomach.
He pushed away from the rooftop ledge, his gloved fingers curling into fists. The city sprawled beneath him, a mess of neon and shadow. Somewhere out there, the clown was still breathing, smug in the knowledge that he'd won that night. That he'd taken Robin from Batman and lived to tell the tale.
Jason's jaw tightened.
No. That wasn't how this ended.
If justice wasn't coming for the Joker, then Jason would bring it himself.
He turned his back on the skyline, his boots scraping against gravel as he moved toward the fire escape. The wind tugged at his jacket, sharp and biting, but he barely felt it. His mind was already racing, plans slotting into place.
He'd waited long enough.
If no one else was going to do it, then fine. He'd handle it.
After all, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.
- - -
[Damian Wayne's POV]
Three years have passed since Grandfather's death. The shadows of his legacy still stretch long over Mother and me, a constant reminder of the world we once ruled—and the one she was rebuilding. Mother tells me that Jason avenged him, hunting down Deathstroke and ending him in brutal retribution.
But afterward, Jason vanished, disapeared from the battlefield with no confirmation of his death. She has searched for him relentlessly, her frustration growing with each dead end. Even now, his absence lingers, an unanswered question in the back of my mind.
Months ago, Father finally allowed me to wear the Robin mantle and join him on patrol. I suspect it was less out of trust and more because he grew weary of me sneaking out on my own, carving my own path through Gotham's underworld. He knew I wouldn't stop, so he chose to leash me rather than risk me running wild.
Father is exactly as Grandfather and Mother described—unyielding, disciplined, a force of justice. Yet, where the League taught us to crush our enemies without hesitation, Father denies himself that final, decisive blow.
He is strong—stronger than most—but he shackles himself with his own code. Criminals fear him, yes, but fear alone has not cleansed Gotham. The streets still fester with corruption, the same rats scurrying through the alleys night after night.
Patrolling with him is frustrating.
When he isn't watching, I make sure justice is more than just a warning. No killing—I've learned that lesson well—but pain is an effective teacher.
Broken bones, shattered pride—these are lessons Gotham's filth won't forget. But Father is always there, his presence like a shadow I can't shake. A disapproving glance, a firm grip on my shoulder pulling me back before I go too far.
Then there's Alfred. The only servant in this sprawling, hollow mansion, yet he maintains it with effortless precision. He moves through the halls like a ghost, anticipating needs before they're spoken. I respect efficiency, and Alfred is nothing if not efficient.
Still, there's something unnerving about the way he watches me—like he sees every thought, every suppressed instinct.
And now, Father has decided I need public education.
The idea is absurd. Children my age are insufferable—loud, undisciplined, their minds dulled by trivialities.
But Father insists. "You need to learn how to interact with others outside of combat," he says, as if socializing is a skill I lack rather than one I find beneath me.
Tomorrow, I'll be forced into a classroom full of them. The thought makes my jaw tighten. I've faced assassins, trained under the most lethal warriors in the world—yet this is what tests my patience.
But I don't have a choice.
If Father thinks school will tame me, he's mistaken.
I'll play along—for now.
The clock on my bedside table glowed a mocking red—11:47 PM. Far too late to still be in this room, far too early for Gotham's true darkness to settle in.
My fingers twitched against the windowsill, the cool night air doing nothing to soothe the restless energy coiling in my muscles.
I should have been out there. The city didn't sleep, and neither should I.
But Father had forbidden it.
"You need rest. School starts tomorrow."
As if I hadn't spent years training on less than two hours of sleep. As if a classroom full of ordinary children required my full, well-rested attention. The thought was almost insulting.
Downstairs, the faint creak of the grandfather clock echoed through the empty halls of the manor. Alfred had retired hours ago, though I knew better than to assume that meant he wasn't listening. The old man had an uncanny way of appearing exactly when he wasn't wanted.
I flexed my hands, imagining the weight of my katana, the familiar grip of my knieves. Father's rule was clear—no patrol tonight. But rules had never stopped me before.
The word kaleidoscope floated
through my mind as I watched the city stretched beyond my window, a mix of shadows and neon. Somewhere out there, Batman moved silently across rooftops, striking fear into the hearts of criminals who refuse to actually change their ways.
And here I was, trapped behind glass like some prized weapon locked in a display case.
A flicker of movement in the garden below caught my eye—a shadow too quick, too deliberate to be the wind. My body tensed on instinct.
Jason?
It was a foolish thought. Jason was gone. Mother's best trackers hadn't found him, and if they couldn't, no stray shadow in Wayne Manor's garden would be him.
Still.
I hesitated, torn between the order to stay and the itch beneath my skin that demanded movement, action, purpose.
The shadow vanished.
With a quiet scoff, I turned away from the window. Father's rules were one thing. Alfred's disappointment was another. And if I showed up to this school tomorrow with bruises or blood on my knuckles, there would be questions I didn't care to answer.
For tonight, I would obey.
But tomorrow?
Gotham's criminals had no idea how lucky they were.
- - -
Morning light filtered through the grand windows of Wayne Manor, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.
Damian stood in front of the hallway mirror, his reflection staring back at him with palpable disdain. The school uniform—gray plaid jacket, matching shorts, black socks, and polished shoes—felt like a prison sentence. He tugged at the stiff collar, scowling.
"Just kill me already."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, low and venomous. He despised uniforms, despised the idea of blending in like some ordinary child. At least in his usual attire—layered blacks and greens, hidden weapons strapped to his body—he felt like himself. This? This was humiliation.
Alfred, ever composed, stepped forward with a practiced ease, adjusting Damian's tie with deft fingers. "I have to say, Master Damian, you do look rather dashing."
"Dashing?" Damian scoffed, glaring at his own reflection. "This is a joke. A poorly executed one."
Alfred's lips twitched, but he wisely chose not to engage further. "Come along now, Master Damian. We mustn't be late on your first day."
"I'd rather not go at all," Damian muttered under his breath, but Alfred was already ushering him toward the grand staircase.
Downstairs, Bruce stood by the entrance, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. His sharp eyes flicked up as Damian descended, and an amused smirk tugged at his lips.
"Now that's how kids your age are supposed to look," Bruce remarked, setting his cup down. "Not like a miniature mercenary."
Damian's scowl deepened. "I still don't understand why I can't be homeschooled. I've already mastered subjects most of these children won't touch for years."
Bruce sighed, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder as he guided him toward the waiting car. "It's not just about academics. You need to learn how to interact with people your age. Make friends. Be… normal."
"Normal is overrated," Damian shot back, sliding into the car with deliberate slowness.
Bruce leaned in, unable to resist one last jab. "Have a nice day at school. And—try to make some friends."
The glare Damian leveled at him could have melted steel. Without another word, he slammed the door shut.
Bruce chuckled as the car pulled away, watching until it disappeared down the long driveway. He couldn't help but find some twisted amusement in Damian's suffering.
The boy had faced assassins, monsters, and Gotham's worst criminals without flinching—yet the idea of a classroom full of teenagers seemed to terrify him more than any villain.
- - -
Perched on a rooftop just beyond the manor's perimeter, Jason Todd lowered his binoculars, a smirk playing on his lips. He'd been watching the morning routine with detached interest, more out of habit than any real stake in the matter.
"So that pip-squeak's full name is Damian Wayne," he muttered to himself, packing up his gear. "Bruce's actual son. I knew I recognized those movements."
He'd spent the previous night lurking around the manor's grounds—nostalgia, maybe, or just morbid curiosity. Seeing the kid dressed like a prep school poster boy was almost laughable. The Demon Brat, forced into a uniform and shoved into a classroom.
"Bet he's loving that," Jason snorted, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
He spared one last glance at the manor before disappearing into the city's shadows.