Chapter Text
It was quiet in the manor again. Damian Wayne, eleven years old, sat perfectly still at the head of the long dining table—alone. A knife, a fork, barely touched food. The walls around him stretched, the dining room lights drew sinister shadows on the floor. His chair was cold and so was his food now.
Across from him, an empty chair. Several, actually. Alfred had set out plates for Bruce, Drake, and even Grayson, as if hope might summon them to dinner. It didn’t. Maybe he could hear them if he tried. His father was probably in the Batcave, planning ahead of time. Drake was likely asleep in some server chair, headphones in. Grayson had left for Blüdhaven again that morning, barely saying goodbye.
Damian cut into his food with perfect, robotic movements. Precision calmed him. Discipline was his armor. His knife scraped against his plate, the sound echoing in the empty room. When he had been with the League, things had been different. There was blood, treachery and pain. But there was also clarity. Structure. A warped version of respect. The guards, servants and even his teachers feared him—but they saw him. They heard him. His existence meant something to them.
The people here couldn’t care less.
Here, in the giant halls of his father’s home, he was a ghost in a castle.
As usual, sleep didn't come to him that night. He sat at his window, arms crossed over his knees, Titus curled at his feet, snoring gently. His eyes drifted to the stars, faint behind Gotham’s clouds. The moonlight glinted off a small trinket on his nightstand—a broken chess piece. Porcelaine. The last thing Talia had ever given him. The Knight. It had broken not long after he had come to Gotham, proof that no piece of him, no part of his world could stay intact for long.
He hated her.
He missed her.
He hated that he missed her.
A knock came at the door. Alfred, surely, who else.
“Would you care for some warm milk, Master Damian?”
Damian couldn’t help the twitch of his lip. This was Pennyworth’s way of checking on him. The man had an uncanny power of appearing whenever Damian felt worse.
“No, thank you.” He answered flatly.
Alfred hesitated, the way he usually did. Damian liked the old man, he liked to think someone would notice if something happened to him. That he wouldn’t rot until Grayson came from Bludhaven and found his corpse. If Grayson ever came.
The man had been increasingly absent lately, be it for family dinners or patrol. Damian understood that his brother had a life, friends, a girlfriend, a job, and that he was the least of his worries. What Damian didn’t understand was why he kept swearing that he missed him, as if lying would make him feel better.
Grayson had always been there when Bruce was lost in the timelines. Grayson had been the first to listen to him, to treat him like a human being. Damian had learned a lot from him, be it the way of the people, American culture or unsaid rules and customs. Damian would have believed him then.
Richard had cared for Damian in a way no one had before. He had given importance to his words, to his art, to his animals, to everything he cared about. Damian had felt important. And then Bruce had returned, and Damian had lost his importance. And his progress. He was back to square one in one night.
He had been willing to try again at first, with his father, but every try was answered by a scream. Every opportunity was met by cold glares and warnings.
“Stay in line. Follow the plan.”
And if Damian tried to put in a little bit of his own, to give some insight or share his ideas, Batman would speak up.
“No. We are not doing this your way, Damian. It’s Batman and Robin; this isn’t the League. You’re just here to follow my orders. If you can’t do that, you’re welcome to stay home”
His father was afraid to take him along—always tense, like he might snap, like Damian was a time bomb ready to explode. Maybe because he hadn’t seen it, he didn’t believe Damian had made any progress at all. He treated him like a criminal on a leash and the first opportunity he got, he would take Robin from him.
For someone who claimed vigilante life and personal life should be kept apart, Bruce had a strange way of applying it to his children. Whenever something happened at school, Robin would get his wings cut. Whenever Damian was rude at home, Robin would be grounded. He was taking away the only thing that helped him breathe, then wondered why Damian got worse. Bruce was blind, utterly blind. Or maybe he was closing his eyes. Afterall, he had never asked why he had gotten a bad grade, why he had fought with Drake or why he had punched a kid. Bruce didn’t care if his son was being bullied and insulted at school, he didn’t care if Tim called him names, he didn’t care if Damian didn’t sleep because of nightmares. In Bruce’s eyes, Damian was always wrong. Damian didn’t want to think about why Bruce acted the way he did, he just knew: Bruce didn’t want him
Damian dropped his chin onto his knees. Alfred had already left. He could feel the burn behind his eyes but didn’t cry. Crying was inefficient. It didn’t solve anything. It didn’t change how Tim looked at him. It didn’t make Grayson come back. It didn’t make Bruce see him.
Damian was yearning for something he had never had. His insides were tightening, leaving him breathless. He was hurting and he didn’t understand why. This wasn’t new, he should have gotten used to it by now.
Adapt. Overcome. That was his motto.
Yet each time Duke left without saying good morning, each time Stephanie sniggered when he walked by, each time Drake called him a demon spawn, each time Jason complained when he had to patrol with him, each time Cass sent him a cold look, each time Grayson ignored his texts, his skin would burn. He could never get used to it, no matter how many times he got exposed to the hate they felt for him.
His fingers closed around the broken Knight, gripping it like a lifeline. The jagged edges digging into his palms served as an anchor.
This wasn't about overcoming. You couldn’t just develop an immunity to cancer by being exposed to it long enough. It would rather eat you slowly and leave you empty. The solution was to carve it out before it grew bigger. Maybe that’s what he had been trying to do with the blade in his drawer: carve out the cancer growing inside him. And carve out the cancer destroying this "family" from inside as well. He would certainly do them a favor.
As he pressed the sharp edge agaisnt his skin, the boy looked accusatorily at the sky. The moon, traiturous, mocked him by hiding her light.
Xanyu Estate – Hidden Compound, Chinese Countryside of Guangxi
The moon reflects off the quiet koi pond. Willow trees sway gently in the courtyard breeze, well-tended gardens of flowers frame a tall Japanese-style house. Warm light shines through the paper doors, wrapping the estate in a tranquil glow, disturbed only slightly by the occasional fleeting silhouettes darting through the rooms, shadows dancing in the night.
The serenity outside betrays nothing of the chaos within.
It’s barefoot chaos inside. The heated wooden floor is strewn with papers, books, manuals, and Legos, basically a minefield.
Yuna Xanyu is sitting cross-legged on the floor, typing furiously on her computer. Her oversized T-shirt is slipping, and she’s chewing what’s left of a poor pen while readjusting her glasses every ten seconds. Void, her AI assistant, hums from the holographic console, displaying a countdown.
“Ten minutes,” it announces in a plain artificial voice.
Yuna groans, leaning closer to the computer screen, her posture more painfully stiff than before.
Little Aiden runs and jumps on her back, earning a yelp from his sister. He wraps his arms around her head, laughing, warm breath against her ear.
“Aiden,” Yuna warns softly, divided between laughing and crying. Her timer shows eight minutes.
Aiden giggles and smacks her cheek gently.
Yuna shakes her head and fakes a stern voice.
“Assault on a commanding officer. I’m calling Commander Semyon.”
Sara cartwheels in from the hallway, not as perfectly as she intended, landing in a handstand that knocks over a pile of anatomy papers. The look Yuna sends her way is enough to make her bend and start scooping up the papers in a small pile all while she happily talks to her sister.
“I finished building the Lego Eiffel Tower and practicing my forms. Haoran timed me and I beat the last score,” she explains happily, looking at her brother eagerly to show her the time on his watch. Her gaze is both impatient and hopeful for some kind of acknowledgement.
Haoran, twelve years old, sits perched on the couch arm with his arms crossed, looking very much like a grumpy cat.
“That’s because speed doesn’t equal aesthetic. That tower is barely holding together. And you looked like an octopus doing your forms. Mother wouldn’t let you pass to the next dan like this.”
“Hey! First of all, octopuses are adorable. And my forms looked just fine!” Sara fires back.
“No fighting before dinner, please.” Yuna says tiredly, not looking up. Through the years, she has gotten used to this: the constant bickering, the banter, the noise. It’s how they show they care somehow, how they make themselves heard.
The back door opens, and Semyon steps inside—broad, tall, oil-smudged from the garage, his T-shirt dusty. He’s a force of calm in a sea of disorder, his movements deliberate and relaxed as he sets down a box of new bike parts on the counter.
“...Is something burning?” he asks while sniffing the air.
“Just my patience.” Yuna replies with a sigh. “And possibly the tea. Haoran ‘experimented,’”
“The manual said ‘use boiling water for stubborn leaves to infuse better.’ The flame was… excessive,” Haoran mumbles in an attempt to defend his honor to his older brother.
Semyon walks over, calmly turns off the stove, flicks Haoran’s forehead in acknowledgement, and drops onto the floor beside Yuna. He grabs Aiden and lifts him effortlessly into the air.
“He’s not letting you work, huh?” Semyon teases slightly before switching to his silly voice for Aiden “Are you being a menace again? Are you? Are you planning a war? Huh, Commander?”
Aiden giggles at the tickles then roars a babble of “À l’attaque!” while hitting his laughing brother.
“Was that... French?” Sara blinks in surprise. Yuna shakes her head in disbelief.
“Was it? Someone must be watching Ninjago on French TV with him at 6am every morning,” Yuna says, sending an amused look at her sister who glances away smiling guiltily.
“He’s really smart for his age, he absorbs quickly.” Haoran says, stepping closer to the youngest and booping his on the nose. Not even Haoran the tsundere can act tough against Aiden’s cute dimples.
“He’s Haoran but cute,” Semyon teases, earning him a glare.
“I will end you,” Haoran mutters.
“Children. Please. Fight later. I have three minutes left for a deadline I didn’t even know I had,” Yuna groans. Her face scrunches in panic. She massages her wrist for half a second before going back to typing.
Semyon, entirely unbothered by her panic, hands Aiden a wrench to keep him occupied. The baby gurgles happily, observing the tool before hitting it against the nearest object.
“Do not arm the baby,” Yuna warns.
“Too late. It’s begun,” Semyon says, clearly amused. Almost proud. Sunnova-
Yuna winces but stops her scolding short at the look of pure bliss on the baby’s face. Her mother is rich anyway. She can buy another table.
Sighing, Yuna sends her barely finished homework along with an apology mail to her anatomy teacher, asking him not to mind the typos. She then turns to watch her siblings, quiet warmth in her gaze. She is so done with them, yet she wouldn't change anything about this. Except maybe the dose of responsabilities she has to shoulder. She will have to speak with her mom again.
Sara finishes picking up the last of the papers, her movements quick but hesitant. Her smile is back instantly when Yuna nods at her in acknowledgment and silent thanks. She skips happily to the kitchen where Semyon is setting the table, serving bowls of rice.
Haoran is still quietly hovering around her, as if he’s unsure. When his sister stretches and rubs her eyes in a way that always signals exhaustion, he takes his chance. It’s quick. He leans against her, offering a side hug. It’s not much, but coming from him, it’s huge.
Of course he picks the moment they are alone.
“Tsundere,” Yuna murmurs under her breath, her smile softening.
Outside, the wind picks up. Tomorrow, their mother returns. The world will tilt again.
But for tonight—
“All hail the king!” Yuna screams, grabbing Aiden from his eating chair and throwing him into the air while her siblings echo her words.