Chapter Text
Steel clashed with steel in the narrow backstreets of Tokyo. Damian Wayne fought with the precision of a lineage that demanded perfection. His movements were merciless, yet inside him raged a war older than the men who fell before him.
The League of Assassins had taught him that hesitation was weakness, that mercy was death. His grandfather’s voice lived in every muscle, Kill or be Killed. Yet another voice intruded, cold and resolute, his father’s.
"Justice not vengeance.”
Those words had steadied him in Gotham, but here under his mother’s care, they felt like chains. Talia had insisted on taking Damian with her, claiming that he isn't safe with Bruce after his injuries during patrol. Bruce, of course, disagreed he believed Damian needed guidance and cannot let Damian experience the ruthless training he was thought. Their argument escalated into a physical fight, which didn’t surprise Damian at all. He watched in silence, arms crossed, pretending not to care but deep down, he knew both of them were fighting for control, not for him.
It was decided that Damian would remain with Talia for half a year. The bats were out of reach, no Alfred to tend his wounds, no Grayson to soften his edges, no father’s shadow to hold him back. Only Talia and his grandfather, only the League, only the methods Bruce had sought to strip from him.
In the end, it was agreed that Damian would stay with Talia for six months. She said it wasn’t about control, but recovery a chance for him to breathe away from Gotham’s endless war. Bruce didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue with the truth in her words.
Talia was no villain in Damian’s eyes. Her methods were sharp, her lessons often harsh, but her love had always been constant the kind that taught him to stand even when the world demanded he fall.
Damian accepted the arrangement with quiet resolve. He told himself it was logical, temporary just another mission. But when Talia cupped his face and said softly, “No matter where you go, you will always have a place with me.” something in him ached. Her words carried both strength and sorrow, the kind only a mother who’d fought too many battles could speak. She wasn’t flawless, neither of them was but Damian knew, in that moment, that her love was real, even if it wasn’t simple.
The mission had been simple. Too simple.
“A small clan in Japan,” his mother had said. “Gather information, ensure their silence if necessary. Quick and clean.”
He’d taken it as another test but not of skill, but of loyalty. Ever since returning to Gotham and fighting alongside his father, Damian had learned that mercy wasn’t weakness. But in Talia’s eyes, mercy was hesitation and hesitation got you killed.
He could almost hear her now.
“You cannot fight darkness with softness, my son.”
And then his father’s voice, calm but cutting “You don’t fight darkness by becoming part of it.”
Two lessons. Two worlds. And Damian, walking the line between them.
The infiltration had gone smoothly at first. He’d slipped through the compound’s defenses like smoke, his movements quiet and precise. But when he saw the clan’s insignia carved into the wall, something twisted in his chest. It wasn’t just another patrol but a mission to kill, he hoped he didn't have to because he regrets showing no remorse to hurting others.
He hesitated.
That moment of doubt cost him. A blade came from behind, slicing deep across his side. He dispatched his attacker quickly, but the damage was done. Blood poured through his fingers as he fled into the Tokyo night.
“Focus.” he told himself through clenched teeth, leaping across rooftops until his body gave out.
By the time he reached the back alley of a small convenience store, his vision had narrowed to streaks of color. He pressed against the wall, sliding down to the ground.
He could hear his father’s voice again that measured calm that had become a compass in his head. “Assess the wound. Keep pressure. Call Alfred.”
Then his mother’s. “Pain reminds you that you’re still alive. Use it.”
“Tch,” he muttered aloud, blood staining his gloves. “You’re both insufferable. All of you are in here but where's my voice?”
He dragged himself from the battlefield into the quiet streets beyond. Here there were no flashing lights, only narrow lanes lined with small houses, shuttered shops, and a convenience store glowing in the dark. Ordinary and peaceful. A cruel mockery of what had brought him here.
Damian forced himself behind the store, into the weeds by its wall. He shoved his weapons into the brush, ensuring no hand but his own would find them. His knees buckled, breath caught, and the boy who bore such a heavy burden collapsed into unconsciousness.
Inside, Taro Sakamoto moved through the aisles of his small store with the quiet rhythm of routine. Marriage and fatherhood had softened him, reshaping a man once built for killing into one built for living. Yet even peace couldn’t dull the instincts carved into his bones. When a faint sound drifted from outside too heavy for the wind, too precise to be random the old part of him stirred. His hand stilled mid-motion, eyes narrowing toward the back door.
He stepped into the cool suburban night and froze.
A boy lay crumpled behind the store bloodied, pale, fists still clenched even in unconsciousness. Too disciplined for an ordinary kid, too young to look that hardened. His breathing came in slow, stubborn pulls.
Sakamoto crouched beside him, movements steady, eyes narrowing as he took in the boy’s condition. A trained fighter… but still just a child.
The door behind him slid open.
“Mr. Sakamoto?” Shin’s voice carried the familiar mix of irritation and concern. “You forget to take the trash out again, or—”
He stopped when he saw the boy.
“…Okay. That’s not trash.”
Sakamoto glanced up briefly. “He’s hurt. Deep wound on the side probably a blade.”
Shin stepped closer, frowning. “That’s not some random street kid. Look at his posture, even unconscious he’s tense.”
Sakamoto nodded once. “Yeah. Which means someone’s looking for him.”
A beat of silence. The quiet hum of a passing car filled the space between them. Shin shifted uneasily, his gaze flicking between the boy and Sakamoto.
“You planning to get involved again?”
Sakamoto didn’t answer right away. His hand pressed gently over the bandage he’d improvised with a towel. “I’m not planning anything,” he said softly. “He just needs help.”
Shin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You say that every time, you know, and every time it turns into something bigger.”
Their exchange hung in the cool air, easy and familiar the kind built over years, where arguments and loyalty blurred together.
Sakamoto adjusted the boy’s position carefully. “Help me get him inside.”
Shin hesitated one more second, then sighed. “Fine. But if your wife finds out we’re harboring another stray, you’re explaining it.”
“Deal.” Sakamoto murmured, lifting the boy gently.
And though neither said it out loud, Shin followed close behind the same way he always had.