The school loomed ahead, an imposing brick building with manicured lawns and rows of identical windows. Damian stepped out of the car, his expression carefully neutral, though his fingers twitched at his sides—an old habit, reaching for weapons that weren’t there. 

The kid was already on edge at the thought of being around kids his age.

Alfred gave him a reassuring nod. “You’ll be fine, Master Damian.” 

“I highly doubt that,” Damian muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag before striding toward the entrance. 

Inside, the halls buzzed with chatter and laughter, students milling about in clusters. The air smelled like chalk, cologne, and the faint tang of cafeteria food. Damian’s nose wrinkled. 

A secretary directed him to his classroom, and after a brief, disdainful survey of his surroundings, he pushed open the door. 

The teacher—a woman in her mid-forties with a too-bright smile—greeted him at the threshold. “Ah, you must be our new student!” 

Damian stared at her, unimpressed. What’s so amusing? he wondered. Her smile faltered slightly under his scrutiny. 

“Class, we have a new student joining us today,” she announced, gesturing for him to step forward. “Come in and introduce yourself!” 

Damian strode in, hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the room. Dozens of eyes locked onto him—curious, assessing, some already whispering behind their hands. 

“I am Damian,” he stated flatly. 

The teacher blinked. “Well, uh—tell us a bit more about yourself!” 

He considered his options. ‘I could tell them I was raised by assassins. That I’ve taken down men twice my size before breakfast. That I could disarm every person in this room in under thirty seconds.’

Instead, he settled on: “I prefer to keep to myself.” 

The teacher’s smile strained. “Right. Well, take a seat over there.” She pointed to an empty desk near the middle of the room. 

Damian ignored the whispers trailing after him as he sat down. His eyes flicked to the clock above the chalkboard. 

This, he thought grimly, is going to be torture. 

The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. Around him, students shuffled papers, passed notes, and stifled giggles. Damian exhaled slowly, steeling himself. 

If he could survive the League of Assassins, he could survive this. 

Probably.

– – –

The classroom buzzed with the usual hum of students shifting between subjects, teachers coming and going like clockwork. Yet, despite the constant movement, not a single one acknowledged the boy sitting near the back. 

His presence alone seemed to carve out an invisible barrier—tense, unapproachable. 

A few girls whispered behind their hands, stifling giggles as they stole glances his way, murmuring about how dangerously cute he looked with that sharp glare and perfectly tousled hair. 

But Damian Wayne wasn’t here to make friends. 

His sharp eyes flicked toward the back of the room, catching two boys staring at him—one taller, bulkier than the rest, the other average but with a smirk that screamed trouble. Their gazes lingered a second too long, sizing him up. 

Probably bullies. 

Damian dismissed the thought with a slight tilt of his head. School was nothing more than a mission—one he had no intention of failing. 

His father’s insistence on “normalcy” had landed him here, in this pretentious academy where rich kids flaunted their parents’ money like badges of honor. 

The noise, the pointless chatter, the disorder—it grated on his nerves. But failure? That wasn’t in his vocabulary. 

When the bell rang for lunch, Damian remained seated as the classroom emptied. His stomach growled, a quiet but insistent reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. 

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and made his way to the cafeteria, his footsteps measured, his posture rigid. 

The moment he stepped inside, the cacophony of overlapping voices hit him like a whirlwind. 

Tables were divided into clear factions—jocks laughing too loudly, girls whispering behind manicured hands, loners hunched over their trays like they were trying to disappear. The hierarchy was obvious, and Damian had no interest in playing along. 

He grabbed a tray, accepted the bland-looking meal and juice box handed to him, and headed for the farthest corner. 

Father really thought this would be good for me? Damian mused, irritation flaring. Sending me to a school where spoiled brats learn how to be even more insufferable. 

He had barely taken two bites when a voice cut through the noise. 

“Hey, new guy.” 

Three boys slid into the seats around him without invitation. The one directly across—older, with a smirk that screamed I own this place—leaned forward, elbows on the table. The other two, the same ones from class, flanked Damian on either side, crowding him in. 

Damian didn’t look up. He speared a piece of chicken with his fork and chewed slowly, deliberately ignoring them. 

“Not much of a talker, huh?” the older one sneered, clearly annoyed by the lack of reaction. 

Damian took a slow sip of his juice. “Can’t you see I’m eating?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a warning. “Say what you want, then get out of my sight so I can enjoy my meal in peace.” 

The boy to his right—a wiry kid with a cocky grin—snorted. “You think you’re some big shot just ‘cause you’ve got nice hair?” Before Damian could react, the kid reached over and roughly messed up his hair, fingers tugging at the strands like he was proving a point. 

A hush fell over the nearby tables. Students turned, watching with bated breath. 

Damian’s jaw tightened. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and slammed it down onto the table, his grip ironclad. “Touch me again,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “and you’ll lose the fingers.” 

The kid yanked his hand back, rubbing his wrist, but the older one just laughed. “Oh, feisty,” he mocked, before snatching Damian’s juice box right off his tray. 

“Listen, brat,” the older boy sneered, squeezing the juice box menacingly. “You’re new, so I’ll let this slide. But I run things here. You do what you’re told, and maybe you won’t get your ass kicked every day.” 

Damian exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching around his fork. “I wasn’t finished with that,” he said, voice eerily calm. “You owe me another juice box.”

The older boy’s grin turned vicious. “You think you’re funny?” He looked at his friends, who snickered on cue. “He thinks he’s funny.” 

Then—without warning—he squeezed. 

Juice exploded in Damian’s face, dripping down his nose, his chin, onto his uniform. The trio burst into laughter, shoulders shaking with cruel amusement. 

“Oops,” the older boy taunted. “Guess you’ll have to—” 

His hand reached for Damian’s tray, intending to dump the rest of his food. 

That was his last mistake. 

The moment the boy’s fingers brushed the tray, Damian moved. 

With a speed that left no time for reaction, he drove his fork straight through the back of the bully’s hand, pinning it to the table. 

“AGHHH—WHAT THE—?!” 

Before the other two could even process what happened, Damian was already striking. 

His elbow cracked into the nose of the boy on his right—a sickening crunch as cartilage gave way. The second lunged at him, but Damian twisted, his fist slamming into the kid’s face with enough force to send him reeling back, blood gushing from his nostrils. 

“MY HAND—MY HAND—!” the first boy shrieked, staring in horror at the fork embedded in his flesh. 

Damian yanked it free in one swift motion—then stabbed it into the shoulder of the second bully as he tried to stand. 

“AGHH! STOP—STOP!” 

The cafeteria erupted into chaos. Screams echoed off the walls as students scrambled back, chairs screeching against the floor. 

The third boy—the one who had started it all—was now backing away, hands raised in surrender, face pale with terror. “S-Sorry, man! They made me do it—please, please don’t—!” 

Damian advanced, fork still in hand, blood dripping from the tines. His expression was cold, calculating. 

“Mercy?” he repeated, tilting his head. “I’ll show you mercy.” 

He grabbed the boy by his jacket, lifting him halfway off the ground. The fork gleamed in the fluorescent light, poised to strike— 

“MR. WAYNE!” 

A teacher shoved through the crowd, face ashen. “Principal’s office. Now.” 

For a long moment, Damian didn’t move. The boy in his grip trembled, eyes wide with pure terror. 

Then—slowly—Damian released him. 

“Wayne?” someone whispered. 

“As in… Bruce Wayne’s son?” 

The murmurs spread like wildfire. Damian ignored them all, tossing the bloody fork onto the table with a clatter. 

The teacher escorted him out, but not before the entire cafeteria got a good, long look at the three bullies—one clutching his bleeding hand, another with a broken nose, the third still shaking where he stood. 

And as Damian walked past, the crowd parted, their expressions a mix of shock, fear… and something else. 

Respect.

– – –

[The principal’s office]

The walk to the principal’s office was silent, save for the occasional whisper that trailed behind them like a shadow. Damian kept his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable, even as the teacher beside him kept glancing at him with a mix of disbelief and unease.

The office door loomed ahead—dark mahogany with a polished brass nameplate that read Dr. Eleanor Voss, Headmistress. The teacher knocked twice before a sharp voice called from within.

“Enter.”

The air inside was thick with the scent of leather and old books. Principal Voss sat behind an expansive desk, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun, her sharp eyes assessing Damian over the rim of her glasses. She didn’t look surprised. If anything, she looked expectant.

“Ah. Mr. Wayne,” she said, folding her hands. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that it took less than a day for you to land in my office.”

Damian said nothing. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift his weight—just stood there, perfectly still, like a soldier at attention.

The principal exhaled through her nose and gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit.”

He did, though his posture remained rigid, his back not touching the seat.

“Three students are currently in the infirmary,” she began, tapping a pen against a file—his file, Damian realized. “One with a fork wound through his hand, another with a broken nose, and the third so shaken he could barely speak. Care to explain?”

Damian tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. “They touched my food.”

A beat of silence.

Principal Voss leaned forward. “That’s it? That’s your defense?”

“It’s not a defense. It’s a fact.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “They initiated contact. I ended it.”

The pen in her hand stilled. “You ended it by stabbing a boy with a fork.”

“He shouldn’t have reached for my tray or pour juice on me.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Wayne, this isn’t the streets of Gotham. We don’t resolve disputes with violence here.”

Damian almost smirked. “Then what do you suggest? Asking nicely?”

The principal’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you remember where you are. Your father may own half this city, but in my school, you follow my rules.”

Damian held her gaze, unflinching. “And what are the consequences?”

She leaned back, studying him. “Suspension. Three days.”

He nodded once, as if he’d expected nothing less.

“But,” she continued, “given your… unique circumstances, I’m willing to compromise. You’ll serve detention instead—under strict supervision.”

Damian arched a brow. “Why the leniency?”

Principal Voss’s lips thinned. “Because your father made it very clear that pulling you out of this school isn’t an option. And frankly, I’d rather not have you roaming the streets unsupervised.”

Ah. So that was it. Bruce had already intervened.

“Detention starts tomorrow,” she said, sliding a slip of paper across the desk. “You’ll report to Mr. Higgins after last period. And if I ever see you in this office again for something like this, suspension will be the least of your concerns. Understood?”

Damian took the slip, stood, and gave her a curt nod. “Crystal.”

As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.

“One more thing, Mr. Wayne.”

He glanced back.

“The next time someone tries to provoke you,” she said, her tone icy, “walk away.”

Damian’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“I’ll consider it.”

Then he walked out, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

The hallway was empty now, the lunch period long over. Damian exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension.

Detention. How thrilling.

But as he made his way back to class, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over.

The bullies would talk. Word would spread.

And Damian Wayne had just made it very clear that he wasn’t someone to be messed with.

– – –

A/N:– 

So far you all must have noticed we now have different aspect to Jason.

I do not intend to provide spoilers but here’s a brief take:–

Think of it as bro being a psychological mess of personalities sharing a single mind. But ultimately there are three sides to him now.

Jason after the Pit, The one under the ‘Jason Program’ according to Ra’s (like a reader previously mentioned, his own SuperSoldier who has his orders). And then another personality which walks a thin line between the first and second personalities, one born out of Jason’s rebellious nature (The Hood).

This side struggles between Jason’s actual desires and Ra’s programmed instructions. He’s subconsciously fighting against being Ra’s’ lap dog without Jason’s knowledge of it. It’s like switching between the right and left brain of consciousness, but this can only be achieved through severe trauma and programming. This psychological struggle gave birth to the title of this fic, which also reference to the battle between Jason and the dark side that whispers for control, the demon.

Hopefully, I don’t get too immersed in Gotham’s activities that I forget to provide a detailed explanation later on in this story.

I do hope you enjoy the read.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep