[Roman Sionis’s POV]

“What the fuck are you telling me right now, Li?” Roman growled, his voice jagged with rage as he paced back and forth across the polished concrete floor of his office. The soles of his shoes hit with impatient weight, echoing in the high-ceilinged room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Gotham’s fog-choked skyline.

Ms. Li stood on the other side of his desk, calm and composed as ever, her tailored suit crisp, tablet in hand. She adjusted her thin-rimmed glasses and answered without flinching. “The main shipment was hit, sir. The crew found a crowbar left at the drop zone on the boat. It was him.”

Roman froze mid-step, lips parting in disbelief. “You mean to tell me he didn’t even meet the Fearsome Fucking Four? I moved product and weapons to that fake location just for them to catch this bastard. That was supposed to be his grave, not a goddamn ghost town. And now you’re telling me he found the real drop?”

“Yes,” she replied, swiping across her screen. “He bypassed the trap entirely.”

Roman dragged a hand down his masked face and spun back toward her. “How the fuck did he even find out about the chopper and the boat? We got a rat?”

Ms. Li kept her tone clinical, despite the storm of fury in front of her. “No clear indication of a leak yet, sir. The crew on board reported blacking out—no pain, no noise, no warning. They just… dropped. But the pilot gave us something more. He said someone disguised like one of ours climbed into the chopper, probably hidden beneath the cargo tarp.”

Roman paused, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stared at her. “Say that again.”

“The pilot said he was flying when he felt cold steel against the back of his skull. Said the guy looked like one of ours, uniform and all. Before he could react, the guy forced the autopilot on, yanked him out of the cockpit, and then—suddenly, numbness. He passed out like the others, just… lights out. No pain. Woke up with the rest, all of them dumped on the deck of the boat.”

Roman cocked an eyebrow, eyes narrowed. “Is this some kind of goddamn ninja movie?”

He turned away, muttering curses as he ran both hands through his slicked-back hair, pacing like a lion locked in a cage. 

It took him a moment, but he finally stopped and looked back at her—this woman who somehow had the balls to bring him bad news straight, no sugarcoating. He respected that, even if it fed his rage.

“They all tell the same story?” he asked, tone simmering.

“Not entirely,” Li replied, her voice steady as she flicked to another report. “Everyone on the chopper had nearly identical experiences. But the men already stationed on the boat? They said they saw someone dressed like pick-up crew, but just when they got suspicious—bam, out cold. He got them before they could move.”

Roman’s expression darkened like a thundercloud loomed above him, his voice rising. “He’s just one fucking guy!” His arms flailed as he gestured wildly, knocking a metal paperweight off his desk.

“One guy who’s now hijacked three of my drops, completely avoided the trap I had set for him with the Fearsome Four, and now he’s making me look like a goddamn fool.”

He clenched his fists, breathing heavy. The room seemed to shrink around him. He turned toward Li again, his tone lower now, colder, edged with something venomous.

“No more chasing him. No more trying to block him. We set a more assuring trap like a rat to cheese. We know exactly the kind of bait he can’t ignore.”

Li didn’t react, but her brow twitched slightly at his implication. She cleared her throat. “Perhaps… you should bring this to Batman first. Before we commit more resources and risk another loss. He might—”

Roman slammed his fist down on the desk with a force that made the floor tremble. “Absolutely fucking not. If anything, I think that self-righteous bastard wants this punk out there doing his dirty work. Not wanting to get his own gloves bloody.”

Li paused for a beat, expression unreadable as she considered the possibility. “It… might explain the lack of interference,” she admitted quietly.

Roman dropped into his leather seat, the creak of the chair barely cutting through the growl in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on her with icy conviction.

“You know what to do,” he said, voice low but with eager intention. “Get the Fearsome Hand of Four prepped. No more fucking around. I want him buried.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, already turning on her heel toward the exit.

Roman watched her move, then called out before she reached the door, voice full of malice.

“And tell them—bring me his head and helmet.”

Without another word, Li nodded and walked out, the soft click of the closing door leaving Roman alone in his rage, the city lights beyond the window flickering like they too feared what was coming.

Would Roman finally get his hands on Red Hood? Or would Red Hood once again thwart his plan to capture him and force him towards the path he have always wanted Black Mask to take, and deliver Joker in a fucking silver platter?

– – –

[Wayne Manor – Early Morning]

The grandfather clock ticked quietly in the foyer above the Batcave, casting long shadows across the floor as the morning light crept through the tall windows. The manor was still, aside from the faint clatter of Alfred preparing breakfast in the kitchen and the occasional rustle of a suit jacket as Bruce Wayne moved through the hallway like an angry dad in expensive fabric, cause he was.

Without the knowledge of his boys, he had gone back to revisit and investigate their chase against Red Hood that night.

He’d returned just before dawn—cape shredded at the edges, boots soaked with seawater, and his expression unreadable. Another encounter with Jason, another empty-handed chase. The chopper was gone, the cargo vanished, and Red Hood had made it out again with that same smug wave. 

And now, on top of it all, his sons had beaten the hell out of each other.

Bruce stopped just outside Damian’s room. The door was slightly ajar. A quiet clink of glass came from inside.

He pushed it open slowly.

Damian stood by his bathroom mirror, shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder. A sizable bruise had bloomed beneath his right eye, already dark purple.

Another mottled bruise curled across his ribs. His knuckles were raw. His posture was straight, proud as ever, but there was a stiffness in the way he breathed.

Alfred now stood behind him with a small kit open on the sink after rounding up his kitchen duties, dabbing an ice-cold bag gently beneath the boy’s eye. He worked methodically, like he was patching up a soldier before another battle. Which, in a way, he was.

Bruce crossed his arms. “I told you both to get to bed.”

Damian didn’t flinch. “He instigated it.”

Alfred raised a brow. “Master Dick offered you a spar. You accepted. Then drew a sword.”

“He insulted me.”

“You insulted him first.”

“He questioned my loyalty.”

“You questioned his legitimacy.”

Damian turned around sharply. “He’s not even blood—”

Bruce’s voice shut him up like a whip; “Enough.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You’re going to school. Science fair. You remember?”

Damian scoffed. “You want me to parade myself like this? I look like a thug.”

Alfred stepped in before Bruce could respond. “You look like a child who lost a sparring match. Which is far more honorable than a child who refuses to learn from one.”

Damian grumbled something in Arabic under his breath.

Alfred, unbothered, opened a small velvet pouch from his kit and produced a few slim bottles of professional-grade concealer. He lined them up like surgical tools.

“I’ve covered shrapnel wounds, black eyes, and worse. Your face will be pristine, Master Damian. Though I suggest you avoid harsh lighting and any mirrors in the cafeteria.”

Damian rolled his eyes but stood still as Alfred dabbed the makeup expertly beneath his swollen eye.

Bruce stood by the doorway, watching. He could see it, the tension in Damian’s jaw, the silent fury barely masked by that Wayne-bred stoicism. But there was pain there, too. Not just physical. Something deeper. Something bruised and never quite healed, maybe from Talia, maybe from the League, maybe from him.

He should’ve stepped in last night. Stopped the fight before it started.

And part of him had wanted to see it play out, see how far they’d push each other. Maybe test the edges of what kind of Robin Damian really was.

Bruce exhaled. Quietly.

“Do you want me to talk to your teacher?” he asked.

Damian didn’t answer at first. Alfred kept dabbing, blending in a bit of warmth into the skin tone.

“I’m not weak,” Damian muttered finally. “They’ll ask what happened.”

“Then tell them you fell.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Then tell them you fought your brother.”

Bruce stepped closer, arms uncrossed now. His voice softened, just a little.

“You’re not weak, Damian. But you don’t have to win every fight to prove something.”

Damian tilted his chin up defiantly. “Maybe I do. He was Robin before me. So was Todd. And Grayson. All of them. And yet I’m the one who carries your blood, and still I have to fight for it.”

“You don’t have to fight us,” Bruce said quietly.

Damian looked at him through the mirror, not directly. “Then stop making me.”

Alfred placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, just a firm press of reassurance. “Right. Off you go. Your project on cryogenic cell stasis awaits. Hopefully it will be slightly less violent than last night’s biology lesson.”

Damian nodded, grabbed his backpack from the corner, and marched out, head high.

As the door closed behind him, Bruce lingered. His gaze drifted to the makeup kit still sitting open, a smudge of concealer staining one of the brushes.

“Did I do the right thing?” he asked, not looking at Alfred.

“You gave him a home,” Alfred replied, closing the kit. “Now you have to remind him he doesn’t have to fight for it every day.”

Bruce said nothing. Just watched the sun finally stretch across the manor’s long hallway, lighting up old portraits.

“Coffee, Master Wayne?”

Bruce nodded absently. “Stronger than usual.”

Alfred was already on his way down the hall. “I assumed as much.”

– – –

The gymnasium was buzzing.

Tables lined with tri-fold boards and half-finished projects filled the space like a cluttered battlefield of middle school ambition. Volcano models bubbling, solar system mobiles spinning lazily, electric circuits zapping on cue. Kids hustled back and forth in wrinkled uniforms, trying to hold it together under the weight of parental expectations and last-minute glue disasters.

At the far end, under the sharp white lights of the upper gym, stood Damian Wayne.

He looked like he didn’t belong. Probably because he didn’t. Unlike the rest of the other kids his age, he was an assasin—a killer.

His blazer was pristine, tie perfectly knotted, and his black shoes reflected the gymnasium fluorescents. But there was a faint stiffness in how he stood beside his board. His right eye, carefully concealed with Alfred’s expert touch, still carried the faintest shadow of purple beneath the surface. You had to be looking closely but it was there. Especially if you knew what to look for.

A few kids stared. Some whispered.

He heard them all.

“Did he get jumped?”

“Probably got into a fight, you know he is a very violent person.”

“Nah, I heard he’s in a gang—”

“Told you he’s weird.”

Damian ignored them. His board stood behind him—Cryogenic Suspension: Viability for Human Organ Preservation and Revival. Bold letters. Organized data. A working model of a cryochamber mock-up stood beside it, cold vapor hissing lightly from the nozzle of a Carbon dioxide tank.

“Next group—Damian Wayne?”

He stepped forward with military demeanor.

Clearing his throat, he launched into his presentation. His voice was calm, crisp, and matter-of-fact, nothing like the nervous mumblings of the others. He spoke of molecular degradation, cellular stasis, brain signal recovery latency—his language was sharp, deliberate, even intimidating.

The teachers nodded, impressed. One whispered to the other, “He sounds like he’s already in college.”

But Damian could feel the stares. Not from the judges, from the others. Watching. Whispering. Judging.

He fought the heat rising in his chest. Not from embarrassment, from restraint. This wasn’t a battlefield. There was no blade in his hand. Just facts and data and judgment.

Still, his hands remained clenched behind his back until the end.

When the last question was asked, something about ethical implications, Damian answered with practiced ease, gave a sharp nod, and stepped back.

Applause followed, polite and brief.

But as he returned to his table, he didn’t bask in it. He didn’t smile.

He didn’t need their approval.

He had done what was required. And more than anything, he wanted to be gone.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep