The Batcave was silent, save for the soft hum of computers and the distant drip of water echoing through stone. Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood before the glass case that held his suit, battered and iconic. His hands, once steady and strong, now trembled as he reached up and placed the cowl inside.
He could still hear the terrified cries from the warehouse, the desperate plea of the woman he'd saved just hours ago. The gun in his hand, the blood on the floor—reminders that he'd crossed a line he swore he never would. The city had changed, and so had he.
"Never again," Bruce whispered, his voice heavy with years of sacrifice and loss. He pressed a button, and the case sealed shut, the symbol of the Bat fading into darkness. For the first time in decades, Gotham's silent guardian stepped away, leaving the city's future uncertain.
A couple of months later, miles away in the heart of Blüdhaven, the world was about to change in a different way.
A storm raged outside a modest apartment, thunder rattling the windows. Inside, Helena Bertinelli gripped the bedsheets, sweat beading on her brow. Dick Grayson paced anxiously in the hallway, his nerves frayed in a way no rooftop chase or criminal showdown had ever managed.
A newborn's cry split the air, raw and insistent. Helena, fierce even in exhaustion, smiled as she cradled her son. "He's perfect," she whispered, brushing a dark curl from the baby's forehead. "He's got your eyes."
Dick entered, his heart pounding with pride and relief. He knelt beside Helena, gazing at the tiny bundle. The baby's eyes—deep blue, impossibly alert—locked onto his, and for a moment, Dick felt as if he were being studied, measured.
"Welcome to the world, Damian," Dick said softly.
But inside the newborn's mind, something stirred. Memories—fragmented, impossible—flashed behind his eyes. Equations, blueprints, the hum of machines, the echo of a television theme song. Batman Beyond. He remembered loving the show, watching every episode, and the bitter disappointment when it was canceled. He remembered more—so much more. A name: Elias Voss. A life of brilliance and regret. The cold sterility of laboratories, the ache of loneliness, the desperate wish for a second chance.
He tried to cry out, to speak, but only a wail escaped his lips. The world was too bright, too loud, too new.
Helena smiled, rocking him gently. "Shh, little one. You're safe."
Safe. The word echoed in his mind. For the first time in decades—lifetimes—he felt it might be true.
As the months passed, Damian grew quickly. He watched his parents with a curiosity that unsettled them both. He solved puzzles meant for children twice his age, constructed intricate towers from blocks, and seemed to understand words long before he could speak them. Dick and Helena exchanged worried glances, but they tried to believe their son was simply gifted.
At night, Damian would stare out at the city, neon lights reflecting in his eyes. He remembered the world he'd left behind, the mistakes he'd made, and the promise he'd whispered as the flames closed in: Give me another chance. Let me do it right this time.