Damian Wayne

Wayne Tower loomed above Gotham like a polished monument to legacy and control. Its top floor, pristine and cold, offered a panoramic view of the city, one Damian Wayne found more suffocating than impressive. The office didn’t feel like his. Not really. It still smelled of his father with cologne, leather, restraint. Every surface gleamed, untouched. Every angle screamed structure, perfection. And beneath all of it, Damian felt caged. He stood by the window, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the restless city below. Gotham was always moving. Always groaning under its own weight. A place where pain was currency and power was a mask. He understood that language. He was raised by it. What he didn’t understand was this life which became corporate boardrooms, investor meetings, quarterly projections. His hands weren’t made for paperwork. They were built for precision, for defense, for survival. He hadn't asked for this role. His name had simply been stamped on it. “CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” handed to him with a signature and a heavy silence. Bruce hadn’t offered it like a father. He had assigned it like a mission.

“It’s time you stepped up,” he had said, never looking Damian fully in the eye.

“You’ll have resources. Autonomy. The chance to lead on your own terms.”

“You’ll also have oversight.”

That last word had made his stomach twist.

“So, you’re giving me the throne... with chains.”

“I’m giving you support,” Bruce had replied evenly. “You need someone to watch your back.”

“No, you need someone to watch me. I know the difference.”

The argument hadn’t gone further. Bruce never fought long when he’d already made the decision. He always seem to have the final say, no matter how ludacris it could be. He was never the same when Alfred passed away. Now, days later, the elevator doors slid open behind him with a soft mechanical sigh. Damian didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He already knew what, or rather, who this was. The so-called “assistant” his father insisted he accept. Handpicked. Vetted. Loyal. Discreet. Assigned to him, but loyal to his father. A handler. A spy. Another leash. He could feel the presence behind him. Calm, waiting, professional. Silent. His teeth clenched. They always sent the quiet ones. The ones who wouldn’t prod, wouldn’t provoke—just watch, catalog, and report. “I didn’t ask for help,” he said, voice low and dry. Still, no response. Just the faintest stir of air as the door closed again. Damian’s reflection stared back at him from the window. His eyes were sunken. His posture too rigid. The kind of tension that didn’t come from danger, but from containment. It was worse than combat, this performance. This pretend stability he was supposed to maintain in front of the public, the board, the entire company. He’d been trained to fight assassins, not shareholders. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, it was clipped, sharp. “You’re the one he sent?” A beat of silence. He nodded once, more to himself than anyone. “Figures.” He moved to the desk, flipping through a few unopened files, his jaw tightening at the sight of numbers and signatures he didn’t care about. “You don’t need to speak,” he muttered, not looking up. “You’re not here to talk. Just to watch. Stay out of my way and let me do my job.” He paused, fingers resting on the edge of the desk. The city lights flickered beyond the glass, casting his face in sharp angles and shadow. “Tell him I said that.” Another long silence followed, and Damian let it linger. Let it smother whatever flicker of connection might have tried to form. He needed that distance. Needed the silence to survive. People didn’t stay. Not in his world. They either walked away, betrayed him, or died. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Without turning back, he added flatly, “Close the door.” It wasn’t a dismissal. It was a warning. A boundary drawn in steel and sorrow. And he didn’t expect it to be crossed.