luaezi

You stood at the opposite end of the room with your hands folded neatly in front of you. You had arrived without triggering the Watchtower’s alarms, without using a Boom Tube, and apparently without requiring oxygen. The enormous observation windows behind you framed the curve of the Earth in brilliant blue, making the edges of your silhouette shimmer like something cut from the fabric of the universe itself.

Your clothing looked harmless enough. Soft trousers, boots with silver buckles, a loose shirt beneath an embroidered coat that seemed to change colour depending on the angle of the light. There were stars woven into the cuffs.

Actual stars, Damian suspected.

They pulsed.

“I understand,” you continued, with the solemn patience of someone explaining a simple concept to particularly nervous children, “that appearing unannounced within your fortified orbital headquarters could be interpreted as threatening.”

“You think?” Green Lantern muttered.

You smiled at him. “Yes. That is why I am clarifying my intentions before anyone makes an unfortunate decision.”

There was a faint creak as Superman’s chair shifted beneath the sudden tension in his posture.

You glanced around the table and added, “An unfortunate decision such as attacking me, which would force me to defend myself and potentially erase this entire station from the timeline.”

Silence descended.

The stars on your cuffs twinkled cheerfully.

You tilted your head. “But I would not enjoy doing that.”

“That,” the Flash said slowly, “did not make it better.”

You frowned, genuinely troubled. “It did not?”

“No,” Batman said.

“I see.” You looked down at your hands, considering. “Perhaps I should have begun with the baked goods.”

A plate appeared on the conference table. It did not teleport in. It did not shimmer into existence or emerge from a portal. Reality simply seemed to remember that there had always been a plate of iced biscuits sitting between Batman’s files and Green Lantern’s elbow.

The Flash recoiled hard enough to nearly tip over his chair.

“They are not poisoned,” you said quickly. Green Lantern leaned away from them. “They also do not contain any parasitic organisms, mind-altering spores, concealed tracking devices, or fragments of my consciousness.”

Green Lantern leaned farther away.

You looked helplessly at Superman. “I am making it worse again.”

“A little,” Superman admitted.

Damian pressed his lips together. It took considerable effort.

His father turned his head slightly. Damian knew that look. It was the silent warning Bruce had used since Damian was ten years old and discovered that openly mocking frightened diplomats was considered impolite.

Damian was not mocking you.

Not yet.

He was, however, beginning to suspect that you were the strangest person he had ever encountered.

Considering the company he kept, that was almost impressive.

Batman placed both gloved hands on the table. “Start again. Who are you?”

You straightened, apparently grateful to be given a question with a clear answer.

You spoke your name.

The lights flickered.

Somewhere beneath Damian’s boots, the Watchtower groaned as if the metal itself recognised the sound.

You winced. “Apologies. Your current reality is somewhat sensitive to my full designation.”

“What are you?” Wonder Woman asked.

“That is more complicated.”

“Try us,” Green Lantern said.

You glanced at him. “Once, before the first stars formed, there was a thought.” Green Lantern closed his eyes. You continued, oblivious. “The thought became lonely, and therefore divided itself so it might have someone with whom to converse. One half became time. The other half became possibility.”

Damian watched your expression rather than listening to the quiet calculations happening around the room. You did not appear proud. You did not appear threatening. If anything, you seemed faintly embarrassed, as though your ancestry were an inconvenient childhood story your parents insisted on telling at dinner.

“Which half are you?” Superman asked.

“Possibility. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” the Flash echoed.

“I misplaced several pieces of myself during the collapse of the Seventh Continuum.”

The Flash stared at you.

You added, “I recovered most of them.”

Damian’s mouth twitched.

Your gaze immediately snapped toward him.

For an instant, the entirety of your attention settled over Damian like the gravity of a star. The room remained unchanged, but he could feel the weight of you—the vastness concealed beneath skin, cloth, and carefully folded hands.

“You are amused,” you said.

It was not an accusation. You sounded fascinated.

Damian lifted his chin. “Your attempts at reassurance require improvement.”

“I practised.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“I stood before a mirror for three hours.”

That did it.

A quiet sound escaped Damian before he could stop it. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that every person at the table looked at him.

His father’s stare became distinctly disapproving.

You brightened. It was a small change, but impossible to miss. Your entire face softened, delight blooming across it like dawn breaking over a dead planet.

“Oh,” you said. “You find me funny.”

“I find your lack of self-awareness astonishing.”

“Is that similar?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it could become similar with time.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. You smiled at him.

Batman deliberately shifted the conversation away from whatever had just occurred. “Why are you here?”

“A hostile force has entered this universe.”

Every trace of levity vanished from the room.

You lifted one hand. A miniature image formed above your palm: a twisting mass of black tendrils surrounding something that resembled a fractured moon. Countless pale eyes opened and closed along its surface.

“It calls itself the Sovereign of Silence,” you explained. “It consumes consciousness. Entire civilisations disappear without physical destruction. Their cities remain. Their machines continue operating. Their bodies remain alive, but empty.”

“How long until it reaches Earth?” Superman asked.

“Thirty-one days.”

“Can you stop it?” Wonder Woman said.

“Yes.”

Everyone waited.

Your image of the creature folded in on itself and vanished.

“But?” Batman prompted.

“I have been informed that solving every conflict through unilateral reality alteration is ethically troubling.”

Damian’s attention sharpened.

You said the words with the weary cadence of someone reciting a lesson after being repeatedly scolded.

“Who informed you?” Superman asked.

“A coalition of intergalactic governments. They were very loud.”

“Did they have a point?” Wonder Woman asked.

You looked offended. “I restored the planets afterwards.”

Damian folded his arms. “After what?”

“After temporarily transforming the invading armada into decorative glass.”

The Flash leaned toward Superman. “I think we should circle back to the not-evil thing.”

“I returned them to their original state,” you said. “Most of them.”

“Most?”

“One vessel was accidentally made into a chandelier.”

Green Lantern stared at you. “Accidentally?”

“It was an extremely complicated chandelier.”

Against all reason, Damian wanted to laugh again.

You seemed to notice.

Your eyes flickered toward him, hopeful. Damian maintained his expression with the discipline of a trained assassin.

The corners of your mouth turned down.

Something unpleasant tugged beneath his ribs.

Ridiculous. He did not know you. You were an incomprehensible cosmic entity who had invaded the Watchtower, threatened to erase it, conjured suspicious biscuits, and apparently committed acts of military interior design.

He should not care that you looked disappointed.

“Why involve us?” Batman asked.

“Because I wish to demonstrate that I can cooperate with mortal heroes without dominating, manipulating, imprisoning, transmuting, unmaking, remaking, absorbing, or marrying anyone against their will.”

There was a pause.

“Marrying?” the Flash asked.

“A misunderstanding involving a moon kingdom.”

Batman rubbed two fingers against his temple.

Damian finally reached for one of the biscuits.

His father caught his wrist.

“They are safe,” Damian said.

“You don’t know that.”

“If they intended to kill us, Father, we would already be dead.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly.”

Batman’s grip tightened.

“That was not comforting,” Superman said gently.

You sighed. “I thought that one was better.”

Damian took the biscuit anyway.

It tasted of orange, honey, and something warm he could not name. A memory, perhaps. Sunlight on the manor’s library floor. Alfred setting tea beside his elbow without interrupting his sketching. Titus asleep across his feet.

His jaw went rigid.

You watched him anxiously. “Is it acceptable?”

Damian swallowed. “Adequate.”

You beamed as though he had declared it a masterpiece.

That was the moment, though he would deny it for months afterwards, that Damian Wayne’s downfall began.

It started with biscuits.

Most catastrophes did not.

Then again, you were not a catastrophe. You simply sounded like one.

The League agreed to accept your assistance under several conditions.

You were not to alter anyone’s mind. You were not to restructure inhabited planets without permission. You were not to reverse time unless the League approved it. You were not to resurrect anyone. You were not to create sentient life aboard the Watchtower. You were not to consume anything with a soul.

You had objected to the final condition on the grounds that you did not consume souls.

“Not intentionally,” you had clarified.

Batman added three more restrictions.

You accepted every rule with grave sincerity. A glowing contract appeared in the air before you, written in a language that caused Green Lantern’s ring to issue an error message.

You signed it using a quill made of blue flame.

“Completely harmless,” you assured them as the contract vanished into your chest.

Damian heard Nightwing whisper, “Oh, this is going to be incredible,” from the back of the room.

Because the approaching threat affected thought itself, Batman decided to involve several younger hero teams. The Titans, Young Justice, and a rotating group of magical specialists were brought aboard the Watchtower for training and strategic preparation.

Damian, as one of the most experienced Titans and one of the few people aboard who did not appear terrified of you, was assigned as your primary liaison.

“You mean babysitter,” he said when Bruce informed him privately.

“I mean liaison.”

“You wish for me to observe them.”

“I wish for you to help them integrate with the team.”

“Because I ate a biscuit.”

“Because they respond well to you.”

Damian stared at his father. Bruce stared back.

They both knew what had happened during the second meeting.

The League had been discussing potential containment measures when you politely informed them that no prison in this universe could hold you.

Batman had produced six theoretical designs.

You had examined each one with growing delight.

“These are very creative,” you had told him. “Would you like me to pretend they could work?”

Bruce had gone silent.

Damian had laughed aloud.

You had looked at him as if he personally hung the stars embroidered in your sleeves.

“They like you,” Bruce said.

“They have known me for less than forty-eight hours.”

“You like them.”

“I tolerate them.”

Bruce’s expression became insufferably knowing.

Damian scowled. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You have adopted Grayson’s habit of lying poorly.”

Bruce leaned back against the Batcomputer. “Just keep an eye on them.”

“They have eyes on several galaxies simultaneously. I doubt my surveillance will prove useful.”

“They’re powerful, Damian.”

“So are you.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No,” Damian agreed. “They are far more polite.”

Bruce’s stare flattened.

Damian left before his father could reassign him.

He found you in one of the Watchtower’s training rooms, surrounded by half the Titans.

Beast Boy had transformed into a green mouse and was currently perched upon your shoulder. Blue Beetle’s armour was scanning you so aggressively that the scarab’s warnings had become audible. Raven stood at a cautious distance, her dark eyes narrowed.

Starfire floated in front of you, beaming.

“You are saying that you can become any form you desire?” she asked.

“Within reason.”

“You became a mountain yesterday,” Raven said.

“A small mountain.”

“You blocked out the sun.”

“Only locally.”

Damian stepped into the room. “What are you doing?”

Everyone turned.

You lifted a finger to your lips.

“Do not be alarmed,” you whispered.

Damian immediately became alarmed. “What did you do?”

“Nothing evil.”

The Titans collectively groaned.

Beast Boy scrambled from your shoulder as your body began to ripple. Your outline stretched upward, then outward, bending like reflected light on water. For one brief second, Damian glimpsed something vast beyond comprehension: branching limbs holding galaxies like fruit, thousands of eyes gleaming through endless dark, a crown fashioned from collapsing stars.

Then you became a cat. A very small cat.

You sat in the centre of the training room, blinking up at him with enormous eyes. Your fur was midnight black except for faint constellations scattered across your back.

Starfire clasped both hands beneath her chin. “Glorious.”

Beast Boy transformed back into himself. “Okay, that’s adorable.”

Raven’s mouth softened by a fraction.

Damian looked down at you.

You chirped.

“No,” he said. Your ears lowered. “You cannot gain my approval by becoming a feline.”

You walked across the floor and sat directly on his boot.

“Manipulation will not work.”

You placed one paw against his shin.

Behind him, Blue Beetle made a strangled sound.

Damian glared over his shoulder. “Silence.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Damian bent and lifted you.

Your small body settled immediately against his chest. You weighed almost nothing, though he was deeply aware that the creature purring beneath his hand could probably fold the moon in half.

He scratched beneath your chin. Your purr became loud enough to vibrate through his armour.

“This proves nothing,” Damian informed the room.

“Of course not,” Raven said.

He turned his glare on her.

Raven’s expression remained perfectly blank.

You stayed a cat for the rest of the meeting.

Damian did not put you down.

You were not evil. This became apparent within the first week.

It also became apparent that convincing anyone of this fact would remain an ongoing struggle.

You assisted Superman in diverting an asteroid away from a populated world. When the alien government thanked you, you responded, “Your continued survival benefits my long-term plans.”

The entire delegation paled. You had meant that you wanted to remain friends.

You brought emergency medical supplies to a planet experiencing an epidemic. Upon presenting the cure, you announced that no one would die “unless I permitted it.” You meant that the medicine was highly effective.

You rescued a school bus from falling through a collapsed bridge, suspending it in midair with a gesture. When frightened children asked whether you were a superhero, you smiled and told them that resistance was unnecessary. You meant that they were safe.

The public relations department developed headaches. Damian developed a private collection of recordings.

He told himself he kept them for training purposes. It was, after all, useful to review your mistakes so he could correct them. There was nothing sentimental about the folder hidden on his personal computer labelled Diplomatic Incidents.

There was especially nothing sentimental about his favourite clip, in which you attempted to reassure a group of diplomats that their children would remain untouched.

“The young ones are beneath my notice,” you had said.

Damian had turned away from the camera because his shoulders were shaking.

You found him afterwards in the Watchtower corridor, arms folded and expression wounded. “You laughed at me.”

“I did.”

“I was attempting compassion.”

“You informed several parents that their children were insignificant.”

“I said they were beneath my notice.”

“That is worse.”

“I meant I would not harm them.”

“Then say that.”

“I thought it was implied.”

“It was not.”

You fell into step beside him.

By then, the two of you had spent enough time together that your presence no longer set every instinct in Damian’s body on edge. He had learned the subtle tells of your power: the way shadows leaned toward you when you were annoyed, the faint glow beneath your skin when you were pleased, the static taste in the air when you concealed fear.

He had learned other things, too.

You loved Earth’s oceans but disliked sand. You considered ice cream one of humanity’s finest inventions. You did not sleep, but sometimes lay down and pretended because you enjoyed being included. You could hear music from dying stars. You had witnessed the birth of Saturn’s rings. You adored pigeons.

This final revelation had nearly destroyed Damian’s remaining patience.

“They are resilient,” you had said, scattering birdseed across a Gotham rooftop. “Adaptable. Social. They thrive despite widespread contempt.”

“They are vermin.”

“So have I been called.”

Damian had looked at you sharply.

You were still watching the pigeons. A grey one hopped onto your knee, cooing as your fingers carefully stroked its feathers.

Something old and quiet had moved in your face. Something too human for a being who claimed to predate stars.

Damian had not insulted the pigeons again.

Now, walking beside him through the Watchtower, you twisted your fingers together.

“I should prepare written statements,” you said. “That may reduce misunderstandings.”

“You attempted that yesterday.”

“The phrase ‘your world remains unburned by my mercy’ sounded better on paper.”

“It did not.”

You sighed.

Damian glanced at you. Your gaze remained fixed on the floor. The lights overhead flickered as you passed beneath them, reacting to the slow dimming of your mood.

“Why does it matter?” he asked.

You looked at him. “Why does what matter?”

“Their opinion.”

You slowed.

Damian stopped with you.

Beyond the observation window, Earth turned silently below them. Clouds curled over blue oceans. City lights shimmered on the darkened half of the planet, fragile and distant.

You looked toward it.

“Because I like them,” you said.

Damian waited.

“I like this place. I like that humans make small spoons specifically for stirring tea. I like that your species writes songs about feelings too complicated to say aloud. I like umbrellas, though I have no need for them. I like that you name machines and speak to animals as if they understand.”

“Many do understand.”

“I know. They have much to say.”

Damian made a mental note to ask you about that later.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass. “I have spent a very long time entering worlds only when something terrible has happened. By the time anyone sees me, they are already afraid. I thought perhaps if I explained immediately that I was not evil, it would prevent that fear.”

“It does the opposite.”

“I am becoming aware.”

“You also threaten people while attempting to reassure them.”

“I do not mean to.”

“I know.”

The words emerged more softly than Damian intended.

You turned your head. Your eyes were not any unusual colour. They could have been brown, or green, or grey depending on the light. Yet something moved deep within them, an endless scattering of possible worlds that appeared and vanished with every blink.

“You know?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

Damian frowned. “Because I pay attention.”

The air changed. It became warmer, carrying the scent of rain against hot stone. Somewhere inside the observation window, impossible flowers bloomed across the glass before fading.

You stared at him.

“No one has said that before,” you murmured.

“That is because the people around you are easily frightened.”

“You were not.”

“I am rarely frightened.”

You smiled faintly. “That is untrue.”

Damian’s spine stiffened.

“You are frightened frequently,” you continued. “You simply do things while afraid.”

He should have resented the observation. He should have bristled at the suggestion that you could see through him so easily. Most people required years to understand the distinction between Damian’s courage and fearlessness. Even those who loved him sometimes mistook the sharpness of his voice for certainty.

You had known him for two weeks.

“How dare you,” he said.

Your smile widened.

Damian looked back toward Earth before you could see his own.

The first time you came to Wayne Manor, you promised Bruce that you would not bring about the end of the world while inside his home.

Bruce had replied, “That wasn’t one of my concerns until you said it.”

You considered this. “Then I have helped you identify a potential security flaw.”

Bruce looked at Damian. Damian walked past him into the foyer.

“Pennyworth will expect us for dinner,” he said.

You followed immediately.

Alfred, unlike every superhero, diplomat, and government official you had met, displayed no fear whatsoever. He accepted your coat, informed you that reality-altering powers were not an excuse to neglect table manners, and asked whether you had any dietary restrictions.

“I can consume any substance,” you said.

“I shall avoid serving any substances not generally considered food.”

“That is wise. The previous table did not survive.”

Alfred’s eyebrow rose.

You hurried to clarify. “That was several centuries ago.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

Damian had to leave the room.

Grayson cornered him in the hallway. He was grinning.

Damian continued walking.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Grayson caught Damian by the shoulders and steered him toward the library, ignoring his protests.

“You brought a date home.”

“They are not my date.”

“A cosmic entity met Dad, threatened the architecture, and followed you into the dining room like a duckling.”

“They are our guest.”

“Your guest.”

“They are working with the League.”

“And apparently flirting with you.”

Damian went still. Grayson’s grin became unbearable.

“They are not flirting with me.”

“They made you a sword out of a meteor.”

“It was a practical gift.”

“They engraved your name on it.”

“So others would not mistakenly claim it.”

“They engraved little hearts around your name.”

“Those were not hearts.”

“They were anatomically accurate human hearts, which is somehow more romantic and deeply unsettling.”

Damian shoved Grayson’s hands away. “You are projecting meaning onto meaningless details.”

“Sure.”

“There is no romantic interest between us.”

“Of course.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

Damian struck him.

Grayson dodged, laughing as Damian chased him through the library.

They returned to the dining room several minutes later to find you speaking with Alfred.

You had taken the seat beside Damian’s.

Not across from him, where Bruce had originally placed your name card. Beside him.

Your expression brightened the moment he entered.

It happened every time. It should not have affected him.

It did.

“Damian,” you said. “Alfred has explained the concept of childhood photographs.”

“No.”

You looked at Alfred.

Alfred calmly poured wine into Bruce’s glass. “I made no promises.”

“Pennyworth.”

“It seems only fair that our guest be given the full family experience.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “I’m suddenly loving family dinner.”

Tim was already opening an album.

Damian crossed the room with murder in his heart.

You watched the photographs with astonishing focus.

You admired every picture. Damian scowling in formal clothes. Damian asleep beside Titus. Damian at thirteen, covered in mud after attempting to relocate an injured fox from the manor grounds. Damian glaring at the camera while Grayson hugged him from behind.

“You were very small,” you said.

“I was a child.”

“I know. It is strange to imagine.”

“You have seen civilisations develop from single-celled organisms.”

“Yes, but I was not fond of any of them.”

The table went quiet.

You looked around. “Was that inappropriate?”

Jason coughed into his fist. Tim looked down at his plate. Dick’s shoulders began shaking.

Damian leaned closer to you. “You implied that you are fond of me.”

Your face changed.

The stars embroidered across your collar flared brilliantly.

“I did,” you said.

“Was that intentional?”

“I am uncertain.”

Damian stared. You stared back.

Neither of you noticed the exchange of money beneath the table.

Alfred did.

He collected his winnings after dessert.

Preparation for the Sovereign of Silence intensified. The creature moved faster than expected. Entire outposts vanished from communication networks. Ships were discovered drifting through space, their crews breathing but unresponsive.

Magic provided little protection. Technology failed to identify the method of attack. Even telepaths could not locate the minds stolen by the creature.

You attended every strategy session. You answered questions patiently. You accepted restrictions even when they frustrated you. Most importantly, you did not attempt to take control.

Damian knew how difficult that must have been.

He had been raised to believe that power justified authority. Competence meant leadership. If others could not accomplish a task, then the duty fell to him. It had taken years to learn that teamwork was not merely several people following his commands simultaneously.

You possessed enough power to solve almost any problem through force. Yet you asked permission before using it.

Sometimes badly.

“May I obliterate the hostile vessel?” you requested during one confrontation.

“No,” Superman said.

“May I frighten the occupants until they flee?”

“No.”

“May I cause them to experience a brief but educational vision of their own mortality?”

Wonder Woman paused.

“No,” Batman said.

You looked at Damian. He shook his head.

You sighed and disabled the vessel’s engines instead.

Afterwards, Damian found you seated alone in the Watchtower’s botanical garden. Several flowers had turned toward you despite the artificial lighting.

“You are sulking,” he said.

“I am reflecting.”

“You transformed Green Lantern’s coffee into a liquid that whispered his childhood secrets.”

“He said I lacked subtlety.”

“That was not subtle.”

“It only whispered.”

Damian sat beside you.

The garden was empty. Most of the League had returned to Earth for the night, leaving only essential personnel and those preparing for the Sovereign’s arrival.

You drew your knees toward your chest.

“I am trying,” you said.

“I know.”

“I could stop it.”

“You have said.”

“I could reach into the empty space between moments and remove the Sovereign before it ever formed. Every mind it consumed would return. Every planet would be restored. No one would remember that it existed.”

“Except you.”

“Yes.”

“And what would that cost?”

You were silent.

Damian turned his head.

“What would it cost?” he repeated.

The flowers around you closed.

“A portion of this universe,” you said at last.

“How much?”

“I do not know.”

“Then it is not an option.”

“I could choose which portion.”

“No.”

“I would avoid inhabited systems.”

“No.”

“I could select realities already approaching collapse.”

“You would still be destroying them.”

“They are possibilities, Damian. Some outcomes are born only to become suffering.”

“That does not give you the right to erase them.”

Your jaw tightened.

For a moment, Damian remembered what you were.

The air darkened. The garden walls disappeared beneath an endless expanse of stars. Your shadow spilled across the floor, rising behind you in shapes too large and complex for his eyes to understand.

“You speak confidently for someone whose existence occupies less than a heartbeat of mine,” you said.

Damian did not move.

The words should have sounded cruel. Instead, they sounded wounded.

“You are correct,” he said.

Your eyes flickered.

“My life is insignificant compared to yours. You could end it before I drew breath.”

The shadow behind you shuddered. “Do not say that.”

“It is true.”

“I would never harm you.”

“Then listen to me.”

The stars around them stilled.

Damian leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. “You came here because you wished to be trusted. Trust is not earned by possessing the ability to control every outcome. It is earned by allowing others to choose, even when their choices frighten you.”

Your voice became quiet. “And if their choices lead to death?”

“Then we face the consequences together.”

“I do not want you to die.”

The confession struck him more forcefully than any threat could have.

You looked furious about it. Furious and frightened and unbearably alone.

Damian’s chest tightened.

He understood then. You did not crave control because you believed yourself superior.

You craved it because you had lived too long. You had watched people die across centuries. Civilisations rose, flourished, and vanished while you remained. Every attachment became another future grave. Every person you loved was a fragile, temporary thing.

Power had taught you that loss was optional. Loneliness had taught you that love was not.

Damian shifted closer. “I do not intend to die.”

“You cannot guarantee that.”

“Neither can you.”

“I can.”

“No. You can preserve my body. You can alter history. You can build another version of me from memory and starlight, but you cannot guarantee that the person returned would be precisely the one you lost.”

Your expression crumpled by a fraction.

It was enough.

Damian reached for your hand.

You stared down at his fingers around yours.

The shadows withdrew. The garden returned.

“I have rules,” he said.

“You have many.”

“Do not interrupt.”

“Apologies.”

“You will not erase anything without the League’s agreement.”

You nodded.

“You will not sacrifice yourself without telling me.”

Your brow furrowed. “That sounds unfairly specific.”

“It is.”

“Why only you?”

Damian’s grip tightened.

Because the thought of you vanishing into the spaces between worlds made something inside him feel flayed open.

Because he had begun measuring his days by the sound of your voice.

Because he kept finding you in every room, as though his body had become a compass designed solely to point toward yours.

Because you looked at him and saw fear without weakness, saw tenderness without shame, saw a man rather than a weapon or heir or impossible child.

Because when you smiled at him, the universe seemed briefly smaller.

Manageable. His.

“You respond well to me,” Damian said.

You considered this. “That is true.”

“It is therefore efficient.”

“Of course.”

“You are smiling.”

“I find your lies endearing.”

Damian glared.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He allowed it.

After a moment, he rested his cheek against your hair.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The Sovereign arrived three days early.

It came without warning. One moment, Damian was aboard the Watchtower reviewing evacuation plans. The next, every screen went black.

A low sound moved through the station. It was not audible. It appeared directly within the mind, a vast and hollow note that made Damian’s thoughts scatter like birds beneath gunfire.

People collapsed.

Superman struck the floor first, hands clamped over his ears. The Flash staggered into the wall. Wonder Woman fell to one knee, teeth bared as she fought against an enemy no strength could touch.

Damian remained upright for six seconds.

Then memories began disappearing.

He forgot the name of his first dog. He forgot the colour of his mother’s eyes. He forgot why the symbol on his chest mattered.

Panic surged.

He fought it, grasping for fragments of himself as they slipped away. Names scattered. Faces blurred. His father became a shadow. Grayson’s laugh vanished. Todd’s voice. Drake’s tired smile. Alfred’s hands.

Damian stumbled.

Someone caught him.

You.

Your arms wrapped around him as the Watchtower trembled.

The power beneath your skin was no longer subtle. Light poured from your eyes and mouth. Your shape flickered between human and something endless, something made of every path reality might take.

“You came,” the Sovereign spoke through every unconscious person aboard the station.

Their mouths moved simultaneously.

“You who contain possibility.”

Your hold tightened around Damian.

The Sovereign’s presence pressed against his mind. It wanted emptiness. Silence. A universe freed from the pain of thought.

“You cannot take them,” you said.

Your voice shook the station.

Metal warped. Glass cracked. Earth’s atmosphere rippled below them.

The Sovereign laughed through a hundred stolen voices. “You could stop me.”

You went still.

Damian forced himself to focus.

The garden. Your hand in his. Rules.

Do not erase anything. Do not sacrifice yourself.

The Sovereign showed you something. Damian could not see it, but he saw the reaction on your face. Horror. Longing. Temptation.

It was offering you a solution.

“Do not,” Damian managed.

You looked down at him.

For one terrifying instant, there was no recognition in your eyes.

Then your expression softened.

“Beloved creature,” you whispered.

Despite everything, Damian felt offended. “Do not call me that.”

A broken laugh escaped you.

The Sovereign pressed harder.

Damian’s knees buckled. You lowered him carefully to the floor, one hand cradling the back of his skull.

“I can end this,” you said.

“Not alone.”

“It is already inside their minds.”

“Then go into mine.”

Your eyes widened.

Damian could feel pieces of himself crumbling. His memories were rooms with the lights going out one by one.

He seized your wrist.

“You said minds are possibilities,” he forced out. “Every decision. Every memory. Every path not taken.”

“Yes.”

“Use mine as a doorway.”

“It could destroy you.”

“You will not allow it.”

The faith in his own voice surprised him. It surprised you more.

The Sovereign screamed through the station.

Damian held your gaze. “I trust you.”

Something in you broke open.

Power exploded outward.

The Watchtower disappeared.

Damian found himself standing in a forest.

Not a real forest. His forest. The grounds of Wayne Manor stretched beneath an impossible sky. Trees grew from memories. Each branch held moments in place of leaves: his father wrapping a bandage around his hand, Alfred teaching him to bake, Grayson catching him during a fall, Todd handing him a book without comment, Drake falling asleep at the Batcomputer beside him.

The Sovereign moved between the trunks like smoke. Where it passed, leaves withered.

You stood beside Damian.

Here, inside his mind, you looked different. You wore no coat. No embroidered stars. Your body was formed from silver light, your edges shifting through a thousand possible versions of yourself. In some, you wore armour. In others, a crown. In one, you had no human shape at all.

Yet your hand felt warm when Damian took it.

“How do we kill it?” he asked.

“We cannot.”

“Then how do we stop it?”

“The Sovereign feeds upon isolated minds. It silences each consciousness by separating it from every other connection.”

Damian looked at the memory-trees. “Then give it too many connections.”

You stared at him.

Understanding flashed across your face. Then delight.

“Oh,” you breathed. “You are brilliant.”

“I am aware.”

You lifted your joined hands.

Every branch in Damian’s forest ignited.

Not with fire.

With connection.

The memory of Dick laughing linked itself to the memory of Bruce’s exhausted smile. Jason’s anger joined Tim’s loyalty. Alfred’s grief wound through Talia’s pride. Jon’s friendship, the Titans, the League, every animal Damian had saved, every person he had protected, every enemy who had shaped him.

Damian was not one mind. He was a constellation of every life that had touched his.

The Sovereign recoiled.

You reached through him. Through every bond Damian possessed. The power travelled outward, passing from mind to mind across the Watchtower. Superman’s love for humanity. Wonder Woman’s devotion to truth. Batman’s impossible, terrible hope. The Flash’s joy. Green Lantern’s will.

The Sovereign drowned in connection.

It shrieked as millions of thoughts surged through it at once. It had consumed isolated consciousness for so long that it could not withstand people choosing one another.

You could have destroyed it. Damian felt the possibility open beneath your feet: a bottomless void, ready to swallow the Sovereign and everything it had touched.

You closed it.

Instead, you separated the stolen minds from the creature one by one.

You returned them.

Every civilization. Every crew. Every person emptied and abandoned.

The work tore through you.

Damian felt your pain as cracks of darkness spread across your silver body.

“You are sacrificing yourself,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are lying.”

“I am revising my structure.”

“You are breaking apart.”

“Temporarily.”

“Stop.”

“Not yet.”

He pulled you toward him.

The Sovereign thrashed overhead, shrinking as stolen consciousness poured away from it.

“You promised,” Damian said.

“I promised to tell you.”

“That is not sufficient.”

“It was your rule.”

“I am changing it.”

Your smile was faint. “You cannot change agreements during execution.”

“I am Robin. I can do as I please.”

“That is not how agreements work.”

“I will find you.”

Your smile vanished.

Damian pressed his forehead against yours. “If you break apart, I will find every piece.”

“You do not know where they will go.”

“I do not care.”

“Some may fall beyond time.”

“Then I will go beyond time.”

“Some may become new stars.”

“I will search every one.”

“Damian.”

“You do not get to make me love you and then disappear.”

The world went still.

Even the Sovereign seemed to pause.

You stared at him.

The silver light of your body flickered violently.

“You love me?”

Damian’s face burned. “This is not the appropriate moment.”

“You love me.”

“I will rescind the statement if you continue behaving foolishly.”

“You cannot rescind love.”

“I can certainly rescind admitting it.”

The Sovereign lunged.

You turned. With one raised hand, you sealed the creature inside a sphere no larger than a pearl.

The forest returned to silence.

Damian stared at the tiny sphere floating above your palm. “You said you could not kill it.”

“I did not.”

“What did you do?”

“I placed it inside a harmless pocket reality where it will experience the combined internal monologues of every person who has ever lived.”

Damian considered this. “That seems cruel.”

“It will be released once it learns empathy.”

“So never.”

“Possibly never.”

You closed your fingers around the sphere.

It vanished.

Then your knees gave way.

Damian caught you.

The forest dissolved.

Damian woke in the Watchtower infirmary.

His father sat beside the bed. He looked terrible.

Damian pushed himself upright. “Where are they?”

Bruce placed one hand against his shoulder. “Damian.”

“Where?”

“They’re alive.”

Air returned to Damian’s lungs.

Bruce’s eyes softened.

“They’re stable,” he continued. “As stable as anyone can determine. Their physical form was damaged during the separation process.”

“I need to see them.”

“You suffered a significant psychic attack.”

“I am aware.”

“You need rest.”

“I will rest in their room.”

“Damian.”

“Father.”

Bruce stared at him. Damian stared back.

Bruce sighed.

Some battles were decided by experience. Others were decided by having the more stubborn son.

You were lying beneath enough monitoring equipment to track the vital signs of an entire army.

None of it seemed particularly useful. Your heartbeat changed every few seconds. Sometimes it stopped entirely. Your body temperature moved between freezing and fever-hot. The machine attempting to measure your brain activity had begun displaying weather forecasts for planets that did not exist.

Damian sat beside you.

Your face appeared peaceful. Too peaceful.

He hated it.

“I know you can hear me,” he said.

Nothing happened.

“You are attention-seeking.”

The lights flickered.

Damian leaned forward. “If you wished for flowers, you could have asked.”

A vase appeared beside the bed. It contained black roses with silver thorns.

Damian’s chest tightened. “You are awake.”

Your eyes remained closed.

“You are avoiding me.”

A small line appeared between your brows.

“You heard what I said.”

Your eyes opened.

The universe moved inside them.

“Which part?” you asked weakly.

Damian’s face heated. “Do not test me.”

“You said many things.”

“You remember them.”

“I sustained extensive damage.”

“You imprisoned a cosmic predator inside the collective annoyance of all sentient life.”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“You remember.”

Your gaze slid away.

Damian stared at you. You, who had stood before gods and armies without flinching, suddenly seemed deeply interested in the infirmary ceiling.

“I did not expect you to say it,” you murmured.

“I had not intended to.”

“That is somewhat less romantic.”

“You were disintegrating.”

“I was reorganising.”

“You were dying.”

“Only in certain interpretations.”

Damian took your hand. Your fingers were cool.

“You are impossible,” he said.

“I have been described as inevitable.”

“That is worse.”

“I know.”

He traced his thumb across your knuckles. “You frightened me.”

Your expression changed immediately. “I am sorry.”

“I do not require an apology.”

“I frightened you.”

“And I remained.”

You looked at him.

Damian brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles.

The monitors began producing sparks.

He glanced at them.

You smiled sheepishly. “Apologies.”

“Control yourself.”

“You kissed me.”

“I kissed your hand.”

“You have never done that before.”

“You nearly ceased existing.”

“Would you do it again if I remained intact?”

“Perhaps.”

Your eyes brightened. “Would you consider kissing somewhere else?”

Damian’s eyebrows rose.

You looked horrified by your own words. “I meant my face.”

“I assumed.”

“Not that I would object to—”

“Stop speaking.”

You immediately closed your mouth.

Damian leaned closer.

For all your power, you trembled. 

That endeared you to him more than he could express. You could tear holes through dimensions. You could transform armies into chandeliers. You could hold collapsing stars between your hands.

Yet you were nervous because Damian Wayne might kiss you.

He cupped your jaw.

“Before you become alarmed,” he murmured, “I would like to make it explicitly clear that I am not attempting to kill you.”

Your mouth fell open.

Damian kissed you before you could respond.

For one perfect moment, nothing happened.

Then every flower in the Watchtower bloomed at once. The station’s artificial gravity failed. Somewhere in the distance, Green Lantern shouted.

Damian floated several inches above the floor, still holding your face between his hands.

You pulled back, eyes wide. “I lost focus.”

“I noticed.”

“I can fix it.”

“Do so.”

Gravity returned.

Damian landed neatly.

A tray crashed in the corridor.

You covered your face. “This is humiliating.”

“You brought the entire Watchtower to a halt by being kissed.”

“I have never been kissed before.”

Damian stilled. “You have existed since before the first stars.”

“I have been busy.”

His mouth curved.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You are amused.”

“Very.”

“Is that bad?”

Damian lowered your hands. “No.”

You searched his face. “You find me strange.”

“Yes.”

“Frightening.”

“Occasionally.”

“Tone-deaf.”

“Constantly.”

Your mouth twisted.

Damian kissed the corner of it.

“And,” he added, “endearing.”

The room brightened. Not the electrical lights. The world itself seemed to soften around you, colours becoming warmer, shadows gentler.

“You find me endearing,” you repeated.

“Do not force me to say it twice.”

“I would never force you to do anything.”

“I know.”

There it was again.

Those two words.

I know.

Trust given without fear.

Your eyes filled with something endless and tender.

“I love you,” you said.

Damian inhaled.

“You need not say it in return,” you continued quickly. “I understand that mortal courtship traditions contain complicated stages. There may be rituals. Gifts. Battles against rival suitors. The kidnapping of relatives.”

“There will be no kidnapping.”

“Of course. Because I am not evil.”

Damian closed his eyes.

You looked wounded.

He laughed.

Not quietly this time. Not hidden behind a hand or turned shoulder.

The sound filled the infirmary, bright and helpless.

You stared at him in awe.

Damian pressed his forehead against yours, still laughing as you began to smile.

“I love you,” he said.

The Watchtower trembled.

You winced. “Sorry.”

Three weeks later, Damian took you on what you insisted on calling a strategic interpersonal meeting.

“It is a date,” he said.

The two of you were walking through Gotham Botanical Gardens after closing hours. Damian had obtained permission. You had offered to temporarily remove every other person from the city.

He had refused.

“A date implies romantic intentions,” you said.

“Yes.”

“And the possibility of physical affection.”

“Yes.”

“And potentially a formal union if compatibility is established.”

Damian stopped.

You stopped beside him.

“Do not propose to me on our first date.”

“I was not proposing.”

“You created a ring.”

You looked down.

A ring had appeared around Damian’s finger. It was made from dark metal, set with a stone containing a tiny rotating galaxy.

You stared at it.

“I did not do that intentionally.”

Damian examined the ring. “Your subconscious is proposing.”

“It is enthusiastic.”

“I can see that.”

“I will remove it.”

Damian curled his hand into a fist. “No.”

Your eyes widened.

“I will keep it,” he said. “For now.”

The garden lamps flickered. Flowers unfolded along the path despite the midnight hour.

You walked beside him in silence for several moments.

Then you said, “I should clarify that the ring does not contain surveillance magic.”

“Good.”

“It does not bind your soul to mine.”

“Excellent.”

“It does not mark you as my property to predatory entities.”

Damian looked at you. You smiled nervously.

“Does it do anything?”

“It will protect you from most forms of psychic intrusion, temporal displacement, molecular disintegration, possession, accidental dimensional exile, and moderate curses.”

“Moderate?”

“Powerful curses require the matching bracelet.”

“Of course they do.”

The bracelet appeared around his wrist.

Damian sighed.

You reached toward him, then paused. “May I hold your hand?”

He looked at you.

The question still came carefully. Despite all your power, despite knowing he loved you, you asked.

Always.

Damian threaded his fingers through yours. “Yes.”

You continued through the garden together.

Above you, Gotham’s clouds parted to reveal a sky full of impossible stars.

Damian glanced upward. “You are doing that.”

“I thought the natural sky lacked drama.”

“It is sufficient without your interference.”

The additional stars vanished. The ordinary night returned.

After a moment, Damian squeezed your hand. “You may restore some of them.”

The sky burst into colour.

Damian rolled his eyes.

You smiled.

Anyone watching might have found the sight alarming: Gotham’s most severe vigilante walking hand in hand with a being capable of remaking creation, both surrounded by flowers blooming out of season.

Perhaps you were dangerous. Damian had never doubted that. You were vain without realising it, dramatic by accident, catastrophically bad at reassurance, and powerful enough to make gods reconsider their life choices.

You also cried during animated films. You carried injured insects out of buildings. You remembered everyone’s preferred tea. You once paused a battle because you noticed Damian had skipped lunch. You loved mortals despite knowing you would outlive them. You chose restraint even when destruction would have been easier.

You had been feared for so long that you announced your goodness before anyone could accuse you of its absence.

Damian understood that. He had spent much of his own life insisting he had changed before anyone believed him. Sometimes the truth sounded most suspicious when spoken by someone desperate to be trusted.

You rested your head against his shoulder as you walked.

“I am very pleased,” you said.

“With the date?”

“With you.”

Damian looked ahead to hide his expression. “You should be.”

“I am also pleased that I resisted the urge to eliminate all potential romantic competition.”

Damian stopped walking.

You stopped with him.

A pigeon landed on a nearby statue.

You glanced toward it. Damian stared at you.

“That was a joke,” you said. He narrowed his eyes. “I have been practising.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You have not eliminated anyone.”

“No.”

“Or imprisoned them.”

“No.”

“Transformed them.”

“Certainly not.”

“Married them against their will.”

“That only happened once.”

Damian’s stare sharpened.

You lifted both hands. “Not evil.”

The pigeon cooed.

Damian exhaled through his nose. Then he pulled you closer by the front of your coat and kissed you beneath a sky you had rearranged solely because you thought he deserved prettier stars.

You melted against him.

The garden lifted three feet into the air.

Neither of you noticed for several minutes.

When the League questioned you about it later, you promised that the levitation had been entirely harmless.

No one believed you.

Damian did.