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  (League of Shadows Stronghold – Somewhere in the Mountains)

  The air in the grand hall of the League of Shadows was thick with the st of burning inse, the kind that masked the rot buried deep in the foundation of the turies-old fortress.

  Shadows danced oone walls, cast by the flickering fmes of torches mounted in iron sces.

  Ra's al Ghul stood at the ter of the room, his hands csped behind his back, his pierg green eyes watg as his daughter, Talia, bored on a raised dais.

  The midwives worked in sileheir movements brisk and effit, faces masked by bck veils.

  Talia al Ghul, always a picture of poise and trol, now y vulnerable and drenched i.

  Her nails dug into the wood of the armrests as another tra wracked her body.

  She refused to scream. She would not give her father the satisfa of seeing her in pain.

  Moments ter, a sharp cry filled the hall.

  The midwife stepped forward, holding a small, squirming infant ed in dark silk.

  Talia's lips trembled as she reached out, but before she could cradle the child, Ra's raised a anding hand.

  "Bring him to me," Ra's said, his voice calm but heavy with authority.

  The midwife hesitated, but a sharp gnce from the Demon's Head spurred her forward.

  The infant ced in his arms. Ra's tilted his head, studying the child as if he were a fwed artifact. The room fell silent.

  "What is this?" Ra's voice cut through the quiet like a bde.

  He held the babe up to the torchlight by it's leg, his expression s as the infant's white hair glimmered faintly in the glow.

  "A mark of weakness," Ra's decred, his voice heavy with disdain. "This...thing will not be the heir to the League of Shadows. He is no grandson of mine."

  Talia struggled to rise, her body weak but her will unbroken. "Father, he is my son. He will grow strong. The blood of al Ghul flows through his veins."

  "The blood may flow, but it is tainted," Ra's snapped, his eyes narrowing. "This child's very existence is a curse. He will bring ruin, not strength. He will never be accepted here. I refuse it."

  The room seemed to grow colder. Talia's heart ched as she realized what her father intended. She rose from the chair, her legs trembling but her voice firm.

  "You will not harm him," she said. It wasn't a plea—it was a and.

  Ra's chuckled softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "Harm him? No, Talia. I will give him what this world has denied him: a ce to survive. But it will not be here. This child does not deserve the League. Let the outside world determine his fate."

  He hahe child back to the midwife, who stared at him with wide, uain eyes. "Take him to Gotham but not with the Father. Leave It in the slums where he belongs. If he is truly an al Ghul, he will cw his way to survival. If not, then he was never meant to live."

  "No!" Talia stepped forward, her hands trembling. She wao fight, to protect her son, but the League stood against her. Even the midwives backed away, afraid to defy Ra's.

  Ra's turned his ba her. "Do not defy me, Talia. This is your sed warning. You know what happens to those who try my patience by questioning my judgement."

  Tears burned in her eyes as she sank bato the chair, her body shaking.

  The infant's cries grew fainter as the midwife carried him away, vanishing into the shadows.

  ---

  -Gotham City – The Narrows-

  The midwife kept her head low as she hurried through the grimy back alleys of Gotham's Narrows, watched over by the shadows.

  Her League-issued robes were hiddeh a tattered cloak, but her steps were quid deliberate.

  The infant in her arms whimpered softly, his pale skin and white hair standing out even in the faint light of the streetmps.

  She stopped in front of a run-down orphas sign barely legible through the grime and peeling paint.

  A drunk slumped by the steps, oblivious to her presehe midwife hesitated, looking down at the baby.

  His wide, curious eyes stared back at her, unknowing and undeserving of the fate being thrust upon him.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling.

  She pced the infaly on the doorstep, ing the silk tighter around him to shield him from the biting wind.

  With a final gnce, she melted into the shadows, leaving the child alone in the harsh, cold Gotham night.

  Gotham City – St. Bartholomew's Orphanage

  The faint cries of the infant were drowned out by the howling wind.

  It wasn't until the first rays of dawn began to pierce the murky skyline of Gotham that the heavy front door of the orphanage creaked open.

  A tired, middle-aged woman in a stained cardigan stepped outside, her lips pursed as she sed the desote street.

  She almost didn't notice the small bundle on the doorstep—until the sound of a soft whimper made her stop.

  "What the—" she muttered, leaning down to peel back the silk c. She stared at the baby in fusion, her eyes narrowing wheiced the shock of white hair.

  "Well, aren't you a strange one?" she said with a sigh. Scooping him up, she stepped baside the building, muttering under her breath about "another mouth to feed."

  The orphanage was nothing more than a crumbling relic of the city's .

  The walls were stained with water damage, and the air carried a perma stenildew and despair.

  The other children, huddled around a broken radiator for warmth, barely gnced up as the womaered with the baby.

  "What's his name?" asked one of the older boys, his voice tinged with boredom.

  The womaated. She g the silk ings, hoping for some kind of clue, but there was nothing. No note, no name—just a child abao the world.

  "Doesn't have one," she grumbled. "Call him whatever you want."

  The older boy smirked. "Whitey," he said, elig a few chuckles from the others.

  "Enough," the woman snapped, her tone sharp. She pced the baby into a battered crib in the er of the room, already turning away. "He's no different than the rest of you. Just another orphan nobody wanted."

  ---

  -Six Years Later-

  The sound of metal g against crete echoed through the orphanage's dimly lit basement.

  Six-year-old, self named, Damian stood in the ter of the room, his small fists ched, his knuckles raw and bloody.

  Around him, a group of older boys circled like wolves, their sneers illuminated by the single flickering bulb overhead.

  "Think you're better than us, freak?" one of them spat, stepping forward. His name was Kyle, the self-procimed leader of the orphanage's bullies. "That white hair makes you look like a ghost."

  Damian didn't answer. He simply watched Kyle with cold, calg eyes, his small frame deceptively still.

  "I'm talking to you!" Kyle snarled, lunging forward.

  The moment his hand reached out, Damian moved.

  A sharp, precise elbow caught Kyle iomach, doubling him over.

  Before the boy could recover, Damian spun, delivering a brutal kick to the side of his knee.

  Kyle colpsed with a howl, clutg his leg as Damian stepped back, his expression unreadable.

  The other boys hesitated, exging nervous gnces. Damian's reputation had grown quickly in the orphanage. He wasn't the biggest or the stro, but he was the smartest.

  He studied his oppos, learheir weaknesses, and struck with ruthless efficy.

  "You'll regret this," Kyle hissed, struggling to his feet.

  "No," Damian said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will."

  The other boys retreated as Damian walked away, his small hands trembling slightly. He hated fighting because it hurt his hands.

  He hated this pce too. But he had learned long ago that survival required strength—and he would not allow himself to be weak.

  Alone, he could only t on himself.

  ---

  -Nightfall-

  Damian sat alone on the rooftop of the orphanage, his legs dangling over the edge.

  The city stretched out before him, its lights flickering like dying embers. The cold wind bit at his skin, but he didn't flinch.

  He had begun stealing books from the local library, sneaking them back to the orphao read by the dim light of the hallway.

  Books on engineering, mathematics, and history—the knowledge he absorbed was his only so a world that seemed determio crush him.

  He didn't know who his parents were, but it didn't matter. They had abandoned him.

  To Damian, the world was nothing more than a battlefield, and every person in it was either an enemy, a tool, or a waste of his time.

  The boy looked down at his scarred knuckles, then back at the city below.

  "I'll get out of here," he whispered to himself, his voice resolute. "One day, I'll be strohan all of them. They'll never trol me again."

  The wind carried his words away as Damian sat in silehe faint sound of sirens in the distance a reminder of Gotham's endless chaos.