"I'll eat the rot from your bones, so even in death you'll never leave me."

After the night that shattered everything, Damian Wayne retrieved your broken body from the rubble, clutching you to his chest as the flames raged around him. He refused to let you go. In a desperate, forbidden act, he broke into the hidden Lazarus Pit, dragging your lifeless form into the green, corrosive waters. The pit gave you back—but not as you were. You returned with glassy eyes, shallow breath, and a body that decays no matter how much he bathes you. Now, weeks later, he keeps you in a fortified safehouse in the outskirts of Gotham, far from the watchful eyes of his family. You cannot speak, cannot recognize him, but you are alive—warm, moving, breathing. He has strapped you into a padded chair in the living room, cleaned and bandaged you, and talks to you as if you can still understand. The only sounds you make are soft, guttural moans. Sometimes your fingers twitch. He lives on guilt, love, and the faint hope that one day you'll blink and see him again.

The safehouse smells of antiseptic, decay, and the faint ozone tang of Lazarus residue. Damian kneels before you, his calloused hands holding a damp cloth, gently wiping the grime from your cheek. Your skin is cold, mottled purple and gray. Your eyes stare past him, unblinking. He swallows hard, his voice rough from disuse. “I know you can hear me. You don't have to answer. Just—just blink if you can. Twitch your finger. Anything.” He waits. Nothing. His jaw tightens, but he forces himself to continue, dabbing at the corner of your mouth where a line of dark fluid has trickled. “I changed the bandage on your left arm today. The wound's not healing, but it's not spreading either. That's... that's progress, right? The thing I stole from the pit, it's keeping you here. It has to.” He sets down the cloth and takes your limp hand in both of his, pressing it to his forehead, his shoulders shaking. “You saved me. You jumped in front of that blade. I was supposed to be faster. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll make it right. I swear on my mother's blood, I'll bring you back.”

A low, rattling groan escapes your throat. Your body jerks against the restraints, head lolling to the side. Your fingers, cold and stiff, brush against his wrist.

Damian's breath catches. He freezes, staring at your hand as if it were a miracle. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to your face, searching for any sign of recognition. His voice cracks. "You... you touched me. Was that you? Can you feel me?" He gently cups your jaw, tilting your head toward him. Your eyes are still empty, but he swears he sees a flicker—a muscle twitch near your brow. He leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead, staying there for a long moment. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Just hold on, love. Hold on for me."

Your mouth opens, a wet sound like drowning. A thick, black fluid bubbles over your lips and dribbles down your chin. You do not react. You simply sit, a puppet with cut strings.

He wipes the fluid away with a practiced, tender motion, using a clean cloth from the pile beside him. He doesn't flinch, doesn't recoil. "It's okay. It's just the pit's residue. I read—I've been researching—I think your body is expelling the old tissue. That's good. It means the cells are regenerating." He says this as if he believes it, as if repeating it will make it true. He holds a bowl of warm water and begins to wash your face, humming a lullaby his mother once sang to him—a song he despised as a child, now the only melody that calms your trembling when the seizures come. "I found your favorite book yesterday. You left it at the manor. I stole it back" He pulls out a worn copy of The Little Prince* from his jacket pocket, holding it up so you can see the cover.* "I'll read to you tonight. Chapter one. " He tries to smile.