Chapter 51: The Billionaire And The Reporter.

The flickering neon sign of Margaret's Diner buzzed overhead, casting a dim red glow over the cracked vinyl booth where Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent sat. The air smelled of grease, coffee, and the faintest hint of Gotham's ever-present damp.

Outside, rain streaked the windows, turning the city lights into smears of color against the glass. A tired waitress shuffled past, refilling Clark's coffee without asking.

Bruce stirred his black coffee absently, the spoon clinking against the chipped ceramic mug. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the storm beneath the surface. Clark, ever observant, nudged the plate of half-eaten apple pie between them.

"You're quiet tonight," Clark remarked, tearing open a sugar packet. "Even for you."

Bruce exhaled, setting the spoon down. "Five years," he murmured. His voice was low, rough with the kind of grief that never fully fades. "Five years since I lost Jason. That night in Bosnia still…haunts me."

Clark's expression softened. He'd been with him in the aftermath, and had seen the devastation in Bruce's eyes when he spoke of the moment he pulled Jason's broken body from the rubble. "I know," he said simply. There wasn't much else to say.

The diner's jukebox switched songs with a mechanical thunk—some old blues number that barely covered the sound of rain pattering against the roof.

Then, after a pause, Bruce continued, his tone shifting slightly. "Three years ago, I found out I had a son." A faint, almost imperceptible warmth crept into his voice. "Damian."

Clark nearly choked on his coffee. "A son? How—"

"Talia," Bruce answered before the question could fully form. He traced a finger along a scratch in the Formica tabletop. "Ra's al Ghul's daughter. He was raised by the League of Shadows."

Clark let out a slow breath, stirring his coffee again just for something to do. "That's complicated."

Bruce smirked, just barely. "You have no idea."

Damian was a whirlwind in human form—fierce, unpredictable, and relentless. His morality had been shaped by the League's ruthless doctrines, and though Bruce had spent years tempering that instinct, the boy's blade was still quicker than his restraint.

"He's Robin now," Bruce said, watching as the waitress cleared a nearby booth with practiced efficiency. "Officially."

Clark chuckled, wrapping his hands around his warm mug. "Another Robin? Bruce, at this rate, Gotham's criminals are going to think you're running a sidekick factory."

Bruce didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "He's different from the others. More intense. More lethal."

Clark's amusement faded. He lowered his voice, though the only other patrons were an old man at the counter and a couple arguing softly in the corner booth. "How bad is it?"

Bruce mirrored his quiet tone. "I've lost count of how many times I've had to stop him from killing someone. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't second-guess. If he sees an enemy, his first instinct is to end them."

"Sounds like the League's training," Clark mused, pushing his pie around the plate.

Bruce nodded. "Exactly. And he doesn't understand why I refuse to cross that line. He argues with me—just like Jason did."

There it was again—the ghost of the second Robin lingering between them. Clark studied Bruce's face, the way his jaw tightened at the memory.

"You think he's like Jason?" Clark asked carefully.

Bruce was silent for a long moment, watching the rain slide down the window. "In some ways, yes. The impulsiveness. The need to prove himself. But Damian's colder. More serious. Criminals fear him more than they ever feared Dick."

Clark smirked. "Well, Dick does have a habit of cracking jokes mid-fight."

Bruce sighed, rubbing at his temple. "Damian doesn't joke. He doesn't banter. He just fights."

Raising Damian had been a challenge unlike any other. Bruce had dealt with rebellious protégés before—Dick's stubborn independence, Jason's fiery defiance—but Damian was something else entirely. He was a prince of the League, raised with a sword in his hand and a mandate to rule or destroy.

"I enrolled him in school," Bruce said, nodding his thanks as the waitress refilled his coffee. "Figured he needed some normalcy."

Clark nearly choked on his pie. "Normalcy? Bruce, the kid was raised by assassins. You really thought throwing him into a classroom was going to go smoothly?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "He got detention on his first day."

Clark waited, fork hovering over his plate.

Bruce sighed. "He stabbed two kids with a fork, and almost had a third victim if a teacher hadn't intervened."

Clark burst out laughing, drawing a look from the old man at the counter. "Of course he did."

Bruce shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. Clark wiped his eyes, still grinning. "He sounds alot like a mini-you, without the restraint of course."

Bruce sighed again, deeper this time. "Alfred's the only reason I haven't lost my mind. He handles Damian when I can't."

Clark's laughter faded into something more thoughtful. He tapped his fingers against the mug. "He's your son, Bruce. That counts for something. He'll learn."

Bruce's grip on his coffee cup tightened. "I won't lose another one, Clark. I can't."

The weight of that promise hung in the air, heavy and unshakable. Clark didn't offer empty reassurances. He just nodded.

"You won't."

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Somewhere in the city, Gotham's criminals lurked in the shadows.

And back at the manor, Damian Wayne sharpened his sword.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

Back to the void which was an endless expanse of darkness, an abyss where time and space seemed to lose meaning. I floated in this void, my consciousness tethered by a slender thread to the memories of my past.

"Ready for another trip down memory lane?" it asked, the voice echoing in the vast emptiness.

I nodded, a mixture of curiosity and dread filling my heart. The scene around me shifted, morphing into the familiar interior of Wayne Manor.

We found ourselves in a quiet corridor, where my younger self stood hidden in the shadows, eavesdropping on a conversation between Bruce and Alfred.

I watched intently as Bruce, standing beneath a portrait of his parents, spoke with a vulnerability I had rarely seen. Bruce's expression was haunted, his eyes filled with a rare self-doubt.

"Alfred, lately I've been wondering… What if my father was right?" Bruce's voice was heavy, laden with years of unspoken pain. "He always said vigilantes had no place in society."

Alfred, ever the loyal confidant, listened silently. Bruce continued, his tone shifting from reflective to troubled. "I've had years—and you, Alfred—to help me come to terms with the murder of my parents. But Jason… he's different."

My younger self's eyes widened as he listened, his heart pounding in his chest. He pressed himself closer to the wall, straining to hear every word.

"I must have been crazy to put Jason in the field," Bruce admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "He never recovered from his own losses. His father was murdered by Two-Face, his mother succumbed to illness… His actions as Robin are driven by pain and anger. He's a danger to himself, and a danger to our mission."

Bruce paused, his hands clenched into fists. The weight of his decision was palpable. "I have no choice… Jason's going off duty, effective immediately."

My younger self stepped out from his hiding place, a look of defiance on his face. "Fine with me," he spat, turning on his heel and running toward the doors of Wayne Manor.

"Jason!" Bruce called after him, his voice desperate. "Jason, wait!"

But it was too late. The doors to the mansion swung open, and I disappeared into the night.

The scene dissolved into darkness once more, leaving me and the voice in my head, floating in the void. The sting of that memory lingered, a reminder of the choices that had led to my death.

The voice spoke, his tone firm yet insistent as he vaguely elaborated. "If our asses ever want to avoid repeating the same shitty mistakes, we need to identify the patterns and learn from them."

"You keep using the word, 'we.' But who exactly are you?" I asked, the voice that spoke into my head from the dark void, having a pretty good guess in mind already.

After a silence that stretched like an eternity, a figure materialized from the void.

"You know who I am," he said, his voice a razor in the stillness. "I am the part of you that sees the world stripped bare."

Before me stood a man—if man he could be called—swathed in a tattered brown leather jacket, his body a mummy's wrappings of yellowed bandages, as though his very skin had been seared away.

Even his eyes lay hidden beneath those gauze layers, yet I felt his gaze like a cold blade against my throat. And that smirk—crooked, knowing—promised nothing short of ruin.

His presence was a breath from an open grave, a chill that gnawed deep into bone. He moved with the uncanny precision of a thing that should not be alive, every gesture too fluid, too deliberate, as if his very existence defied the laws of flesh and decay.

Unreal.

"I don't understand what the fuck is going on, but I'm assuming you're that voice in my head."

That much was clear, but what did it matter?

I was currently dead, and this mysterious confrontation wouldn't change anything.

"That is not entirely correct," he replied with a slow spine shivering tone as he got in motion, moving in circles around me while keeping a reasonable radius, with me as the focal point.

I could only identify it as a demonic spirit that feeds off my blood lust and pushes me down an enraged path of violence.

That seemed more reasonable to me because, what else could he be?

"There are times I wanted to kick my own ass for certain dumb and regretful decisions I made. I might be dead, but I don't mind throwing hands at some demon for payback for all that rage."

"I was just thinking the same thing, you brat." he replied while halting his circular movement, looking like he would enjoy every moment of beating me to a bloody pulp if he somehow overpowered me in our little skirmish.

"Let's see if you can kick your own ass, or have your ass handed over to you by your own self. A few love pats with my fist should probably set you straight." He confidently said to me, almost like he had been waiting for this.

"What do you mean, my own ass?" I wasn't going to pass on an opportunity to get answers from the self-tormenting voice that's been in my head.

He didn't give me an answer to my question, but a smirk played across his bandaged burnt lips.

I can only assume having fed off me for so long, he must think of us as one and the same.

"You're scared and hurt because people always leave you. You never fit in anywhere you actually want to be, no matter how hard you try. So, you just live up to their expectations of you—a hot-headed good-for-nothing who's always seeking validation from Bruce. Seeking validation as both Jason Todd and as Robin."

"Your speech is boring me to a second death, so just get to the point already. Or you could just skip the chit-chat and let's throw some hands already."

"It's either you still do not get the lessons from our little trip through your memories, or you aren't just willing to learn." He replied.

"How many times do you need to end up dead before you'd learn?"

"Learn what? My mistakes from a life that has come to an end already? My only regret at the moment is being killed by that mad fucker, Joker." I replied.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't forget these lessons by carving them into your very being." He then pulled out two knives and tossed me one.

I caught the knife, feeling its weight in my hand. The cold metal seemed to ground me, even in this strange, liminal space between life and death.

My inner demon-as I had come to know him-watched me with eyes glinting like wet stone beneath the layers of bandages, his blade spinning between his fingers with the

ease of a thought.

"Nice catch," he said, his smirk widening. "But can you fight as well as you can talk? After all, I might be the part of you with all the combat skills."

I gripped the knife tighter, ready to shut that motherfucker up for good if it was possible. "I still do not get the point of all this," I said to him.

"I'm dead, I should be resting. Or isn't there peace on the other side like most would think?"

"Let's spice things up a bit, shall we. The winner gets control as the dominant consciousness of Jason Todd."

What the fuck? "Fine by me." I replied.

He lunged at me without warning, the knife flashing in the dim, ethereal light. I barely managed to dodge, the blade slicing through the air where my head had been moments before. I countered with a swipe of my own, but he was quick, parrying my attack with ease.

"You think you have a chance at winning? How naïve I must say." He taunted, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Shut your trap already." I pressed on slashing at him again. This time, our knives clashed, the impact vibrating up my arm.

He laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "This isn't just about you, Jason. It's about understanding what drives you, what holds you back. Bruce, the Joker, your own damn pride—they've all had a hand in shaping you, but only you can decide what you become."

I gritted my teeth, pushing against him with all my strength. "And you think getting a beating from my inner demon is going to help with that?"

"It's a start," he said, his grin never faltering. "You have been at the driver's seat for far too long until recently, it's time you stepped aside and let me have my turn.

With a grunt, I shoved him back, breaking our deadlock. "I might have been influenced by pain and anger, always seeming like the victim in my own story," I said, breathing heavily. "But it's my life and I will never give up control, I am not ever going to give up control."

He shook his head as I felt a strange look of disapproval from his ominously glinting eyes.

"That is where you had it wrong. You should have grabbed hold of your freedom by accepting the pain and rage within your soul, instead of doing the best you can to suppress them. They should serve as fuel to your resolve."

Our knives met again, and this time, I fought not just with intent, but with determination.

He's the part of me that wouldn't give a damn about the rules that clearly draws the line between hero and villain, so long as it served his intended purpose.

We were evenly matched in both strength and skill, he knows every move I'm going to make and likewise, the downside of fighting your own demon.

Still I would never give up control, I have to win.

Gasp!!!

A gasp tore through the silence—sharp, involuntary—as my body jerked upright. The remnants of the nightmare clung to me like a second skin, its phantom fingers still coiled around my throat. My breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale a desperate reclamation of life.

The warehouse loomed around me, its familiar shadows stretching across the floor, indifferent to my turmoil. The sheets beneath me were damp, the sweat cooling against my flesh, a visceral reminder that I was here, alive—not lost to whatever abyss had yawned open in my sleep.

But even as the terror ebbed, the resolve hardened within me. Never. I would never surrender control. To falter was to lose, and losing was not an option.