Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ellie wouldn’t call herself shy about meeting people. She was friendly, maybe even a little too much sometimes. But after almost a semester at Gotham Academy, she’d learned one thing:

Being friendly doesn’t mean you fit in.

It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business, or thought they did. Where the rich kids laughed loudly in perfect circles, and the outsiders tried to find their space on the edges.

Ellie wasn’t lonely, exactly. She talked easily, laughed easily. But real friends? That was harder. She could float between groups, join conversations, disappear again. Never awkward. Never really seen.

Today, that felt like enough.

Near the lockers, Damian Wayne leaned against the wall with that same unreadable look he always wore. When their eyes met, he gave a brief nod.

“Batburger after school. You in?” His voice was calm, casual, no hint of command, but there was no real choice.

Ellie blinked, surprised. Damian Wayne didn’t exactly invite people out. And here he was, asking her.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “I’ll come.”

Ellie didn’t get nervous easily.

But walking into Batburger with Damian Wayne already sitting at a corner booth and looking like he could kill a man with a straw? Yeah. That tugged at something low in her stomach.

She tugged her hoodie’s sleeves down over her hands, out of habit. Not because she was cold. Definitely not because she was nervous.

She wasn’t even sure this was supposed to be a thing, anyway. It wasn’t like he’d asked her out. He just said “Batburger” and expected her to show up. Gotham-style social cues were weird like that.

He glanced up when she slid into the booth across from him. No smile. Just a small nod, the kind that said you’re on time and I expected nothing less and possibly don’t speak unless spoken to. Classic Damian.

The menu buzzed slightly in her hands from the grease trapped beneath the plastic.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked, pretending to squint at the options.

Damian’s expression didn’t change. “Once. The food’s tolerable.”

Which, from him, probably meant he liked it.

She hummed. “Good to know. I was bracing for an ironic Gotham thing. Like... bat-shaped nuggets or something.”

“They have those,” he said, straight-faced.

Her mouth opened. “You’re kidding.”

Damian didn’t answer. Which either meant he was absolutely kidding or, worse, not.

The silence after that wasn’t exactly awkward. It just... stretched. Quiet. Weighty. Like neither of them quite knew what to say without tipping something over.

Their server came and went. They both ordered the most neutral options possible, cheeseburger for her, veggie with water for him. Damian Wayne, apparently, didn’t do soda.

She leaned her chin on her fist and watched him for a second. Not in a flirty way. Just curious.

Damian Wayne at school was sharp edges and silence. People didn’t get close to him, and he didn’t encourage them to try. He wasn’t mean, exactly, but he didn’t do warm. He didn’t do casual.

And now he was sitting across from her like they did this kind of thing all the time.

“Okay,” she said eventually, picking at the edge of her napkin, “real talk. You don’t seem like the kind of person who eats burgers with people for fun. So what is this?”

Damian didn’t flinch. “Do I need a reason?”

“No,” Ellie said slowly. “But people usually have one anyway.”

He paused for a second, like he was weighing her. Then: “You’re different.”

She blinked. “Thanks?”

“Not like that,” he added, frowning like she’d insulted him. “You’re not trying to impress anyone. Most people at school are... shallow.”

Ellie gave a short laugh. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“It’s just exhausting,” he muttered, stabbing a fry with far more aggression than necessary.

She could feel the corners of her mouth twitching. “So this is... what? A break from the rich kid circus?”

Damian looked at her like she’d just solved a riddle he’d forgotten he asked.

“You could call it that.”

She nodded slowly, leaning back into the vinyl seat. “Cool. Break buddies. I can work with that.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes after that. It wasn’t relaxed, exactly, more like tense neutrality. Like two cats who had agreed not to hiss at each other for a while.

“I’ve heard about your family,” he said suddenly, and for a second, her stomach dropped.

Not that family. Not that part.

He kept talking. “Danny Fantom. He works at Vladco, right?”

“Yeah.” Ellie’s voice stayed light, normal. “He’s a research tech. Engineering stuff. Hates mornings. Addicted to burnt coffee.”

“Sounds normal enough.” 

She tilted her head. “Disappointed?”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“No,” he said finally. “Just... curious.”

Ellie could work with curious. Curious was manageable. Curious didn’t mean suspicious.

“You know Vlad, right?” she asked, throwing the ball back at him.

Damian gave the tiniest pause before answering. “I’ve met him. He’s... intense.”

Ellie huffed out a breath. “Understatement of the year. Try growing up with him and my grandparents...plural. It’s like living in a lab and a soap opera at the same time.”

“Your grandparents live together?”

“Yeah. All three of them.”

Damian raised a single eyebrow, and Ellie smirked.

“You’re picturing it. Don’t. It’ll break your brain.”

“They seem... unconventional.”

“You have no idea.”

She didn’t explain more. He didn’t press.

Their food was halfway gone by then, and the booth had settled into something easier, less like a mission briefing, more like... not friendship, maybe, but something with potential.

“I don’t think anyone expected you to blend in at Gotham Academy,” Damian said suddenly.

Ellie blinked. “What makes you say that?”

He met her eyes, and something there softened just enough to be human.

“You’re not from our world.”

Ellie’s heart skipped. Not from our world. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It could’ve meant money, class, reputation, Gotham. But for a second, it felt like he saw her in a way that brushed a little too close to truth.

“I’m from lots of places,” she said, quiet.

“I believe that.”

The server came by with a refill. Ellie watched as Damian thanked him in perfect, clipped politeness. Not friendly. Just... precise. Like everything else about him.

She wondered, briefly, what kind of person he had to be when no one was watching.

She wondered if he’d ever let her find out.

“You know,” she said lightly, pushing her empty basket aside, “this might actually count as a date.”

Damian didn’t blink. “Is that a problem?”

She snorted. “Just unexpected.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Was I boring?” he asked.

And she knew it was a joke. Or... maybe it wasn’t.

She leaned forward slightly, chin in hand, and smiled, not teasing, not mean. Just honest.

“Not yet.”

And for the first time all evening, Damian smiled back.

Ellie has been to a lot of weird places.

Haunted temples in Thailand, forgotten Realms that twist sideways when you blink, and once, unintentionally, a sentient castle with a bad attitude and no concept of indoor plumbing. She's dealt with ghosts, goblins, the occasional interdimensional cult, and once even got cursed by an eldritch librarian with a flair for dramatic poetry.

Gotham still manages to top the list.

It’s not the rain, she actually likes that, the way it drizzles like a secret being whispered. It's not the brooding skyline or the soft, ever-present hum of chaos in the air. It's not even the occasional background scream she’s learned to tune out. It's something else.

Something in the bones of the city. Something watching.

And yet, despite all that, Ellie finds herself at a booth in BatBurger, sitting across from Damian Wayne and pretending like this is normal.

Totally. Normal.

"So," Damian says, in that clipped, perfectly-enunciated Gotham Academy way. His eyes flick toward her tray, which still has untouched fries and half a bat-shaped burger. "You're not going to eat that?"

Ellie blinks, caught mid-thought.

She's not nervous. She’s not nervous.

Just maybe… a little thrown. Damian Wayne is a lot. Not in the “he’s hot” way, although, yes, okay, she's not blind ... but in the “what is this boy’s damage and why does he sit like he's judging the entire state of New Jersey” kind of way.

"I'm pacing myself," she says, stabbing a fry for dramatic effect. "This burger is an architectural marvel. It deserves respect."

Damian raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Ellie chews her fry, stalling. She’s still not entirely sure what she’s doing here. One minute she was trying to keep her head down in class, the next she was being invited to grab food by the sharpest, most suspicious guy in school. Alone. Just them.

It's not a date, probably.

Probably.

"You don’t talk much in class," Damian says, tearing a piece of napkin like it offended him. "But I’ve noticed you’re… observant."

That’s not suspicious at all.

Ellie shrugs, noncommittal. “I just don’t like wasting words.”

"And yet here you are, holding an entire conversation about a burger."

She grins. “Everyone has their weaknesses.”

That gets a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. A glitch in the code.

Victory.

Ellie glances out the rain-fogged window. She can see the Gotham Academy emblem on the nearest street pole, mist curling around it like a shy ghost. There’s a familiarity to this, the way Gotham wraps around itself like a story you’ve heard before but never fully understood.

"So," she says, pivoting before the silence can tip into awkward. "Was this a ‘I just like burgers’ thing, a in in my family dinamics or…"

Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “I’m curious about Vladco.”

Oh. So it’s like that.

Ellie schools her face into neutrality. "Why?"

Damian lifts his cup, black coffee, obviously, and sips. "Let’s say I like to be informed..And the Masters-Fantom family has deep ties to the company."

Well, that’s not exactly wrong.

Ellie tilts her head, all faux innocence. “You googled me?”

Damian doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

“I’m flattered,” she says, biting into her burger now just to have something to do with her mouth.

He watches her eat for a moment. Not creepily. More like he’s waiting to see if the food explodes or if she drops some kind of clue mid-chew.

“Vladco has government contracts,” he says. “They don’t advertise it, but they’re deeply embedded in certain sectors, experimental energy, defense… less public ventures.”

Ellie chews slowly. Swallows. Smiles. “And you think I know secrets because I show up to school in a lab-sponsored coat half the time?”

"People underestimate the children of powerful families," Damian says evenly. "They assume we’re ignorant."

Ellie’s grin softens. "That sounds like personal experience."

For a second, one second, she thinks she sees something in his eyes. A glint of vulnerability, maybe. Recognition. But then it’s gone. 

Damian shrugs. It looks foreign on him, like borrowed body language. “It’s a pattern.”

He doesn’t press her. Doesn’t interrogate. It’s subtle. Like two cats circling, both pretending not to be sizing the other up.

She appreciates that, actually.

Because while he thinks he’s here to unravel her, she’s still trying to untangle him.

Who invites a girl out to talk corporate conspiracy?

Who drink plain water in the batburguer at seven PM?

Who has eyes like he’s cataloguing your soul but also knows how to flick a straw wrapper so precisely it hits the edge of your tray with a perfect snap?

Damian Wayne, apparently.

Ellie huffs, shifting in her seat. “So what, I’m your inside source now?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“You're blunt.”

“I don’t like wasting words.”

She laughs, full-bodied and surprised. “You’re...okay, that was good. Touché.”

He allows the smallest, briefest smirk. Barely there. Gone in an instant.

Ellie taps her cup, considering. “If I were your inside source and I’m not what would you even want to know?”

He leans forward a hair. Not enough to be suspicious to anyone watching. Just enough to remind her that he’s serious.

"Why is Vlad Masters investing in particle destabilization tech when he's filed for public grants in renewable energy development? Why is your step-grandfather funding cold fusion on one side of the company and frequency disruption on the other?"

Ellie blinks.

Okay, wow. This boy did his homework.

She plays it cool. “Maybe he’s got a hobby.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. Not hostile. Just… focused. “Maybe.”

She could lie. Brush it off. Pretend she’s just another private-school girl from a lab-funded household who doesn’t know what her not-quite-relatives get up to behind closed doors.

But something about the way he asked, earnest without being needy, suspicious without being cruel, makes her pause.

“I’m not supposed to talk about Vladco stuff,” she says, honest enough. “They have PR people for that.”

“I’m not ‘people.’”

She snorts. “Tell me about it.”

There's a lull.

Ellie watches him. Wonders if he knows what he's getting into. If he has any idea who she really is, what she really is.

(He doesn’t. He can’t.)

But maybe he knows enough to keep asking. Enough to come back.

Maybe she wants him to.

Somewhere behind them, the door jingles. Ellie turns just enough to catch sight of a tall man in a dark peacoat, hair graying at the temples, talking softly to the cashier. His voice is low, polite. His posture too polished for a Gothamite.

Damian glances toward the door too, stiffening. Just a second. Barely noticeable. But Ellie catches it.

Family, maybe.

Not close, if the tension means anything.

Interesting.

“I should go soon,” he says abruptly.

Ellie nods, picking at the last of her fries. “Right. Homework. Secret meetings. Mysterious brood routines.”

He stands. “We should do this again.”

The phrasing is casual. The tone isn’t.

Ellie watches him, curious and maybe a little charmed despite herself.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

He walks out without another word, slipping into the night like a shadow that grew legs.

Ellie stares at the door after him, sipping her soda slowly, mind humming.

She knows that look in his eyes. The need to know something. To dig, even if you’re not supposed to. The compulsion to chase ghosts.

Poor boy has no idea.

He’s chasing her.

And maybe she’s letting him.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

Damian pov's

Damian wouldn’t call it a date.

He also wouldn’t not call it a date.

It was somewhere in the nebulous territory between a tactical approach and a social experiment, one that had gotten off track the moment Ellie started laughing over their milkshakes. Or maybe it was before that, when she’d called the onion rings a "religious experience." Or when she didn’t seem to find him standoffish, or intimidating, or – God forbid – boring.

He could admit, privately, that he enjoyed her company. She was... unique. Slightly chaotic, terribly clever, and sharp in a way that didn't feel like a weapon but something closer to mischief. She asked questions he wasn't used to answering. And she didn’t ask the ones he had grown used to deflecting.

It was disarming.

And perhaps that’s why, after walking her halfway back to the dormitory side of the Gotham Academy campus, he hesitated.

They stood in that awkward pocket of time between parting and parting words. Street lamps buzzed overhead, casting a hazy glow over the ivy-covered walls, and Ellie looked up at him with something like curiosity in her eyes.

"Thanks for the burger. And fries. And fried pickles. And the, you know, attempt at a chocolate shake."

"It was supposed to be mint."

"Tragedy."

She grinned and kicked gently at a stray pebble with the toe of her boot. The moment stretched.

Damian cleared his throat.

"We should... do that again sometime."

Ellie blinked. Her brows went up slightly, but her mouth didn't curve into a smirk the way he feared it might.

"Yeah. We should."

And that was that.

By the time Damian got home to the manor, Alfred had already set out an herbal tea. No one questioned the faint clink of ceramic cups or the late return. For all intents and purposes, he was simply out late at the library.

Which was partially true.

Mostly.

Sort of.

His room was the same as ever: immaculate, dimly lit, strategically sparse. Tt. Predictable.

He changed into his nightwear, brushed his teeth, and stared into the mirror for exactly eight seconds longer than necessary. Then he turned off the light and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t think about her.

He didn’t think about how her laughter sounded like it belonged to someone completely unfazed by Gotham’s grime.

He didn’t think about how she said she moved around a lot and always forgot to unpack the last box.

He definitely didn’t think about how she made him feel like he wasn’t constantly on alert.

He was asleep in less than twenty minutes, and if he dreamt of anything, he didn’t remember.

The next morning started like any other.

Training. Tea. Tolerating Drake.

He’d just finished a set of kata in the private gym when he heard the telltale buzz of footsteps approaching.

Not Todd. Too light.

Not Grayson. Not heavy enough.

Cain.

Sure enough, Cassandra Cain appeared in the doorway, towel slung over one shoulder and a water bottle in hand. She tilted her head slightly, reading him without speaking.

He didn’t flinch under her gaze, but he also didn’t meet it directly. Cass didn’t speak often, but she didn’t need to. She always saw more than she let on.

After a long pause, she finally said, "You’re lying."

He lifted a brow. "About what?"

"Your shoulders."

A longer pause.

Damian rolled them, methodical. "They’re fine."

She said nothing, took a long drink from her bottle, and turned to leave.

"Cain."

She paused, glancing back.

"Don’t tell Father."

Her eyes glinted with a kind of dangerous humor.

"Which part?" she asked. "The girl, or the secrets?"

"Both."

She nodded once. That was all the promise he’d get.

He saw Ellie again later that day. Lunch hour, under the pretense of coincidence, which it absolutely wasn’t.

She was sitting under a tree in the courtyard, earbuds in and sketchpad open on her knees. He didn’t think. He just approached.

She didn’t startle when he dropped into the grass beside her.

"Hey," she said, scribbling something that looked vaguely like an amoeba with legs.

"What are you drawing?"

"My interpretation of how math makes me feel."

"It’s screaming."

"Exactly."

He almost smiled.

They sat in easy silence for a moment before she asked, "You ever gonna tell me why you asked me out?"

He blinked. "I didn’t ask you out."

She turned, expression blank. "So, what, the BatBurger trip was a field mission? Were you trying to interrogate me about my favorite dipping sauces?"

Damian winced. "That wasn’t my intention."

She tilted her head. "But you do want something."

She wasn’t accusing. Just curious. That somehow made it worse.

He considered lying. He was good at it. But he also remembered what Cass said.

He looked at his hands.

"I think there’s something off about Vladco."

That got her attention.

She closed the sketchpad. "You mean the multi-billion dollar company whose executives are my legal guardians? That Vladco?"

He ignored the emphasis.

"I think something’s going on. I can’t prove it. Not yet. And I don’t want my family involved. Not until I have more."

Ellie was quiet. Then she said, "So you used me."

The words were heavy. Final.

But then she smiled, shrugging one shoulder. "Cool. Just needed to know. For the record, I totally would've told you if you asked. I mean, not about anything important, but like, Vlad’s favorite color or his weird obsession with fancy pens? Absolutely."

He stared. She was joking. She was letting him off the hook.

And that, somehow, felt worse.

"I apologize."

"Don’t. I get it." She plucked a leaf from the grass, twirled it. "Gotham’s weird. You grow up in it and learn not to trust anybody who has their own jet."

"You have your own jet."

"Touché."

They sat a little longer. She didn't press, and he didn't explain. But something unspoken settled between them, less volatile than it was before.

And when the bell rang and Ellie got up, brushing off her uniform skirt, she asked, "Same time tomorrow?"

He nodded.

Because he wasn’t sure what they were anymore.

But he knew he wanted more of it.

Whatever this was.

Ellie pov's

Ellie didn’t care much for politics.

Which, according to her dad, was a real problem.

Not because she wasn’t smart enough to navigate it. Not because she couldn’t hold her own in a debate with thousand-year-old spirits who thought sarcasm was a war crime. No, it was a problem because politics in the Realms weren’t a thing you could opt out of.

They were stitched into the very fabric of ghost society, woven into the architecture of the Infinite Realms like mold in century-old drywall. There were ancient customs, rival factions, dynastic tensions that predated human civilization, and the ever-looming expectation that Daniel Fantom’s heir—Princess Elhara, as she was known formally—would learn to rule in time.

It wasn’t that Ellie didn’t want to rule.

Okay, no, it was exactly that.

She didn’t want to rule. She didn’t want a crown. She didn’t want to mediate eternal blood feuds between sentient smoke clouds and sentient lava puddles. She didn’t want to learn the difference between the twenty-two recognized forms of ghost etiquette, or what color of ectoplasm was offensive to which cultural sect.

She wanted to live.

To go to high school. To argue with teachers. To eat garbage-tier fast food and maybe kiss a boy who didn’t know she could punch through concrete.

But every few weeks, the Realms reminded her that she was more than Ellie. More than just Danielle Fantom or Masters.

She was Elhara Phantom. And that meant responsibility. And politics

Monday morning in Gotham Academy hit like a thermos blast to the face.

Ellie wasn’t late. She was perfectly on time, had all her homework, hadn’t bitten anyone—yet—and had only floated for half a second while brushing her teeth, which totally didn’t count.

A personal best.

Still, when she rounded the hallway and spotted Damian by the lockers, spine straight and expression sharpened to a scalpel’s edge, she hesitated.

He hadn’t seen her. Not exactly. But she could feel it—the flicker of awareness that only came with years of training and secrets layered beneath a civilian facade. Ellie had known enough vigilantes by now to recognize it.

But Damian wasn’t one. Right? He couldn’t be. He was… something. Something strange. Something close. Like the veil was thinner around him. Like she wasn’t the only liminal walking the halls of Gotham Academy.

Why would a Wayne be like that?

He didn’t turn until she was close enough to smell the faint, expensive soap he always used.

“Morning,” he said, like they hadn’t sat too close at BatBurger, like he hadn’t walked her halfway back to campus and looked at her like he didn’t quite understand what she was.

Ellie grinned. “Hey. Sleep well?”

He tilted his head. “Well enough. You?”

She shrugged. “Had a six-hour treaty conference with sentient lichmoss and a grudge-bearing poltergeist that thinks the Ghost King is too lenient.”

Damian blinked. “…I assume that’s a metaphor.”

Ellie smirked. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

They didn’t speak much after that, but something unspoken had settled in the air between them. A tentative thread. A truce. An understanding.

And Ellie had the distinct, terrifying suspicion that she wanted it to grow.

Later that day, she ducked into her dorm closet, checked that her roommate wasn’t around, and slipped into the Realms.

The shift was immediate. Color bled from the world. Sound stretched. Her body adjusted to the ambient ectoplasm like slipping into a second skin.

She headed straight for the Floating Spire, where her father was waiting with Clockwork and Frostbite, looking entirely too serious.

“Danielle,” Danny said the moment she phased in. His expression softened, just a bit. “How was school?”

She groaned. “Ugh. Fine. Damian suspects Vladco of corporate nonsense. Possibly illegal corporate nonsense.”

Danny’s brow furrowed. “That tracks. Vlad’s been too quiet lately. He hasn’t even tried to sabotage me this fiscal quarter.”

Clockwork coughed politely. “We’ll circle back to that. The Council awaits.”

Danielle barely suppressed a groan. She loved her dad. She respected the Council. She did not love being a political pawn in a system that still thought summoning circles were cutting-edge tech

The Council of Ancients was exactly as insufferable as she expected.

The meeting was held in the Obsidian Hall, a gothic monstrosity shaped like a black thorn wrapped in crystal. The council ghosts floated in a circle of hovering thrones, their forms flickering with age and power.

“Princess Elhara,” boomed the High Scribe, who looked like a collection of books bound together by sheer grumpiness. “There is unrest between the Frostborn and the Crimson Chorus.”

“They’re arguing over border chants,” Ellie muttered. “Again.”

“There have also been complaints about your guardian, the Fright Knight. The banshees of the Hollow claim he disrespected their matriarch.”

“He called her a ‘wailing windbag.’” Ellie sighed. “In his defense, she was screaming.”

Three hours. Three entire hours of posturing, petty squabbling, and the occasional threat of open spectral warfare.

By the time she phased back into the mortal realm, Ellie was practically vibrating with frustration. Her dorm room greeted her like a sanctuary. She collapsed onto her bed without bothering to change.

She stared at the ceiling, one leg dangling off the mattress, and finally grabbed her phone.

> you were right. vladco’s worse than i thought.

Read.

No reply.

That was fine. Damian wasn’t the kind of person who responded quickly. He was probably pacing somewhere, thinking hard, maybe watching the city from a rooftop. Or who knew? Whatever rich kids did when they weren’t making the world a little less predictable.

Ellie tossed the phone aside and buried her face in a pillow.

She didn’t know what this was—this weird, tangled thread between them—but she wasn’t ready to cut it either.

She just hoped he wouldn’t, either.

And tomorrow…

Maybe she’d tell him something true.

Like Daniel Fantom was the heir to Vladco, a fact known to the public and corporate world.

But no one knew Daniel was also Danny Phantom—the Ghost King, the secret ruler of the Infinite Realms.

And Ellie was caught right in the middle.

Not just Danielle Fantom, not just Ellie the teenager.

But Elhara Phantom.

The Ghost Princess.

And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to start facing that truth

Chapter Text

Ellie groaned as she slid down the wall of her dorm room and sprawled flat on the floor, limbs akimbo like a starfish. The pillow she'd been clutching rolled away, abandoning her in silent judgment.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

It was just a date. A study session. A burger-fueled detour with a classmate who’d asked nicely. It wasn’t like she had been expecting fireworks or danger or ghost pirates. She hadn’t even brought her thermos.

And yet…

Ellie pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.

Why did Damian Wayne feel like a secret she should already know?

Why did he taste—feel—read wrong? Not bad. Not even unfamiliar. Just… off. Like he was more than he let on. Like his edges had been cut from something sharp and half-alive. She’d met liminals outside Amity before, sure, but Damian was different.

It was like he’d touched death and then turned around to punch it in the face.

“Why would a Wayne be like that?” Ellie muttered to the ceiling.

The ceiling didn’t respond...

Later that day, after physics and whatever torture counted as cafeteria “lasagna,” Ellie phased into the Realms under the pretense of practicing combat forms.

Instead, she hovered above the green-gold mists of a minor island sector, curling her knees to her chest.

She didn’t want to talk to Dad. Not yet. He would know—he always did, even when she tried to hide it. Something about her aura or the way her ears twitched when she lied. Jazz said it was trauma radar, but Ellie suspected it was just “Dad things.”

She turned her eyes to the sky—fractured glass painted in auroras.

It was easier here, in the Realms, to forget she had to walk around Gotham pretending to be just another prep school girl. Danielle Masters. Heir of Vladco, daughter of a PR-clean genius with a trust fund and a stake in too many patents to count.

That’s who people thought her dad was. Daniel Fantom, rich-kid science wunderkind turned CEO-to-be.

Not Danny Phantom. Not the King of the Infinite Realms. Not the accidental messiah of the ghost zone who could summon god-tier specters with a snap and still got into slap fights with his clone sister over who had to do dishes.

The world knew one version. Only she—and a handful of ghosts, Justice League Dark folks, and the ancient beings watching their dimension like a reality show—knew the truth.

Which was fine. She preferred it that way. Mostly.

But sometimes she wondered if it was fair to build friendships—or more—with people who didn’t know. Like Damian.

Especially Damian.

Because there was something about him.

Not just the liminality, though that made her hairs stand on end like a static charge. But the way he observed. Calculated. Reacted like a soldier, too disciplined for his age, too sharp for his cover story. She’d seen real tacticians in Council meetings. Damian didn’t sit like a student. He sat like a weapon sheathed in uniform and annoyance.

And she liked it. That was the worst part. It made her stomach flutter and her fingers fidget and her mouth say things she didn’t mean to say.

Like when she’d called the date boring.

It wasn’t. Not really. He’d listened. He’d held the door. He’d looked at her like he was trying to piece together a puzzle with too many moving parts.

And maybe she’d said it was boring because she’d felt seen. And that scared the hell out of her.

Back on Earth, Gotham’s evening fog was starting to crawl over the streets like a second skin. Ellie returned to campus just in time to grab a snack and pretend she hadn’t spent half the afternoon trying to parse her own feelings.

Damian was at his locker, reading something in Latin. Of course he was.

“Hey,” she said, tossing him a wrapped protein bar. “You look like you haven’t eaten in four years.”

“I ate this morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “So, four years ago. Got it.”

He raised an eyebrow but pocketed the bar.

They didn’t talk much as they walked. Gotham didn’t really encourage casual conversation, not with the way the gargoyles seemed to watch you from the rooftops and the way every crow sounded like it knew something you didn’t.

But Ellie felt him next to her, the heat of his presence coiled and precise.

She didn’t say anything until they reached the courtyard path that split toward the dorms.

“Hey.”

He stopped.

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

“That date? I didn’t mean it was boring. Not really.”

Silence.

Ellie twisted a strand of hair between her fingers.

“I just… didn’t know what I was expecting. It was nice. But you’re hard to read, and I think I was scared I’d say something wrong.”

“You say many wrong things,” Damian replied dryly. Then, after a pause, “But they are rarely boring.”

Ellie looked up at him, surprised. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something in his eyes. Warmer than usual. Sharper, too.

“I think you’re dangerous,” she blurted.

He tilted his head.

“Not in the ‘gonna stab me’ way,” she clarified quickly. “Well. Maybe that too. But mostly in the ‘this feels like the edge of something I’m gonna fall into’ way.”

Damian stepped closer. The mist gathered at their feet like a ghost eavesdropping.

“Then perhaps,” he said quietly, “you should stop standing so close to the edge.”

Ellie’s heart skipped. Not a ghost trick. Not ectoplasm. Just her.

She blinked, and he was already a few steps away, heading toward the wrought iron gates.

“Hey,” she called, voice soft.

He paused again, half turned in the lamplight. His silhouette sharp against the creeping fog.

“You don’t live on campus, do you?”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “No.”

She nodded slowly, something in her chest tightening without explanation.

“Wayne Manor?”

He gave a small incline of his head. “You already knew that.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s nice to hear it from you.”

And he walked off, his coat catching the wind just slightly, like a cape.

Ellie stood there for a while, staring after him until the fog swallowed the path.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself smile like a teenager with a crush...Just a little.

Damian could still feel her fingers in his mind.

Not her actual fingers, obviously. She hadn’t touched him. Not really. But Ellie—Danielle Masters, whatever name she wore that day—had a way of leaving traces behind. Like she carved out space where there shouldn’t have been any. A ripple in a pool that should have remained still.

He’d told her not to stand close to the edge. He should have listened to himself.

But Damian Wayne had never been good at following advice—even when it was his own.

The Batcave was cold, cathedral-like in its silence. Alfred had made tea, but it sat untouched on a tray beside the main console. Damian had intended to review the city grid, scan for repeat activity from Freeze or any of Penguin’s old guard, maybe run an analysis on the new criminal pattern near The Narrows.

Instead, he had pulled up the footage of Gotham Academy’s courtyard.

No audio. Just a flicker of movement. Two figures.

Himself, standing beside Ellie.

She said something. He could tell by the way her mouth moved, quick and hesitant. Her eyes darted sideways, lips twitching like she wasn’t sure if she was confessing or deflecting. Then she looked at him, and something in her expression punched straight through the armor he wasn’t even wearing.

She was terrified. Not of him, not of Gotham, not even of being targeted as VladCo's heir.

She was terrified of being vulnerable.

He understood that. Deeply. Profoundly.

So why did she keep pushing anyway?

And why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

At breakfast the next day, Alfred said nothing. But the newspaper folded precisely by his plate was telling. The headline was some fluff piece about VladCo’s rising political stock, the heir’s mysterious daughter now a public darling. Ellie in a blazer, half-smile guarded but curious.

Her eyes weren’t smiling.

“Subtle,” Damian muttered, sipping his tea.

“One does what one can,” Alfred replied mildly.

Damian folded the paper shut.

The day passed slowly. Patrol that night was uneventful; Red Hood had claimed Blüdhaven for the evening and Nightwing was off-world with the Titans. Batman remained in the Manor, knee-deep in a cold case involving the Court of Owls. Damian considered visiting the school again, under the pretense of checking security.

He didn’t.

Instead, he ran drills until his muscles screamed and the floor was slick with sweat. But even as he trained, his mind wandered. To her smile. To the way she leaned toward him during their study session, notebook scribbled full of equations that made her glow with enthusiasm. To the way she said cryogenics like it was poetry.

To the way her eyes sparkled when she was about to lie.

Damian knew infatuation. He was sixteen, not delusional. Hormones were traitorous, and yes, Ellie Masters was objectively attractive. But it was more than that. It was the way she always seemed like she was fighting something invisible. The way she moved like she could shatter the floor or float above it, depending on her mood. The way she was smart without needing to prove it. Honest in that blunt, sharp kind of way that cut deeper than most threats he’d faced.

She confused him. And Damian Wayne hated being confused.

She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t a mystery he could file away neatly in his mind. She was a variable, and worst of all, she made him want things he had learned long ago not to want.

Closeness.

Connection.

Warmth.

That was dangerous. He knew better. He’d trained all his life to know better. Relationships were liabilities. Emotions were weaknesses. Attachment was the chisel villains used to carve holes into your armor.

But Ellie had never asked him for anything.

She just looked at him like he was real.

And when she said he made her feel like she was falling—

Well.

He wanted to fall with her.

That evening, Damian stood on the edge of Wayne Manor’s garden balcony, moonlight cutting silver over the hedges and paths below. The Gotham skyline glowed in the distance like a city on the verge of sleep, still twitching with dreams.

He thought of calling her. Messaging. Something.

But what would he say?

"I don’t think you’re boring. I think you’re terrifying. And brilliant. And maybe the only person I’ve ever met who makes me want to stop pretending I’m not made of knives."

That would go well.

Instead, he waited. In the quiet. In the moonlight. Hoping that maybe, in some strange way, she was thinking of him too.

Not as Damian Wayne.

Not as just another Gotham student.

But as the boy who asked too many questions. And wanted her anyway.

Chapter Text

It started with a text.

[Ellie] You still owe me coffee. Unless your idea of paying someone back is leaving them hanging after a date.

[Damian] I offered to walk you to your dorm. You refused.

[Ellie] I refused because you walk like you're going to interrogate the sidewalk. But coffee. Yes or no?

[Damian] ...Yes. Pick a time.

Ellie picked a small place near campus. Not the fancy café Damian was expecting, but a narrow shop wedged between a used bookstore and a dry cleaner. Inside, the furniture didn’t match, the bell above the door sounded like it had a smoker’s cough, and the air smelled like cinnamon, espresso, and ancient wood polish.

Damian arrived exactly on time. Ellie was already there, sitting cross-legged in a too-big armchair with her phone in one hand and a latte in the other.

She wore black jeans and a red hoodie faded with too many washes. Her hair was twisted up in a clip, a few strands escaping around her face. She looked up when he entered and smirked.

“You're two minutes early. You okay?”

Damian sat in the chair opposite her, spine straight. “I’m always on time.”

“You say that like it’s a threat.”

“It usually is.”

She snorted into her drink.

He ordered jasmine tea. The barista gave him a judgmental look for not choosing something with a double-shot. He ignored her.

“So,” Ellie said, eyes gleaming. “Date rules. You have to tell me something personal. I already know you're rich and intense. Give me something I couldn’t learn from watching a business interview.”

Damian sipped his tea. “I own eight katanas.”

Ellie blinked. “...Okay. That’s hot.”

“I name them.”

“That’s hotter. Are they color-coded?”

“One is. It’s ceremonial.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do you have one on you now?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You do. That’s so illegal. Is that why you walk like you're constantly expecting a duel in the parking lot?”

He allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “I’m trained to expect conflict.”

“Yeah, I got that memo when you analyzed the soup schedule in the dining hall for weaknesses.”

“The miso rotation lacks logic.”

“It’s soup. It doesn’t need logic.”

Conversation bloomed—organic, sharp, and easy. They talked about fencing and board games, about the flaws in Gotham’s architecture and whether or not coffee shops were just an elaborate scheme for people to pretend they liked each other over $7 cups.

When the drinks were finished, the table cleared, and the sun dipped behind the skyline, neither of them made a move to leave.

“Why me?” Ellie asked, toying with her empty cup.

Damian looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“You could date anyone. Or not date at all. You don’t seem like the type to indulge in this kind of thing without reason. So, why did you say yes?”

He studied her, quiet for a beat. “Because you’re not afraid of me.”

Ellie blinked. “You say that like most people are.”

“They are.”

“I’m not.”

“I noticed.”

Her smile came slowly. “You’re also not afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

Ellie leaned forward again. “Good.”

Damian didn't think. He didn't weigh it, measure it, dissect it like he normally did with everything. He just moved. Closed the space.

The kiss was soft. Gentle in the way firelight is—warm, flickering, quietly dangerous. Her hand brushed his jaw. He tilted his head, pressing in with more intent. Her lips parted slightly in response.

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t desperate. But it was charged.

When they broke apart, she watched him with hooded eyes.

“That was…”

“Unwise,” he offered.

She grinned. “But fun.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Wanna come back to my place?” she asked, almost flippantly.

He blinked. “To…?”

“To study,” she said innocently. “What else would two nerds with an interest in cryogenics and Japanese swordsmithing do together?”

Damian knew better than to believe her tone.

Still, he followed.

Ellie’s dorm room was warm and cluttered. There were notes on the walls, sketches of engines and spectral maps, an entire corkboard of scribbled equations and sticky notes.

Her desk was a disaster. Her bed was covered in two different textbooks, a notebook, and a lopsided pile of hoodies.

“You live like a mad scientist,” Damian noted, setting his tea on the windowsill.

“I prefer the term ‘creative intellectual under siege.’”

“You’re an heir to one of the most powerful tech conglomerates on the eastern seaboard.”

Ellie shrugged. “And you—well, you’re still kind of a mystery.”

She stepped closer, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “But maybe we get to pick this.”

Damian’s breath hitched.

He didn’t move when her fingers grazed the back of his neck, when her lips touched his again—less tentative, more certain. There was no rush, but there was depth. A pull.

She tugged him closer, hands at his collar. He let her. Let himself get swept up in the warmth of her, in the press of mouths and the way she murmured his name like it tasted good.

It didn’t go far. There were lines. Boundaries neither of them quite crossed. But it was messy, sweet, heated—his hand on her back, hers tangled in his shirt.

When they finally stopped, forehead to forehead, Damian exhaled like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“You’re going to complicate things,” he said.

Ellie smiled against his cheek. “I already have.”

He left not long after that—no staying the night, no misunderstandings. He didn’t live in the dorms, and the Bat-schedule waited for no one. Still, he lingered in her doorway longer than necessary, watching her in the soft light of her room.

She stood barefoot, one hoodie sleeve tugged over her hand, expression a mixture of mischief and something more careful, more unsure. A mirror of what stirred inside him.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said.

“You will,” he promised, voice quieter than usual.

And he meant it.

Damian didn’t sleep well.

Not from nightmares or training aches, but from the way her lips had tasted—cinnamon, coffee, a hint of something warm and elusive that clung to his senses like a stubborn echo. The memory tangled with every quiet moment, making it impossible to think clearly, impossible to focus.

Three days later, they crossed paths again at a WayneTech convention—a buzzing hub of students and interns vying for every scrap of innovation. Damian spotted her voice before he saw her, cutting sharply through a crowd debating some flawed circuit design.

“You’ll fry the board if you don’t factor in thermal compression,” Ellie said, folding her arms over a faded NASA tee under a worn VladCo jacket. Her boots thudded confidently as she leaned in, eyes bright with mischief and challenge. “What you need is a modulated feedback loop, not brute-force power.”

Damian stopped dead in the hallway, watching. She looked like a storm barely contained—bright, fierce, unbothered by the suits around her. And, to his own quiet frustration, radiant.

Her gaze caught his after a moment, sharp and amused.

“Well, Wayne.”

“Masters,” he replied smoothly, voice steady despite the flicker in his chest.

“Didn’t know nepotism extended to tech expos.”

“I didn’t know junior researchers were allowed to bully undergrads.”

“Mentoring,” she corrected, stepping closer.

The hallway wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t private either. Yet, she tilted her head, scanning him as if weighing something just beneath the surface.

“You clean up better than I expected,” she teased, eyes flickering down his tie. “I thought you only owned black hoodies.”

“A public image to maintain,” he said, tone dry.

“Oh, right. Gotham’s most eligible emotionally unavailable.”

“You forgot dangerously competent.”

“And morally ambiguous.”

Their eyes locked for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. A silent duel, full of unspoken wagers.

Then, offhand, she said, “There’s a restricted demo in Lab B tonight. Invite only. Think you can sneak in without blowing your cover?”

“Are you inviting me?”

She smirked. “I’m daring you.”

He didn’t smile, but something shifted inside him—dangerous, thrilling.

“What time?”

Later, the lab was dim, lit by the soft pulse of monitors and blinking standby lights. Damian slipped inside with quiet confidence—no need to bluff past security when you’ve written half the protocols yourself.

Ellie crouched beside an open diagnostic panel, fingers tracing over controls with practiced ease.

“That was quick,” she said without looking up.

“I’m efficient.”

“And smug.”

He crouched beside her. “What’s this?”

“A prototype dimensional stabilizer. Still theoretical. VladCo wanted to show off.”

“Safe?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why are we alone with it?”

“Because I wanted to impress you.”

The silence between them grew heavier.

Before he could answer, a voice cut through—sharp, familiar.

“Hey! What are you two doing here?”

Red Robin stepped into the light, dark gear blending into the shadows. He didn’t look at Damian with any recognition.

Behind him, a rogue slipped in, blade gleaming.

Damian moved instantly, instinct taking over.

The rogue lunged, but Ellie was already in motion—fluid, precise, a whirlwind of martial arts strikes. No ectoplasm, no ghostly glow. Just trained skill and raw agility.

Damian blocked a blade with a well-aimed kick, sending the attacker reeling.

Red Robin spun into the fight, escrima sticks flashing as he pushed the rogue back toward the exit.

Ellie’s strikes were ruthless, swift, forcing the rogue to retreat into the shadows.

Then, in a final desperate move, the rogue lunged at Damian. He dodged but lost footing, stumbling backward.

Ellie reached out to steady him, but the floor beneath them gave way—a trapdoor sliding open near the stabilizer pit.

Damian fell hard, arms bracing against the cold edge. Ellie landed beside him, steady and composed.

Red Robin scanned the room, but the rogue was gone.

Damian glanced at Ellie, taking in the absence of anything supernatural—no glowing aura, no flicker of light. Just the sharp gleam of a warrior’s eyes.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Never better,” she said, voice calm.

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering a moment too long.

“I’m starting to think you’re full of surprises.”

She smiled—a little secret hiding there.

“Maybe,” she said softly.

The moment stretched between them, electric and fragile, as the city outside kept turning, unaware.

Neither willing to let go.

Damian didn’t sleep well. Again.

His mind replayed the moments over and over—the taste of Ellie’s lips, warm and sharp with cinnamon and coffee; the way her eyes had held his with a mix of challenge and something softer, almost vulnerable. It was maddening, like trying to hold smoke in his hands.

He stood by the window of Wayne Manor’s study, watching the rain trace lazy patterns down the glass. Gotham looked cold, even beneath its usual smog and flickering neon. He should’ve been thinking about patrols, security protocols, training—but instead, Ellie’s voice echoed in his head.

“I like you. And I didn’t plan on that.”

Damian exhaled slowly and turned away from the window. The weight of the secret he carried pressed on him heavier than any armor.

Footsteps approached quietly behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Hey, grump,” Tim Drake said with a teasing grin, leaning against the doorway with his signature casual ease.

Damian scowled. “Drake. I don’t have time for your games.”

“Oh, come on, Damian. I know what’s going on.” Tim’s smile widened. “You’re distracted, late to training, and you even missed dinner last night. Not like you.”

Damian crossed his arms. “If you mean ‘distracted’ by nonsense, then yes, I’m guilty.”

“Is it really nonsense?” Tim said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I heard you were seen with someone... someone from the upper echelon of Gotham society.”

Damian blinked. “That’s quite the rumor.”

Tim’s smirk turned mischievous. “Ellie Masters. Heard of her?”

Damian’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t deny it. “I prefer to keep my personal affairs private.”

“Right, because dating one of Gotham’s tech elite is so discreet.” Tim raised his eyebrows, clearly enjoying himself.

Damian scowled deeper, but a flicker of something like amusement crossed his face. “Unlike you, I don’t parade my social life.”

“Fair enough,” Tim said, moving to sit on the edge of the desk. “But seriously, Damian, she’s not exactly just ‘some girl.’ She’s smart, skilled, and yeah, a little dangerous in ways that don’t come with a Bat-logo.”

Damian clenched his fists. “I don’t need your approval.”

Tim raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not here to judge. Just saying—maybe don’t hide everything. You might be surprised who has your back.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “And you expect me to trust you?”

Tim shrugged, his teasing grin softening to something more genuine. “I’m family. You don’t get to shut me out.”

The word family hung heavy between them, charged with all the history and conflict they shared.

Damian paced a few steps, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple. You don’t know what’s at stake.”

“Try me,” Tim challenged.

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he exhaled and finally let some of his guard down.

“She’s not just a girl,” he said quietly. “Ellie’s something... different. I can’t explain it yet, not fully. But there’s something about her—her strength, her fire—that I can’t ignore.”

Tim nodded slowly, eyes sharp. “Sounds like you want her.”

Damian swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

Damian smirked despite himself.

There was a pause, then Tim stood, stretching his arms.

“So, what now?”

Damian looked him dead in the eyes. “We train. Together.”

Tim gave a mock bow. “My pleasure, little brother.”

As Tim headed out, Damian’s thoughts drifted back to Ellie—her fierce independence, the way she challenged him without fear, the secrets she kept beneath her calm exterior.

He couldn’t stop wondering: How long before she finds out who I really am?

And more importantly, how long before I lose control?

The training room was dimly lit—Wayne Manor’s sparring hall always was. Damian liked it that way. Shadows taught discipline. You couldn’t cheat in the dark.

Tim already stood in the center mat, stretching. His posture was annoyingly relaxed, but Damian knew better. Drake wasn’t lazy—he was deceptive.

“Took your time,” Tim said as Damian pulled off his overshirt, revealing a fitted black training tee.

“I was being polite. Thought you might need to warm up your joints,” Damian said smoothly.

“Oh, so it’s that kind of training day,” Tim replied, already moving into stance.

They fell into rhythm with practiced ease: feints, dodges, strikes. Damian struck with precision, Tim countered with clever unpredictability. No words passed between them, but something unspoken did: mutual understanding, mutual irritation, a thread of kinship tangled up in competition.

After twenty minutes of hard sparring, Tim finally broke the silence with a huff of breath.

“So. You like her.”

Damian didn’t answer. He struck harder.

Tim blocked, grinned, and ducked under the next blow. “I mean, I get it. She’s pretty. Smart. Totally out of your league, obviously.”

“Your face is about to be out of alignment.”

“Romantic,” Tim said, deflecting with a half-turn. “Truly swoon-worthy.”

Damian caught his leg, twisted—and then paused. Someone else was in the room.

He dropped Tim mid-throw and turned toward the shadows.

“Cass,” he said without looking.

She was already sitting cross-legged on the edge of the mat, quiet as a whisper.

Cassandra Cain—Batgirl, assassin, ghost among ghosts—gave a small wave.

“How long have you been here?” Tim groaned from the floor.

Cass raised two fingers. “Minutes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Damian asked.

She tilted her head. “You needed to move your body.”

“You are the most unnerving person I know,” Tim muttered, rubbing his shoulder.

Cass ignored him and looked directly at Damian.

“Your heart,” she said softly.

Damian frowned. “What about it?”

“It skips,” she replied. “When you think of her.”

Tim snorted. “She doesn’t even talk and she still roasts you.”

Damian’s face twitched, but he didn’t rise to it.

Cass stood slowly, graceful as a ghost, and padded over to them.

“She’s good,” she said. “Fast. Holds back.”

Damian blinked. “You’ve watched her.”

Cass nodded once. “She’s holding secrets. Not the kind that hurt. The kind that weigh.”

Damian felt something cold settle in his stomach. “You don’t think she’s dangerous?”

Cass gave a small shrug. “She could be. So could I.”

Tim folded his arms, smirking. “Honestly, that’s the most approval Cass has given anyone I’ve seen you date.”

“I’ve never dated anyone before,” Damian muttered.

“Exactly,” Tim said, eyes gleaming. “Which means I win and I’m right.”

“Your obsession with being right is exhausting.”

Cass reached out suddenly, touching two fingers to Damian’s chest.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” she said simply.

And then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows the way only she could.

Tim whistled low. “She really is the most dramatic member of this family.”

Damian stood still, her words echoing louder than they should have.

Don’t lie to yourself.

Damian sat alone in the manor garden an hour later, the drizzle from earlier fading into a soft mist. The cherry trees were still, leaves heavy with dew, and the silence felt like a blanket wrapped around the chaos of his mind.

He thought of Ellie—Ellie with her hands in a circuit board, Ellie laughing in the ghost-lit dark, Ellie looking at him like he was more than a weapon.

He had never let himself want anything. Not really. Not this way.

Now he wasn’t sure how to stop.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out reluctantly, already knowing who it was.

Ellie: “Movie night, remember? Or are you gonna brood me into thinking you ghosted me for real?”

He let out a breath. Then he typed:

Damian: “Ten minutes. Don’t start without me.”

He stared at the message for one heartbeat longer before hitting send.

Then he stood up, shoulders square, and headed toward the garage.

Chapter Text

It started with a text.

[Ellie] You promised movie night. I have snacks and questionable taste. Bring yourself and whatever your face does when it’s not judging society.

[Damian] I’ll be there at 8. I’m not watching anything with sharks.

[Ellie] No promises.

 

Ellie’s dorm room was dim when he arrived—lamplight soft, windows cracked to let in Gotham’s ever-present mist. She’d cleared her desk of ecto-notes and murder equations, shoved half the hoodies to one side of the bed, and made a dramatic pile of junk food in the center.

Damian stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “You’re serious about this.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” Ellie replied, tossing him a blanket like it was a challenge.

He caught it, narrowed his eyes. “Is this supposed to be comforting?”

“No, it’s supposed to be cozy. Big difference.”

Damian raised an eyebrow but sat beside her on the bed, posture perfect even when surrounded by chaos. Ellie didn’t mention it. She didn’t have to. He shifted an inch closer when the movie started.

Something black and white, grainy, dramatic. She’d called it a “cult classic.” He didn’t ask which cult.

Twenty minutes in, she handed him a bowl of popcorn.

He stared at it. “What’s on this?”

“Salt, chili powder, a little lime. Trust me.”

He didn’t. But he ate it anyway.

Halfway through the movie, Ellie threw a kernel at the screen.

“This man has never seen a real vampire,” she muttered. “You can tell by the way he holds that stake. Like it’s a novelty pencil.”

Damian glanced sideways. “Have you seen a real vampire?”

Ellie paused. “That’s not a ‘first movie’ kind of question.”

“I don’t believe in pacing.”

“No kidding.”

She smirked, then leaned back, shoulder brushing his just slightly. Not enough to cross a line. Just enough to be felt.

They didn’t speak for a while. The movie played on—melodramatic and slow—but the quiet wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Then Ellie asked, voice soft, “You ever want to just... be normal?”

Damian didn’t answer right away. He watched the flicker of shadows across the ceiling. The quiet rumble of rain against the window. Her fingers, curled loosely in the hem of her hoodie.

“I don’t think I’d know how,” he said finally.

Ellie nodded, like she expected that. “Yeah. Me neither.”

She didn’t push.

He didn’t pull away.

The credits rolled. Neither moved to get up.

“You’re staying for the next one,” Ellie said.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“It wasn’t.”

Damian adjusted the blanket around his shoulders like armor, then settled deeper into the mattress. “Fine. But no sharks.”

Ellie grinned. “Fine. Vampires and kung fu it is.”

They didn’t call it a date. They didn’t have to.

Not yet.

The movie ended with a dramatic, unnecessary explosion and at least two plot holes Ellie could’ve driven a bus through. She didn’t care. She loved it anyway.

Damian, predictably, looked unimpressed.

“That building was made of concrete and bad decisions,” he said.

Ellie stretched her legs out across the bed, bumping his knee with her foot. “Oh no. Did realism get in the way of your cinematic experience?”

He gave her a look. “There wasn’t even a blast radius.”

Ellie grinned and reached for another handful of popcorn. “It’s called suspension of disbelief. Try it sometime.”

He didn’t respond, but the set of his shoulders shifted—subtle, just enough to signal that he wasn’t quite finished with this conversation.

Sure enough: “I need to ask you something.”

“Can I veto it if it’s annoying?”

“No.”

She sighed and flopped backward on the pillows. “Of course not. Go on, Batman.”

Damian didn’t take the bait. His tone was measured. Careful. “What exactly does VladCo want with frequency disruption technology?”

Ellie’s grin faded.

There it was.

“I figured we’d get here eventually,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ve been patient.”

“Annoyingly so.”

She glanced at him, dry amusement in her voice. “Would a kiss distract you enough to drop it?”

Damian didn’t flinch. But something in the air changed. His eyes met hers, calm and direct.

“No.”

Ellie raised a brow. “Didn’t think so. Worth a shot.”

A beat passed.

“It would distract me,” he added.

She blinked, surprised. Not by the answer—but by the fact that he admitted it.

The space between them shifted—quieter, more charged. But Ellie didn’t push.

Instead, she sat up, cross-legged now, facing him fully. Her voice stayed light, but her eyes didn’t.

“I don’t work for VladCo,” she said. “I’m not on the payroll. I don’t sit in on board meetings or get briefed before launch cycles. I don’t know what half of what they build actually ends up doing.”

“But you know enough to be worried.”

Ellie nodded. “Yeah. I know enough.”

Damian didn’t interrupt. He waited.

“I think Vlad’s doing what he’s always done,” she said after a moment. “Chasing power. Control. He funds things he shouldn’t. And he’s smart enough to stay two steps ahead of whatever rules are supposed to keep people like him in check.”

“And your father?”

Her voice softened, but her jaw tensed. “Danny’s different. He tries to fix things. Even when he’s in too deep.”

There was something unspoken there. Damian noticed, but didn’t pry.

“And you?” he asked.

Ellie shrugged. “I’m not sure where I fall in all of it. Yet.”

Silence stretched between them—tense, but not hostile. More like weight settling into a room. Like gravity.

Ellie stared down at the blanket bunched around her lap, then said, quietly, “You know what actually bothers me more than VladCo?”

Damian tilted his head, listening.

“The Anti-Ecto Acts,” she said. “They stayed in place for almost a decade. Hidden behind military jargon and private contracts. No oversight. No accountability. And nobody cared until it got too loud to ignore.”

“I read the hearings,” Damian said. “No one wanted to admit they existed.”

“Because it’s easier to deny the damage than to explain it,” Ellie murmured. “It’s easier to pretend the people affected don’t exist.”

“You knew someone who was?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then: “Not directly. But... I understand what it’s like to be labeled dangerous for existing.”

That landed heavier than it sounded. Not a secret—just a scar she didn’t mind letting show.

“You think people like me wouldn’t have helped,” Damian said after a moment.

Ellie looked over, meeting his eyes. “No. I think people like you wouldn’t have noticed.”

He didn’t argue.

He just watched her.

Then, after a breath, said: “I’m noticing now.”

She held his gaze. “Good.”

Then she nudged his leg with hers. “Now pick another movie. Something with aliens. No explosions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a narrow request.”

Ellie smirked. “So get creative, detective.”

Damian took the remote and clicked through the options. She leaned back into the pillows again, this time a little closer to his side.

They didn’t touch.

But they didn’t move away, either.

1:32 a.m.

Wayne Manor was quiet.

Which was rare.

Damian stood in the Batcave, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the projected schematics floating in the air above the terminal. Data scrolled slowly across the screen—VladCo patents, flagged shipments, names half-scrubbed from legal filings. Ghost language wasn’t in any official database, but certain symbols repeated. Frequency patterns. Temperature variables. Phase bleed.

He didn’t blink.

Alfred’s voice, mild and measured, came from behind him.

“You’re supposed to be asleep, Master Damian.”

“I don’t sleep much,” Damian said, not turning.

“I’m aware. However, brooding in the dark while cross-referencing thermodynamic patterns is not a substitute for REM cycles.”

Damian stayed quiet.

Alfred waited.

Then: “Is this about the girl?”

Damian’s fingers froze above the keys.

“No,” he said immediately.

Alfred hummed. “Of course not. Merely a coincidence that your research coincides precisely with the activities of Miss Masters’ extended family.”

Damian didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t deny it again, either.

Instead, he said, “She’s hiding something.”

“She’s a teenager. That is hardly a crime.”

“It’s more than that.”

“And yet,” Alfred continued, “you returned from movie night with no injuries, no newly declared enemies, and—if Master Tim is to be believed—a distinct improvement in your mood.”

Damian scowled. “Drake monitors my mood?”

“Only when you’re impossible to deal with.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“Then perhaps you’ve become slightly less so,” Alfred said, patting his shoulder and walking past.

Damian stared at the screen a moment longer, then, quietly:

“She’s smart. Skilled. A little reckless. But she’s not dangerous. Not like Vlad.”

“No,” Alfred agreed, without hesitation. “She’s something else entirely.”

2:03 a.m.

[Messages – Jazz 🧠]

[Ellie]: sooooo hypothetically

[Ellie]: if someone almost kissed a friend to get out of a question

[Ellie]: and then actually wanted to

[Ellie]: what’s the legal and/or emotional fallout for that

[Jazz]: oh my GOD

[Jazz]: YOU LIKE HIM

[Jazz]: ellie

[Jazz]: ELLIE YOU LIKE HIM

[Ellie]: shut up

[Ellie]: i’m spiraling

[Jazz]: tell me you kissed him

[Ellie]: no

[Jazz]: tell me he kissed you

[Ellie]: no

[Jazz]: tell me SOMEONE kissed SOMEONE or i’m calling Danny at 3am

[Ellie]: emotional intimacy is its own reward??

[Jazz]: that is NOT how that phrase works

[Ellie]: okay but he listened

[Ellie]: like actually listened

[Ellie]: and not in a “you’re cute when you’re mad” way

[Ellie]: in a “I might set the world on fire for you if you asked” kind of way

[Jazz]: oh no

[Jazz]: you’re doomed

[Jazz]: tell me everything

Ellie stared at her phone, face burning, but the smile tugging at her lips wouldn’t leave. She set it down and rolled onto her back.

The room was dark again. Quiet. Still warm with the memory of his presence—his stupid perfect posture, his unfairly steady voice, the way his eyes softened for half a second when she called him out.

She wasn’t in love.

Yet.

Probably.

Maybe.

Hell.

9:41 a.m.

Gotham Academy

Damian arrived exactly on time to class.

Ellie was already there—hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, pencil spinning lazily between her fingers. She didn’t look up when he slid into the desk beside her.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

But her foot tapped gently against his under the desk.

Once.

Twice.

A silent question.

He tapped back.

Answer received.

After School

She caught him at the edge of the quad, near the trees, where no one would hear.

“Walk with me,” Ellie said.

He did.

They didn’t talk for the first two minutes. Just walked through the campus gardens, quiet but not awkward.

Then:

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I didn’t trust you,” she said.

Damian glanced over. “You didn’t.”

Ellie frowned. “I kind of did.”

“You’re allowed to be careful,” he said. “That’s not a weakness.”

“I’m used to people treating it like one.”

“They’re wrong.”

She looked at him. Really looked. “You’re different when you’re not trying to be right all the time.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a compliment.”

She smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

Later That Night

Wayne Manor – Batcave

Tim dropped a folder on the table beside Damian.

“VladCo just picked up another lab in Metropolis. Quiet sale. No fanfare.”

Damian flipped through it. “Same signature as the last two?”

“Close enough.”

Tim crossed his arms, watching him. “You really think this is about her?”

Damian didn’t answer.

Tim pressed. “You’re not seriously considering dragging her into an investigation. She’s not a suspect.”

“No,” Damian said. “But she’s a variable.”

Tim hesitated. “A dangerous one?”

Damian’s jaw clenched. “An important one.”

Tim looked at him for a long beat. Then nodded. “Alright. I’ll back off.”

Damian didn’t say thank you. But he didn’t argue, either.

Ellie’s Dorm

Later that night

She sat at her desk, headphones around her neck, a blank note open on her tablet. She hadn’t written anything down yet.

The page stared back at her.

She started typing:

> Things I’m not saying:

> 1. I like the way he watches me when he thinks I won’t notice.

> 2. I think I could fall for him if I’m not careful.

> 3. I’m not sure I want to be careful.

She stared at it.

Then deleted the whole thing.

Instead, she grabbed her phone.

[Ellie]: hey

[Ellie]: tomorrow night

[Ellie]: rooftop?

[Ellie]: I’ll bring the tea if you bring the dangerous charm

His reply came two minutes later.

[Damian]: I never leave home without it.

Ellie closed her eyes.

Smiled.

And finally, let herself sleep.

The next day 

The rooftop was quiet—the kind of quiet that made Ellie want to fidget, but she resisted. The thermos between her knees was still warm, the jasmine tea inside steeped to perfection, just how Damian liked it. (She'd learned that after their third not-date. Not that she was keeping track. And definitely not that she'd spent twenty minutes agonizing over the right steeping time.)  

The scrape of boots on gravel announced his arrival.  

"You're late," she said, not turning.  

"I'm on time," Damian countered, stepping up beside her.  

"By whose watch?"  

"Mine."  

Ellie finally glanced at him. He was in dark jeans and a fitted black jacket that probably cost more than her entire semester's tuition. His hair was slightly windswept, like he'd taken the long way here—maybe even the rooftop way, not that she'd ever accuse him of that. His sharp green eyes flicked over her before settling on the thermos.  

"You remembered," he said.  

"I pay attention." She handed it over. "Mostly to the way you glare when people call jasmine tea 'just flower water.'"  

Damian took a sip, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. "It's not flower water. It's—"  

"Correct, yeah, yeah." Ellie grinned and turned back to the skyline. "Sure, tea snob."  

For a while, they just sat there, passing the thermos between them, the floral scent of jasmine mixing with Gotham's night air. The silence was comfortable in a way that still surprised her.  

Then Ellie sighed. "You're still hung up on VladCo, aren't you?"  

Damian didn't deny it. "Their energy research doesn't add up. The math is wrong."  

Ellie snorted. "Wow. You actually read their white papers. That's... kind of sad."  

"I have standards."  

"Yeah, nerd standards." She nudged him with her elbow. "Look, if you're that obsessed, just hack their servers like a normal person."  

Damian gave her a look.  

Ellie grinned. "Oh, right. You already did. And?"  

"And," he said slowly, swirling the tea in its cup, "the files are either encrypted beyond standard decryption—"  

"Standard decryption?"  

"—or they don't exist in any system I can access."  

Ellie whistled. "So Gramps does still know how to cover his tracks."  

Damian's eyes narrowed. "You're not surprised."  

She shrugged. "Vlad's paranoid. Always has been. Doesn't mean he's evil. Just means he's got... hobbies."  

"Hobbies."  

"Weird hobbies."  

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose—the closest he got to a laugh when he was pretending to be annoyed. Ellie counted it as a win.  

Then he said, "I'm going to find out what he's doing."  

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Of course you are."  

"You could just tell me."  

"Nope." She popped the p, grinning when his frown deepened. "But hey, if you do figure it out? Let me know. I've got bets riding on how long it takes you."  

The jasmine tea inside had been steeped exactly three minutes—Damian's preferred time—and now cooled untouched between them.  

"You're tense," she observed.  

"You're evasive," 

Ellie finally turned her head. Moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the way his jaw tightened when he was holding back questions. She passed the thermos. "Drink. Before it gets bitter."  

Damian accepted it but didn't drink. His gaze burned into her profile. "Why does VladCo need a private subway tunnel?"  

The directness startled her. Ellie forced a laugh. "Rich people love secret tunnels. You should know."  

"Ellie."  

Her name in his voice—low, insistent—sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. She focused on the skyline. "Why do you care so much?"  

"Because the energy signatures match nothing in WayneTech's databases." His fingers tightened around the thermos. "Because three of his researchers disappeared last month. Because you—" He cut himself off.  

Ellie went very still. "I what?"  

Damian set the thermos down with deliberate care. "You flinch every time someone mentions the word 'ectoplasm.'"  

The night air turned to ice in her lungs.  

A beat. Two. Somewhere below, a police siren wailed.  

Ellie forced a smirk. "Maybe I just hate Ghostbusters."  

"Try again."  

The challenge hung between them, sharp as the katana she knew he carried. Ellie's pulse thundered in her ears. This was dangerous ground—for both of them.  

She turned to face him fully. "What exactly are you accusing me of, Wayne?"  

Damian leaned in. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. Close enough to kiss.  

"Nothing," he murmured. "Yet."  

Gotham Clocktower – 2:17 AM  

Barbara Gordon’s fingers paused over the keyboard as the rooftop camera feed refocused. The image sharpened—Damian Wayne, in dark civilian clothes, sitting beside a girl with jet-black hair that caught the moonlight like spilled ink. Ellie Masters. Barbara’s facial recognition software had pinged her identity within seconds of the feed going live, but the details beyond that were... interesting.  

A new window popped up—Jason Todd’s encrypted line. His voice crackled through, amused: “You seeing this?”  

Barbara adjusted her headset. “Seeing and archiving.”  

On-screen, Damian handed Ellie a thermos—jasmine tea, if Barbara’s research was correct—and Ellie took it with a smirk, her fingers brushing his just a second too long to be accidental.  

Jason whistled. “Demon Brat’s got a type.”  

Barbara hummed, zooming in. “Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp tongue, and a body language profile that reads highly trained? Yeah, I’d say so.”  

Ellie said something that made Damian’s jaw tighten—but not in the usual I-will-end-you way. More like you-are-insufferable-and-I-can’t-believe-I-like-it.  

Jason snorted. “She’s messing with him.”  

“And he’s letting her,” Barbara noted, fascinated.  

A beat of silence. Then Jason’s tone shifted. “Wait. Rewind five seconds. Her sleeve.”  

Barbara tapped a key. The footage rolled back, freezing as Ellie reached for the thermos. Her hoodie sleeve slipped just enough to reveal a thin, faintly green-tinged scar along her wrist.  

Barbara’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up medical databases. “No record of ectoplasmic burns in her file.”  

“Because it’s not in her file,” Jason muttered. “But we both know what that looks like.”  

On-screen, Damian’s hand twitched toward Ellie’s wrist—he’d seen it too—but Ellie yanked her sleeve down with a laugh, deflecting with some quip Barbara couldn’t quite catch through the audio distortion.  

Jason exhaled sharply. “She’s hiding something.”  

Barbara smirked. “So’s he.”  

They watched as Ellie leaned in, saying something that made Damian go perfectly still. The camera caught the way his breath hitched—just slightly—before he schooled his expression back to neutrality.  

Jason groaned. “Oh come on.”  

Barbara saved the clip. “I’m sending this to Dick.”  

“You’re evil.”  

“And you’re staying quiet until we know more.”  

Jason grumbled but didn’t argue. On the rooftop, Ellie stood, offering Damian a hand up. After a visible hesitation, he took it—and didn’t let go as quickly as he should have.  

Barbara arched a brow. “Well. This changes things.”  

Jason sighed. “Yeah. Now we’ve all got to spy on them.”

Chapter Text

Watchtower, Arcane Command Wing — 23:08 UTC

The Obsidian Room was full of the kind of people who didn’t flinch when the lights flickered and the shadows moved wrong.

Which was why Elhara wore her full regalia.

No hoodie. No headphones. No half-finished chemistry homework tucked into her backpack.

Just the Ghost Princess: white cloak trimmed in starlight, gloves etched with warding runes, silver hair  and the quiet intensity of someone who knew seventeen ways to erase a soul.

She stood at her father’s right side as he spoke to the gathered league.

“Spectral instability in Gotham,” King Phantom said, his voice calm and clear, “is worsening. The Realms are being pulled toward convergence. This isn’t a one-sided bleed anymore. Someone on your side is calling us in.”

Batman didn’t respond immediately.

He was all cape and silence in the shadows, arms crossed, gaze unreadable beneath the cowl.

Beside him stood Robin.

Elhara glanced at him once, quickly.

There was something… off.

Not threatening. Not hostile. Just—familiar. The tilt of his stance. The sharp posture. The way he scanned the room like it was a threat assessment instead of a council.

She’d seen that before.

Somewhere else.

“You’re sure it’s not natural?” Batman asked.

Danny nodded. “The rift patterns are surgical. Directed. This isn’t background bleed. Someone wants the walls between worlds to thin.”

Zatanna stepped forward. “We’ve confirmed spikes in ecto-frequency emissions—primarily centered on Gotham’s leyline axis. We need a team monitoring both sides of the breach.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Danny said. “My daughter will represent the Realms on this end. She’s fluent in both magic and mortality. And she can handle herself.”

Robin shifted, just barely. His hands tightened behind his back.

Batman’s voice was steel. “Is that wise?”

Elhara raised her chin. “I’m not here to be wise. I’m here to stop a war.”

Robin turned his head.

Their eyes met.

Green domino mask. Rigid mouth. The glint of something too sharp for someone so young.

Elhara stared.

There it was again—that feeling. A pull. Like she was watching someone through fog and waiting for the shape to come into focus.

And still—nothing.

No name. No memory. Just that feeling.

“Princess Elhara,” Batman said. “You’ll report directly to League representatives and coordinate with our field agents.”

Robin stepped forward at that.

“We’ll assign someone to work with her directly. For security and… oversight.”

Zatanna raised a brow. “You volunteering?”

“I work in Gotham,” he said simply.

His voice was lower than Damian’s. Sharper around the edges. But the cadence—

Ellie’s mouth twitched, just a little.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said.

“You’ll have one anyway.”

Elhara narrowed her eyes, measuring him. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you think you’re the only one in the room with a brain.”

The corner of Robin’s mouth almost moved. “It’s possible.”

Her eyebrow rose. “Dangerous assumption.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

Danny coughed very loudly. “Can we maybe table the banter until after we stabilize the realm barrier?”

Batman’s cowl tilted slightly. “Robin, you’ll accompany her in the field.”

Elhara crossed her arms. “Of course.”

Robin inclined his head. “Of course.”

They turned away from each other at the same time.

They didn’t see the twin flickers of confusion on each other’s faces.

Didn’t see Danny glance sideways at Batman with a subtle shake of his head like this is going to be a mess.

Didn’t see Batman’s minute shrug of agreement.

What Elhara did see—just for a moment, as Robin left the room—was the faintest flicker of a scar near his jaw. A small one.

A familiar one.

Her breath caught.

But when she blinked, he was gone.

And all that was left was the cold shimmer of the Realms pushing against the veil—and the boy who sounded like someone she shouldn’t trust but already did.

Location: Gotham, Site Theta — 02:47 A.M.

The rift pulsed like a wound.

It floated five feet above an abandoned rail yard outside Gotham’s industrial district—its edges twitching like torn fabric, glowing sickly green. Not ghostlight, not magic. Something worse. Something mixed.

Elhara hovered just outside its radius, cloak snapping in the freezing wind. Her breath didn’t fog. She wasn’t breathing, not in the human sense. Too much ambient ectoplasm in the air.

Robin stood beside her, motionless, wrapped in the stillness only soldiers wore.

They’d been tracking the convergence spike for hours. Batman and King Phantom were coordinating with the League remotely. But here—right here—it was just the two of them.

“You shouldn’t be this close,” Robin said.

“I’m immune to spectral corruption,” Elhara replied, arms crossed. “You?”

“I’ve trained for it.”

“That’s not the same.”

He looked at her, sharp and unreadable. “And yet we’re both standing here.”

She rolled her eyes. “How poetic.”

The rift pulsed again, brighter this time.

Something slithered out.

It was shaped like a spine, but made of ink and static, dragging behind it a whisper that scraped at the edges of reality.

Robin moved first.

He leapt into the air, grappling line snapping into the iron framework of a water tower. Elhara shot upward in tandem, phasing through a rusted beam and circling from above.

The creature lunged toward the nearest leyline anchor—a glowing stone marker half-sunken in ice.

Robin struck first, twin blades flashing.

The thing screamed—high, wrong, not made for ears.

Elhara followed up with a blast of purified ghostlight, slicing through the anomaly’s tether with surgical precision.

It vanished in a burst of static and ash.

Robin landed in a crouch.

Elhara touched down beside him.

He was breathing hard. She wasn’t. But they were both quiet.

For a moment.

Then—

“You fight like a bat,” she said, eyes narrowed.

Robin tensed. “Is that an insult?”

“Depends. Do you have the emotional repression to back it up?”

His jaw ticked. “You're mouthier than I expected.”

“You’re exactly as annoying as I thought.”

They stared at each other.

Then, inexplicably—he smiled. Just barely.

And Ellie froze.

Because she’d seen that smile before.

Not often. Not full. But once—across a BatBurger table, beneath a flickering light, when she'd made a joke about bat-shaped nuggets and Damian Wayne had let his armor crack just enough to show her he was real.

The scar near his jaw.

The way he moved.

The voice. Clipped, precise. But not cold.

It clicked all at once, sharp and certain.

Damian.

Ellie’s breath caught.

Not from surprise—but from the drop in her stomach. The realization.

She was standing five inches from the boy she’d kissed in a coffee shop, argued with in hallways, teased about katanas and study sessions.

And he didn’t recognize her.

He thought she was someone else.

Because right now, she was.

She stared at him a moment too long.

Robin tilted his head. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how much trouble we’re in,” she lied smoothly, stepping away. “This thing wasn’t acting alone. It was trying to mark a path.”

Robin frowned. “You think it’s a scout?”

“I think someone’s trying to build a bridge. Between realms.”

His frown deepened. “And you think they’re doing it in Gotham on purpose.”

“I think,” Elhara said quietly, “they’re trying to test what happens when you tear a hole between life and death.”

Robin nodded once. “Then we stop them.”

She looked at him again. This boy. This weapon-in-training. This friend who didn’t know he was staring straight into the eyes of the girl he’d almost trusted.

“Right,” she said. “We stop them.”

But her voice was softer now.

Because she didn’t know how long she could keep pretending.

And she didn’t know what would hurt more—

When Damian found out who she was…

Or how long he’d look at her like a stranger until then.

Elhara hovered above the ground, her cloak curling in the windless dark, the tips of her boots just barely touching the broken cement. Beneath her, the leyline marker had ruptured—a glowing fracture that pulsed with a sickly green hue, equal parts ectoplasm and corrupted magic. Ghostlight mingled with arcane bleed, forming something unstable. Something new.

Robin stood across from her, silent as a knife before the plunge.

He hadn’t asked questions when Batman ordered him to partner with her again. Hadn’t protested when the mission logs rerouted them to Gotham’s lower grid. He just moved, wordless and ready, the same way all soldiers do when they know the terrain is about to turn against them.

But this wasn’t just terrain. This was the threshold.

And something was waiting just past it.

“Elhara,” he said, voice low through the modulator. “We’re standing on a wound.”

She didn’t look at him. Her glowing eyes tracked the pulse of the leyline, measuring its frequency against the spectral patterns mapped in her father’s endless war archives.

“This isn’t just a wound,” she said quietly. “It’s a mouth. And it’s starting to breathe.”

The rift pulsed again—deeper this time, resonant, like a heartbeat in reverse.

And then, before either of them could react, the space directly above the leyline split open.

Not with violence, but with terrible softness—like skin parting for something far too large to pass cleanly through.

A shape oozed forward, stepping from the void like it had been there all along.

She recognized it instantly.

“Of course,” Elhara said, voice flat. “Spectra.”

The ghost-woman drifted into view, her form elegant and wrong in the way of too-clean mirrors. Her skin shimmered like porcelain dipped in frost, and her smile was too wide, too sharp, like it had been carved into her face long after she learned what happiness should look like.

“Elhara,” Spectra said, purring. “Still haunting the living world, I see.”

Robin stepped forward, blade drawn.

“Don’t,” Elhara warned him softly, not turning her head. “You’ll only feed her.”

Robin hesitated. Spectra didn’t.

“I expected your father,” the ghost said, circling slowly, her feet never touching the ground. “But this is better. More... delicate.”

“I’m not delicate,” Elhara replied, deadpan.

“No,” Spectra agreed. “But you’re still unfinished.”

Robin’s grip tightened.

“Why are you here?” he asked, voice like gravel.

“Balance,” Spectra said lightly. “Observation. Survival. I didn’t make the tear, little bird—I just walked through it.”

She paused, tilting her head toward Robin, her gaze lingering on him in a way that made Elhara’s skin crawl.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Spectra whispered.

Robin tensed.

“Enough,” Elhara snapped, stepping forward now, cloak flaring with ghostlight. “Say what you came to say. Or leave.”

Spectra’s smile turned mean. “Something is building the bridge, Princess. Not me. Not your father. Someone in this city, in this plane, who knows enough to dig through death itself.”

Elhara’s blood went cold.

“You’re lying.”

Spectra shrugged. “I lie when it’s useful. Right now? It’s more fun to watch you figure it out. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The echo under your skin. The rhythm that doesn’t belong to this world.”

Robin stepped closer, just slightly, angled like a shield.

Spectra laughed.

“Oh,” she said, eyes gleaming. “He doesn’t know who you are. How sweet.”

A pulse of energy radiated from Elhara’s body, not an attack—just a warning.

It scattered the mist, set nearby trash cans rattling, and sent Spectra drifting back a few feet, lips curling in amusement.

“I’ll be seeing you,” she whispered, before vanishing into thin air—swallowed by a crack that stitched itself shut behind her.

Silence followed.

Long. Loud.

Then—

Robin turned. “Who was that?”

“Old enemy,” Elhara said. Her voice was steadier than she felt. “Feeds on guilt. Manipulates emotion. Thinks she’s smarter than she is.”

Robin’s jaw was set. “She knew something.”

“She always does. That’s the problem.”

They began scanning the area for residual traces, both falling into a rhythm again—efficient, fast, silent. But Elhara wasn’t focused.

Not anymore.

Not with the way Spectra had looked at her. Like she saw something underneath.

Like she saw both masks.

Chapter Text

Three major things happened the night Spectra breached the Realms:

Someone from Gotham was building a conduit, not a portal.

Spectra hadn’t crossed over on her own — she’d been invited.

Robin had the same scar Damian Wayne did, just beneath the edge of his mask.

These revelations didn’t happen all at once. They unfolded like a slow-burn memory — the kind that lives under your skin before it lives in your mind.

Later, Elhara would wonder what would’ve happened if even one of those pieces had fallen into place differently. If Spectra had been less theatrical. If Robin had turned his head just a fraction to the left. If Danny had told her sooner how close the Realms were to collapsing.

But that’s the trouble with dominoes. They don’t know they’re falling until it’s too late.

i.

It started underground.

Literally — beneath Gotham’s South End train lines, in a tunnel half-collapsed from decades of rot and ghost leakage. She stood with Robin at her side, ghostlight flickering under her boots, the smell of scorched magic still clinging to the air like static.

Spectra had only been gone for minutes, but her presence lingered.

Elhara was still too tense, too aware of the space between her ribs where fear liked to live when it thought she wasn’t paying attention.

“She knew” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Robin turned slightly. “You recognized her.”

“Unfortunately.”

She didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask.

They worked in silence after that — scanning the rift traces, tracing the residual pull back into the leyline grid. Robin kept his movements clean and focused, the way Damian always did when he was trying not to look worried. Only she didn’t know yet if she was imagining that comparison.

Not yet.

She was still trying to be Elhara, not Ellie. Still trying to wear the crown instead of the hoodie.

 ii.

Later

Danny didn’t yell when she told him.

He just looked tired.

They were alone in a Watchtower holding room, seated across from each other at a war table designed for magic and maps, not for fathers and daughters trying to outmaneuver each other’s silences.

“She didn’t break through on her own,” Elhara said. “Someone opened the door.”

Danny nodded slowly. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Afraid of Spectra?”

“Afraid of what she means.” He leaned back in his chair. “She’s a scavenger, El. She doesn’t build. She feeds. If she crossed over, it’s because something already cracked the wall wide enough for her to slither through.”

“Vlad?”

“No,” Danny said too quickly. Then, softer: “Not yet.”

That quieted her.

She hated that he always said things like that — like it wasn’t a question of if, just when.

 iii.

She noticed the scar when Robin turned his head to check the perimeter.

It was small. Faint. But perfectly familiar.

Just under his mask, above the edge of his jawline.

The same scar she’d seen on Damian’s face when they were walking back from that awful museum trip, when he’d taken off his tie and let her hold the lecture notes because his hands were full. The same one she’d seen under the coffee shop lights when he kissed her like he didn’t know how to say goodbye properly.

Her stomach dropped.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It dropped — like her ghost core hiccupped in place and stopped humming. Like everything inside her suddenly rearranged itself around one terrible, wonderful, impossible certainty:

Robin was Damian.

Of course he was. It made too much sense. The posture. The tone. The way he moved like someone always waiting to be betrayed. The constant irritation as a smokescreen for concern.

She’d fallen for a boy who lived in shadows.

And he didn’t even know that the girl who’d kissed him once was now standing beside him in full royal regalia, pretending not to know what his voice sounded like when he was tired.

She didn’t tell him.

Not yet.

He didn’t deserve to find out here, in a sewer full of static ghosts and broken thresholds.

But she knew the moment was coming.

And when it did — when Damian turned and looked at her not as Elhara but as Ellie — she had no idea what would be left between them.

Trust?

Hurt?

Both?

For now, she just turned away from him before her voice could betray the secret in her chest.

The rift was still bleeding, after all.

And ghosts weren’t the only thing clawing their way back into the light.

Damian's pov

Three major things happened the night the rift collapsed:

They destroyed the anchor before it could bleed through the veil.

Spectra’s trail went cold — but not gone.

Damian became sure of something that made no sense.

 i.

They’d found the anchor in an abandoned building once used by Gotham University’s now-defunct occult studies program — the kind of place that reeked of forgotten spells and the arrogance of people who thought they could master things they barely understood.

Damian had been the one to spot the etching behind the lecture hall mirror — a minor containment rune, warped around a crystal embedded in the wall like a parasite. It didn’t hum like a ghost artifact. It vibrated like a live wire submerged in water. Half-wrong.

Elhara didn’t speak for a full minute when she saw it.

Then she whispered: “This wasn’t built by ghosts. Not even Realms-adjacent.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But whoever did it, they studied both ends. Magic and metaphysics. Ectoplasm and leyline structure. This wasn’t accidental.”

She turned toward him, her eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“They weren’t trying to open a portal,” she said.

“They were trying to fuse the planes.”

Damian felt his pulse tick in his neck. “A merge?”

“Or a bleed. Controlled. Long-term.”

He hated how calmly she said it. Like she’d seen worse.

Maybe she had.

 ii.

They worked fast after that. No time to call for backup. No time to wait for Zatanna’s crew or JLD containment squads. This kind of thing didn’t survive delay.

The energy buildup was too volatile.

Elhara took the lead — carefully unweaving the ghost-thread lines while Damian ran counter-wards through the university’s long-dead arcane circuitry. It should’ve been impossible for someone to reactivate it.

But someone had.

Damian had hacked nuclear systems faster than this. He’d dismantled bombs under pressure and once disarmed a Lazarus-variant trap underwater with three broken fingers. But nothing in his training had prepared him for the feeling that crept up the back of his neck every time Elhara muttered in a half-language he didn’t recognize.

She was still too calm.

Too precise.

And that voice — that tone — curled like smoke around the part of his brain that remembered the way Ellie had whispered “you’re not as scary as you think you are” in the dark.

He knew he was missing something.

He just didn’t know what.

 iii.

The anchor collapsed at exactly 03:13.

It wasn’t a dramatic explosion. It simply... unraveled. Like someone cutting the last thread of a puppet’s arm. The magic drained. The ecto-energy hissed back into the walls. The air went flat again.

Elhara stood in the aftermath, chest heaving, her hands trembling slightly before she hid them in her sleeves. Damian noticed anyway.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet.

She nodded. “It’s done.”

“Not really,” he said. “We still don’t know who created it.”

Elhara didn’t answer at first. She stepped carefully over a broken tile and crouched near the anchor’s remains. The crystal was dust now, but the burn pattern left in the wall was sharp, deliberate.

“This wasn’t ritual magic,” she said softly. “This was engineered. Manufactured.”

“Weaponized,” Damian finished.

They both stared at it.

Damian’s comm crackled. Batman. Brief confirmation. The League had traced three more rift points — all dormant now. The active one had been here.

“This was the center,” Damian said.

“The others were decoys,” Elhara agreed.

He turned toward her. She wasn’t looking at him.

And that was when it hit him — not the fact that she had power or strategy or grace. He already knew that. Had respected it, even admired it.

It was the tilt of her mouth when she concentrated. The faint dip of her brow when she analyzed sigils. The way she squinted when reading an unstable energy map like she was trying not to make a mistake she’d regret.

He had seen those expressions before.

But not on Elhara.

On Ellie.

The girl who’d asked if a kiss would be enough to distract him. The one who’d laughed when he was quiet and sat beside him on a rooftop with fast food and no judgment.

It couldn’t be coincidence.

The voice. 

The posture.

The feeling.

“Do I know you?” he asked suddenly.

Elhara looked up, startled.

“What?”

“From before,” Damian said, heart hammering in a way he hated. “Have we met? Not here. Not in the Watchtower. Before.”

Her face didn’t change. Not visibly.

But she hesitated.

Just long enough.

Then she said, too lightly, “You meet a lot of people, don’t you?”

Damian didn’t blink. “Not ones who matter.”

Silence.

Her ghostlight dimmed slightly.

Then she looked up at him — really looked — and for the first time since he’d met her as Elhara, she didn’t dodge.

“…Yes,” she said quietly. “You do.”

The words hit him harder than any punch he’d taken.

He opened his mouth, but she raised one hand before he could speak.

“I’ll explain,” she said. “I promise.”

She took a breath, steadying herself.

“But not yet. Not here.”

Her eyes flicked back to the fractured seal, to the lingering residue, to the puzzle they hadn’t finished solving.

“We still have a problem to fix.”

Damian stared at her. At the girl who wore a crown of ghostlight and the voice of someone he’d already begun to miss.

He nodded once.

Not because he was satisfied.

But because he trusted her.

For now.

Chapter Text

Ellie stared at her ceiling like it had answers.

It didn’t. Just water stains and maybe a ghost moth in the corner that blinked in and out of phase when she looked directly at it.

She let it stay.

The real problem was the text that still glowed on her phone, unanswered.

Damian: “Ten minutes. Don’t start without me.”

She hadn’t.

Start what, though? That was the question.

The movie? The feelings? The spiral into something soft and strange and tethering? Ellie wasn’t sure which terrified her more.

She’d always been good at compartmentalizing. School in one box. The Realms in another. Her dad’s too-complicated legacy in a reinforced vault with emotional caution tape wrapped around it. Feelings went in the junk drawer. You opened it only when absolutely necessary, and usually only with gloves.

But then Damian Wayne walked into her life with those knife-edged eyes and that irritating competence and a gaze like he saw past every mask she tried to wear. And suddenly the drawer was wide open and something was leaking out.

She could still taste him.

That thought made her bolt upright.

She didn’t mean the kiss—well, she did, but not just the kiss. She meant the feel of him. The energy. The way his presence had brushed against hers in a way that didn’t quite read human. Not ghost either. But close. Like liminality with a pedigree. Like someone who had been near death and came back with its scent clinging to his collar.

No normal boy kissed like that. Or looked at her like she was a question he couldn’t stop asking.

Ellie’s phone buzzed again. She flinched.

Damian: I’m outside.

She blinked.

Outside her dorm. At 1:42 a.m.

That was... new.

Ellie: You breaking curfew?

Damian: Tactical recon.

Ellie: Of me?

Damian: Of course not. That would be unethical.

Ellie: You’re the worst liar. Gimme 3 mins.

She met him on the stone steps, hoodie zipped up and ectoplasm fully suppressed. The fog curled around them like it wanted to listen in.

Damian stood with his hands in his coat pockets, looking more like a prince in exile than a sixteen-year-old with an emotional avoidance problem.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I had tea. It didn’t help.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “What did you put in it?”

“Regret.”

She snorted. “Classic blend.”

They stood in silence for a beat.

Then: “I thought we agreed on no more sneaking out after midnight.”

“We never agreed to that,” Damian said. “You just said it once and I ignored you.”

“Right. Healthy communication.”

He glanced at her, eyes unreadable. “Can we walk?”

Ellie nodded, and they started down the path, shoes soft on wet stone.

They ended up in the conservatory courtyard. No cameras. No curious eyes. Just ivy, marble benches, and that eerie Gotham quiet that felt like the city was holding its breath.

Damian sat first. Ellie joined him, pulling her knees up onto the bench. Close, but not touching.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said plainly.

Ellie didn’t deny it. “Only a little.”

“Why?”

She picked at a thread in her sleeve. “Because I’m trying really hard not to ruin something that doesn’t even have a name yet.”

He was quiet.

Then, softer, “You think this is a bad idea.”

“I think it’s the kind of idea that ends with one of us lying to the other about something that matters.”

His jaw flexed.

Ellie leaned back, looking up at the Gotham sky. “You have secrets. So do I. I just—don’t want to find out too late that mine matter less to you.”

Damian looked at her then. Really looked.

“You think I’m just playing,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“I’m not.”

His voice wasn’t defensive. Just sure. Like a blade knowing it’s sharp.

“I don’t trust people easily,” he said. “But I trust you. More than I should. That’s the problem.”

Ellie’s heart did something traitorous and embarrassing. “That’s not a problem. That’s human.”

“I was trained not to be human.”

“That sucks,” she said gently.

“It does,” he admitted.

They sat in silence.

Finally, Ellie said, “Okay. One real thing. From me. No jokes. No metaphors.”

Damian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited.

She took a breath.

“My name isn’t just Ellie. I mean—it is. But it’s also Elhara Phantom. And there’s a crown in another dimension with my name etched in it, whether I want it or not.”

Damian blinked.

She kept going. “My dad isn’t just a scientist. He’s the King of the Infinite Realms. Ghost royalty. Interdimensional monarch. All that.”

Silence. A crow cawed somewhere above them, clearly unimpressed.

“And I’m his daughter. By way of cloning. Long story. I’ll give you the full dramatic version later, probably with popcorn.”

Still no reaction.

Ellie swallowed. “You’re not freaking out.”

Damian finally turned to face her fully. “I already knew you weren’t normal.”

“You knew?”

He shrugged. “Suspected.”

She stared. “And you still kissed me?”

He blinked, confused. “You think that stopped me?”

Ellie let out a startled laugh.

He reached for her hand. Didn’t grab it—just hovered, offering.

She took it.

They sat like that for a long time.

No more lies. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

No more lies.

Not tonight.

The rooftop felt smaller now. Not cramped, exactly—but charged, like the space between them had become something fragile and sacred. Like breaking it would shatter more than just the moment.

Ellie’s hand in his was steady, but her pulse betrayed her. Damian could feel it—tiny, quick, frantic as a hummingbird beneath the cool night air. He didn’t let go.

“You said your name is Elhara,” he said, voice low.

She nodded. “Ellie for short. Ghost Princess of the Infinite Realms. Resident screwup. Depends who you ask.”

Damian held her gaze. “Then I owe you mine.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Didn’t we already do that part?”

He gave a small, humorless smile. “Not completely.”

He let go of her hand, only to reach behind his neck and pull something small and flat from under his jacket. A communicator. He clicked it once, muting the line. Then he tugged at the collar of his shirt.

Ellie leaned in as the neckline shifted.

Her breath caught. Just under the hem, peeking out like a secret, was the edge of a stylized ‘R.’

“I’m Robin,” he said. “The current one.”

Ellie blinked. “As in… Batman’s Robin.”

“Yes.”

“As in… child ninja, crimefighting vigilante, goth poster boy—”

“That’s enough,” Damian muttered.

She stared.

Then—

“Oh my Ancients, that makes so much sense.”

Damian looked exasperated. “Does it?”

“Yeah! The brooding. The jawline. The ‘I’m smarter than you and I know it’ energy. It all clicks.”

“…Jawline?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He gave her a look. She grinned.

Then it faded, just a little. “So. Robin and the Ghost Princess. That’s dramatic, even for Gotham.”

“Fitting,” he said.

They sat back down. The stars overhead were dim, barely visible past Gotham’s light pollution, but Ellie could make out a few. She tracked them with her eyes as she spoke.

“I didn’t plan to tell you tonight.”

“I didn’t either.”

“What changed?”

Damian looked at her, serious again. “You trusted me first.”

Ellie snorted. “That’s very knight of you.”

“I was raised by one.”

“Figures.”

The wind picked up. Neither of them flinched.

Ellie pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You’re not gonna tell your father, are you?”

Damian hesitated.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said quickly. “It’s just—Danny doesn’t want people knowing. Not unless they need to. The Realms are complicated. Political. Dangerous, if you step in wrong.”

“I’m not going to tell him.”

Ellie looked at him sideways. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not my secret to share.”

She didn’t answer right away. But when she did, her voice was softer than before. “Thanks.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

They climbed down from the rooftop close to 1 a.m., slipping into the alley behind her dorm like shadows.

“Will you be okay getting back?” she asked, brushing gravel from her palms.

Damian gave her a flat look.

“Right. Robin. Stupid question.”

She stepped closer. “You know, now that the secret identities are out of the way… does this mean we’re actually dating?”

He tilted his head. “Did you think we weren’t?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

He stepped into her space, voice almost a whisper. “Would it change your answer?”

Ellie’s heartbeat stuttered. Then she smiled. “No. But I want it to be my answer too.”

He nodded, almost solemn. “Then we are.”

She leaned in and kissed him.

This time, neither of them pulled away.

Wayne Manor – The Batcave

3:07 a.m.

Tim was already halfway through a monster energy drink when Damian walked in. His eyes flicked up from the monitor. “You’re late.”

“I’m sixteen. I’m not on your payroll.”

Tim smirked. “You’re snarky. You’re definitely Damian.”

Damian ignored him, heading straight for the forensics station. “Where’s the file on VladCo’s Metropolis transfer?”

Tim clicked a few keys, pulling it up. “Still thin. Asset reallocation under shell companies. No major tech flagged—yet.”

Damian scanned it. His fingers tapped in a rhythm, faster than usual.

Tim leaned back. “You tell her?”

Damian looked up. “Tell who what?”

“Ellie. About you.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Tim blinked. “Seriously?”

“She told me something too.”

Tim squinted. “Wait—are we calling this a feelings exchange? Like a romantic treaty?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m making popcorn.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Focus, Drake.”

But the corners of his mouth twitched, just slightly.

Ellie’s Dorm – Later

3:22 a.m.

[Jazz 🧠]: YOU TOLD HIM???
[Jazz 🧠]: OH MY GOD ELLIE
[Jazz 🧠]: Do I need to make a therapy checklist??

[Ellie]: he told me too
[Ellie]: he’s Robin

[Jazz 🧠]: like… Batman Robin???

[Ellie]: do we know any other ones?

[Jazz 🧠]: YOU HAVE A TYPE

[Ellie]: if my type is “stressed disaster with knives” then yeah

[Jazz 🧠]: be careful, El. Please.

[Ellie]: I am. He was careful too.
[Ellie]: It was good. It felt…right.

[Jazz 🧠]: Okay. Then I’m trusting you. But popcorn. I want the whole story.

[Ellie]: done
[Ellie]: love you

[Jazz 🧠]: Love you more

Ellie tucked her phone under her pillow, rolled over, and—despite the nerves, the gravity, the confession—she slept like she hadn’t in months.

The Next Morning – Gotham Academy

Damian slid into his seat beside Ellie exactly two seconds before the bell rang. She passed him a note instead of saying good morning.

> Do I have to call you Robin now?

> Only if you want me to call you Your Highness

> Ew. You’re lucky you’re cute.

> I know.

Afternoon – The Realms

Clockwork watched the ripple of time echo through the Infinite Realms. Two threads, once parallel, now entwined—Damian Wayne, heir of shadow and steel. Elhara, daughter of crown and chaos.

“Interesting,” he said.

Beside him, Pandora frowned. “Is it wise?”

Clockwork smiled faintly. “It’s already done.”

Ellie woke with sunlight on her face and something like peace in her chest. She hadn’t meant to sleep so long, but after the rooftop—after Damian’s hand in hers, after truths exchanged like old coins in candlelight—her body had simply decided enough was enough.

She stretched slowly, savoring the warmth in her bones. Gotham’s skyline still loomed beyond her dorm window, jagged and gray, but it didn’t look as heavy today. And her phone buzzed only once, as if even the universe was giving her a breather.

Gotham - 9:17 PM

"I want confirmation of movement near the Diamond Street lab," Tim said through comms, crouched low on a rooftop three blocks east of the riverfront. "They're moving equipment faster than expected. Cass, status?"

"North alley is clear," Cassandra’s voice answered, low and confident. "One guard. Sleeping now."

"Of course he is," Tim muttered.

Damian adjusted his posture on the adjacent roof, cape flicking slightly in the wind. "If you two are done narrating your competence, I’ll breach the eastern side. They’ll expect a stealth approach. I prefer direct."

"Shocking," Tim said dryly. "Just stick to the plan. We need data, not dramatics."

Damian didn’t reply. He was already moving.

He dropped into the alley like a shadow cutting through silence. The access point was hidden behind a dumpster and a chain-link fence. Damian disarmed the lock in seconds, stepped inside, and signaled the others.

Inside, the lab hummed with quiet menace. White walls. Flickering LEDs. The faint scent of ozone and synthetic antiseptic. Damian crouched behind a low counter as two technicians argued near a control panel.

“Get the Phase Stabilizer ready,” one of them hissed. “The next sample’s already destabilizing.”

“It’s too soon. We’re supposed to wait for—”

“He doesn’t care. You want to explain to him why this shipment failed too?”

Damian narrowed his eyes. He snapped a few photos, careful not to trigger any motion sensors, and ducked back as Cass ghosted into view behind the scientists.

One moment they were speaking. The next, they were unconscious on the floor. Damian raised an eyebrow.

“You said we needed data,” Cass said, pulling a hard drive from the panel and slipping it into a secure pouch.

“Efficient,” Damian admitted.

Tim arrived seconds later, glancing around the wreckage. "We’re going to have to leave before reinforcements show up. Cass, you get it?"

She nodded. "Whole system. No alarms tripped."

"Good. Let’s ghost."

Damian hesitated for only a moment. As they exited, he looked back at the cracked stabilizer and the faint, greenish residue smeared across its interior glass. Ectoplasm. Not fresh—but recent enough. His mind flashed to Ellie’s scar, to the way her voice had gone still when he asked about tunnels.

He said nothing.

Wayne Manor – 11:43 PM

Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, arms crossed, face unreadable as the trio returned. He'd been watching the monitors since they’d left, though he hadn’t checked in once.

Tim pulled off his cowl. "Data retrieved. Minimal resistance. Cass was excellent as always."

"And you, Damian?" Bruce asked.

Damian peeled back his hood slowly, eyes sharp. "The operation was successful."

"But?" Bruce asked.

"No 'but,'" Damian said.

Bruce studied him for a moment longer. Damian’s stance was tight. Controlled. But there was something else—an echo of something Bruce hadn’t seen in years. Not since Damian was younger, uncertain of his place in the manor. Not since... before.

“You’ve been distracted lately.”

“I’m focused,” Damian replied quickly—too quickly.

Tim raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Cass merely tilted her head toward the data core and drifted away silently.

Bruce exhaled. "I’m not going to press—yet. But keep your head clear, Damian. We can’t afford mistakes. Not now."

Damian looked him in the eye. "There won’t be any."

Bruce let it go. But the frown on his face deepened as he turned away. His gaze drifted to another monitor—one tracking deep-space signals. Still nothing. Still no word from Dick.

He pressed his fingers against the console edge, silent.

His eldest son—missing. His youngest—lying.

Something was coming. He could feel it in his bones.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne sat in his study, the dim glow of the city bleeding through the tall windows of Wayne Manor. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, eyes flickering to the clock. It was late, but sleep had eluded him for hours.

His youngest son, Damian, had been... different lately. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—an edge in his voice, a quiet tension when he thought no one was watching. Bruce had trained Damian to be a warrior, a detective, even a leader—but this was something else. Something guarded and shadowed.

“Damian,” Bruce murmured aloud, though the room was empty except for the crackle of the fireplace. “What are you hiding?”

His mind wandered to Dick. Still off-world on a mission that had lasted far too long. The absence of his eldest weighed on Bruce more than he would admit. Dick was a brother, a friend, and a son—someone who balanced light and darkness with rare grace. Bruce hoped his old friend was safe, but worry gnawed at him relentlessly.

The mansion felt colder in the silence, as if the shadows themselves were waiting for answers. Bruce rose, pacing slowly to the window and staring out at the Gotham skyline.

Something was coming. Something beyond even his grasp.

Wayne Manor – Batcave, Late Night

Damian’s figure was a rigid silhouette against the glow of the Batcomputer screens. Blueprints of new VladCo shipments flickered across the interface, layered with encrypted files and ghostly frequency patterns he had spent hours decoding.

“You should be resting,” Alfred’s voice interrupted quietly from behind him. “This obsession will wear you down.”

“Rest isn’t a luxury when someone is hiding in plain sight,” Damian replied without turning.

Alfred’s gaze softened. “You’re carrying burdens that aren’t yours alone.”

Damian finally glanced back, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through his usual stoicism. “I’m not sure who to trust anymore.”

Alfred sighed. “Trust is a rare commodity in this family.”

And yet, it was the only thing worth holding on to.

Fantom-Masters Residence – Early Morning

Far from Gotham’s darkened streets and relentless crime, Danny sat at his cluttered desk, surrounded by holographic displays of spectral anomalies and realm distortions. His fingers traced tired circles over a faded photograph: a younger Maddie Fenton with Jack Fenton, and Vlad Masters standing awkwardly beside them, smiles forced but genuine.

That picture was from a time before everything changed. Before the ghosts, before the betrayals, before the fractures that nearly tore their family apart.

It had all begun the night they discovered the truth.

Vlad, Maddie, and Jack—the trio bound by decades of friendship and scientific curiosity—stood in the dim glow of VladCo’s lab, faces pale with shock and anger.

The revelation that Danny Phantom was not just a ghostly hero but also their son had shattered their carefully constructed world.

“You’ve been lying to us,” Maddie accused, her voice trembling with hurt. “All these years, we thought we were protecting you—protecting everyone.”

Jack’s hands clenched into fists. “We lost our son. We lost our best friend.”

The room erupted in shouts and tears. Words too sharp, regrets too deep. For hours, they screamed and cried, accusing each other, but beneath the rage lay a shared agony—an unspoken mourning for what was lost, and fear of what was to come.

It was that night they realized something vital: despite their pain, they needed each other more than ever.

They were broken. But not broken beyond repair.

Infinite Realms – A Sanctuary Beyond the Mortal Coil

Marriage laws in the United States refused to acknowledge their union—not because of love, but because their family defied convention. But in the Infinite Realms, where rules bent and twisted like light through a prism, they were free.

Vlad, Maddie, and Jack exchanged vows not just as partners but as a new kind of family. The ceremony was intimate, shadowed by the realm’s strange beauty—a place where ghostly light danced in the air and ancient magic hummed beneath the stones.

They chose the surname Fantom-Masters to symbolize the fusion of legacies: the scientific brilliance of VladCo and the unwavering support of the Fentons.

Legal paperwork was signed, and their new lives began—not just as scientists and friends, but as a unit bound by love, sacrifice, and shared destiny.

They were no longer alone.

Jazz Fantom-Masters – A Different Path

Jazz had never been destined to run VladCo, and that realization was a relief. The weight of corporate power wasn’t hers to bear.

Instead, she pursued psychology and psychiatry, blending her scientific curiosity with empathy for the human—and ectoplasmic—mind. Her work in ecto-medicine was pioneering, bridging gaps between ghost phenomena and mental health.

She was a healer in a family scarred by loss, her approach a balm for wounds unseen.

Her office was filled with books on spectral neurology, ghost-related trauma, and the infinite mysteries of consciousness—subjects no one else dared to explore so deeply.

Jazz often thought about her brother, Danny, who balanced his role as a hero and a parent with remarkable grace.

They were all survivors, each in their own way.

Back to Danny – Evening Reflections

Danny leaned back, letting exhaustion wash over him. The weight of his family’s past and present pressed heavily on his shoulders.

“We’ve come so far,” he whispered to himself. “And yet there’s still so much left to fix.”

He was not just a ghost. Not just a king. He was a father, a husband, a brother, and above all, a protector.

Somewhere beyond the walls of his lab, in the shadows of Gotham, others were fighting their own battles.

Their stories were connected, even if they didn’t yet realize it.

Chapter Text

The call happened on a Tuesday. Because of course it did. Nothing monumental ever started on a Friday in this family. Damian paced the rooftop of Gotham Academy’s clocktower, comm in one hand, the city spread out beneath him like a half-finished painting.

He hadn’t planned to call her. Not really. He’d told himself it could wait. That there was no urgency. That his mother—the deadly, brilliant, infuriating Talia al Ghul—would see through him in two seconds, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to be seen.

But then Ellie had smiled at him that morning, tired and real, hair sticking up in three directions and hoodie sleeves too long. She’d kissed his cheek before disappearing into a physics lecture, like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t still reeling.

So he’d called.

The screen crackled to life.

“Habibi,” Talia greeted, her voice like silk laced with steel. “To what do I owe the honor of a personal call from my least dramatic child?”

Damian huffed. “That is objectively untrue.”

“Oh, I know. But I enjoy watching you pretend.”

He looked away, cheeks heating. “I wanted to tell you something. Before anyone else finds out.”

Talia’s expression shifted. Subtle, but sharper. “Are you injured?”

“No. Not... not physically.”

Her brows arched. “You’re being sentimental. And you called me. This is either a ruse or a confession.”

He took a breath. “I met someone.”

Silence. Not cold. Not shocked. Just... still.

Talia tilted her head. “Is she the reason your files on VladCo have doubled in the last month?”

“Yes. And no. She’s not involved. Not like that. But she matters.”

“She matters,” Talia repeated, and now her smile was quieter. Older. “And she’s the reason you sound like your father used to. When he thought no one was listening.”

Damian flushed again. “I just thought you should know.”

“Do you love her?”

He paused. Looked out over Gotham. The air smelled like rain and exhaust and distant jasmine—Ellie’s tea, always clinging to his hoodie sleeves.

“I could,” he said. “If I let myself.”

Talia’s voice gentled. “Then let yourself. I did, once. It cost me much. But I do not regret it.”

Damian blinked. “You don’t?”

“I regret many things, habibi. But not love. Not you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“What’s her name?” Talia asked after a pause.

He hesitated, then said, “Danielle Fantom-Masters. But she goes by Ellie.”

Talia’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “That name sounds familiar.”

Damian didn’t answer.

“Very well,” she said. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready. But if she hurts you, I will raze VladCo myself.”

He sighed. “That’s not helping.”

“It’s tradition.”

Wayne Manor – Later That Night

The Batcave hummed with quiet activity. Tim was typing furiously, Cass stretching on the mats like she wasn’t even winded from their earlier patrol. Bruce stood at the giant monitor, arms crossed, watching a live satellite feed of a LexCorp facility flagged in a recent League intel dump.

“Anything useful?” Damian asked, approaching with silent steps.

Bruce glanced over. “Luthor’s tightening his security around Metropolis and diverting funds through shell companies in Gotham. Something’s moving. We don’t know what yet.”

“He’ll slip.”

Bruce nodded. But he studied Damian for a second longer than usual. “You’ve been... focused.”

Damian didn’t reply.

“Is everything alright?”

“Fine.”

“Mm. You’re sleeping less. And Cass says you’ve started humming.”

Damian’s ears burned. “I do not hum.”

Cass snorted from the mats. Tim didn’t look up. “You definitely hum.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “And your patrol patterns have shifted. You spend more time in Midtown. Near the Academy.”

“Coincidence.”

“Of course.”

They didn’t push. But the suspicion lingered like mist.

Before Bruce could return his focus to the monitor, the comm buzzed.

“B,” came a familiar voice. Scratchy, but undeniably Dick’s.

Bruce turned sharply. “Nightwing. Report.”

“Hey, Dad. I’m fine. But we need to talk. Something big came up. I’ll be back on Earth in a week. We’ll talk then.”

The transmission cut before Bruce could question him.

He stared at the console, jaw tight. Something was definitely coming.

Ellie’s Dorm – Same Night

Ellie was lying upside down on her bed, hair brushing the floor, a bag of marshmallows balanced on her stomach.

“You told your mom,” she said, watching him from beneath her lashes.

Damian sat on her desk chair, arms crossed. “Yes.”

“And she didn’t threaten to assassinate me?”

He considered. “Only VladCo.”

Ellie laughed, full and startled. Then quieter: “What did she say?”

“That she doesn’t regret loving my father. Even if it broke things.”

Ellie sat up, marshmallows forgotten. “Do you think it’ll break things? Us?”

He reached for her hand. Not dramatic. Not urgent. Just steady. “Not if we keep choosing it.”

Ellie exhaled. Then grinned. “Sappy.”

“You like it.”

“Only when it’s you.”

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and certain. Like a promise.

They sat like that for a while. Quiet. Safe.

Outside, the Realms stirred. But for now, they had each other.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s phone buzzed sharply on the edge of the mahogany desk in his study at Wayne Manor. He glanced down at the screen, the caller ID already familiar. No hesitation this time. He pressed the button, voice taut and measured.

“Talia.”

Her voice answered almost immediately, smooth, cool, but carrying a fragile edge—like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“Bruce.”

The single word was heavy, weighted with history and all the things they hadn’t said in years.

Bruce didn’t soften. Not yet. He folded his hands on the desk, careful, cold.

“What do you want?”

There was a brief pause. She measured her words carefully, as though navigating a minefield.

“I’m calling about Damian.”

His jaw tightened involuntarily.

“Of course you are.”

“I heard.”

“What about him?”

“He’s in love.”

Bruce exhaled sharply, a sound almost like a sigh.

“He’s growing up.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I’m worried, Bruce. About what he’s becoming. About what we made him.”

There was a raw honesty in her voice that struck something deep inside him.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I’ve raised him since he was ten,” he said slowly, each word deliberate. “I shaped him. But…” He paused, voice lowering, colder than he wanted but easier to hold onto than the weight behind it.

Talia’s laugh was quiet, edged with bitterness. “You say that like it eases the burden.”

Bruce met her gaze, steady and unwavering. “Because it’s the only truth I can hold onto.”

“I’ve trained warriors who listen better than you do.”

He tightened his grip on the phone.

“I never said you were weak.”

“Then why do you act like I am?”

Silence fell like a thick curtain between them.

They both knew the dance—the past filled with love, rage, betrayal, and regret.

“I miss what we had,” Bruce admitted quietly, voice low enough to almost be a confession.

“The past is a dangerous place,” she replied, “especially when it’s full of ghosts.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the shadows of the study, where memories clung to the edges like cobwebs.

“Like Damian.”

“Exactly.”

He shifted in his chair, the familiar creak grounding him and reminding how far they’d drifted.

“What is this about love?” His voice sharpened, a shield against the vulnerability.

“He’s serious. More than that—he’s found someone who matters.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, the name hitting like a blow.

“Danielle Fantom-Masters.”

“Ellie.”

There was a pang in his chest, a slow twist of fear and protectiveness.

“You know I don’t trust VladCo,” Bruce said, “I don’t trust anyone connected to them.”

“Neither do I,” Talia answered firmly, “But she’s not VladCo.”

“She’s still tied to it.”

“Maybe. But she’s not him.”

The silence stretched longer, heavier.

“You called me.”

“I had to.”

“I’m not used to being the one you call first.”

“Maybe because you’re not always available,” she said, sharp but true.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I’m worried, Bruce,” she said, voice almost breaking. “About Damian. About us.”

He heard the faintest crack in her armor, the vulnerability she hid beneath layers of steel.

“I’m worried, too,” he confessed. “More than I’m willing to admit.”

They let out a breath, a quiet truce hanging between them.

“Tell me about Jason,” Bruce shifted, “You called him, too?”

Talia chuckled dryly. “Jason’s my eldest whether he likes it or not. I trained him, pushed him, broke him down, built him back up.”

“And?”

“He’s complicated. Like all of us. But he’s trying to find his own way.”

Bruce nodded, picturing the brooding young man caught between the League and the Batfamily.

“I’ll check on him,” she added.

“Good.”

The call lingered on the edge of something more, but neither moved forward. Old wounds are hard to heal, especially when the ones who caused them are still the ones you love.

“Bruce,” Talia said softly, “Our son is growing. The world shifts beneath our feet. Maybe it’s time we stopped trying to control everything.”

“Maybe.”

She ended the call with a fragile goodbye. Bruce stared at the black screen, the weight of words and silences settling around him like dust.

The Batcave hummed with its usual low chaos. Screens blinked, voices murmured. Bruce stood with his arms crossed, eyes sharp behind the mask of composure.

Damian moved differently now. Less guarded, lighter, though still precise. He approached Bruce, stepping out of the shadows.

“Everything all right?” Bruce asked, voice softer than usual.

Damian looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed just a little, suspicion mingling with something dangerously close to hope.

The next day, the Manor’s kitchen buzzed with familiar chaos. Alfred moved efficiently between stations, serving breakfast as Tim and Cass bickered playfully over strategy reports.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, watching Damian quietly.

“You’ve been different,” Tim noted, pouring himself coffee. “Better, maybe?”

Damian shrugged, cheeks tinged with color.

“I have new... responsibilities.”

Cass raised an eyebrow but didn’t press.

“Ellie’s been good for you,” she said softly.

Damian looked to Bruce, who gave a brief nod.

The family’s routine unfolded—familiar and grounding, even as new threads wove into their lives.

Gotham Academy, Afternoon

Damian found Ellie beneath the sprawling oak in the courtyard. The sun was warm, the light golden.

“You’re different,” Ellie said, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“So are you.”

He reached for her hand, steady and sure.

“It’s strange. You make everything feel... lighter,” he admitted.

“You make me want to be better,” she said.

They shared a smile, small and significant.

Then Damian leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against her forehead—an unspoken promise in the fading afternoon light.

The world outside shifted, unsettled and unpredictable. But in this small corner, beneath the canopy of old oaks and new beginnings, they held fast to something pure—something worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor had been too quiet lately. Bruce knew silence intimately—he’d cultivated it, used it like a weapon. But this was different. This was absence. This was silence born of uncertainty. And it got worse when Jason arrived unannounced.

He didn’t knock.

Jason shoved open the study door, leather jacket dripping with rain, helmet under one arm, jaw set like stone.

“You’re letting him date her?”

Bruce didn’t look up right away. When he did, his expression was unreadable. “Jason.”

Jason stepped closer. “Ellie. The girl whose last name is Masters.”

“She’s Danielle Fantom-Masters. Not Vlad.”

Jason gave a short, incredulous laugh. “And you think that’s enough?”

Bruce stood, slow, deliberate. “She’s Danny Fenton’s daughter.”

Jason’s voice hardened. “And Danny’s working for VladCo.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Ellie is not the company. She’s not the man. I’ve looked into her, Jason. She’s not a threat.”

Jason stepped forward, jaw tight. “You’re really okay with him getting dragged into that kind of mess?”

“Damian chose her.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Bruce’s voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “You’re angry. I get it. But don’t project your problems onto his.”

Jason looked like he wanted to throw the helmet in his hand straight through the window.

Then—

The door opened.

Duke stood there, soaked from the Gotham rain, hoodie unzipped, earbuds still around his neck. “Is this what I come home to for the weekend?”

Jason glared at him. “You picked a bad time.”

“I picked the front door,” Duke said, stepping inside, backpack still on. “Didn’t know I’d be walking into season five of Bat-Family Breakdown.”

“Go upstairs,” Jason said.

“No,” Duke replied. “You’re stomping around like Bruce canceled your birthday. What’s the problem?”

Bruce cut in, his voice even. “It’s over. We’re done.”

Jason held Bruce’s stare for one long second. Then his lip curled. “You’re an asshole.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “An asshole, but still your father.”

Jason turned and stormed out.

Duke looked at Bruce. “You good?”

Bruce’s eyes stayed on the door. “I’ve been better.”

Infinite Realms — Pandora’s Garden

The sky was lavender and sunless, lit from nowhere and everywhere. Veins of green energy pulsed through the cliffs that cradled the Infinite Realms, and above, ghost whales glided in the distance, silent and majestic.

Damian stood beside Ellie on a floating platform shaped like a lotus bloom. He wore a robe in muted bronze, simple but tailored. He’d left behind the hood, the weapons, and the mask. His skin was slightly paler here, his eyes tinted more sharply with Lazarus green.

Ellie’s ghost form shimmered in the ambient light—long silver hair loose down her back, crownless but unmistakable. Her cloak whispered behind her, green eyes alive with magic. She wore no armor either, only a sleeveless tunic of woven ectoplasm that looked like starlight.

“Are they always like this?” Damian murmured, eyeing the spirits peeking from the trees.

“Worse when you bring a date,” she replied with a grin.

They walked down a path that floated slightly above the ground, the stones blinking underfoot with faint blue light. All around them, ghosts paused. Watching. Whispering.

“Is that the Wayne boy?”

“The mortal?”

“House Althar’s bloodline walks again… how curious.”

“And with her. The Princess. Bold.”

Ellie tugged Damian’s hand. “Ignore them.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “They’re less intrusive than Gotham’s paparazzi.”

She led him beneath crystal arches that bent with gravity-defying vines and through gates made of frozen lightning. At the heart of the garden stood a terrace of floating petals, and there, a table waited—round, translucent, set for two.

The food was unlike anything from Earth: fruits like melting glass, cheeses shaped from echoing light, and bread warm enough to steam in the unreal air.

Damian took it in silently.

“You hate it,” Ellie said.

“I think I’ve never seen you more in your element.”

She smiled, small and shy. “That’s not an answer.”

“I like it,” he said. “And I like seeing you like this.”

They sat, and time seemed to pause around them. A breeze blew petals across the table but left the plates untouched.

“Do they know who you are?” Ellie asked.

Damian glanced at the ghosts circling in the distance. “Not really.”

“They think you’re from a noble bloodline. House Althar. One of the Realms’ old families. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then again,” she said, sipping ghost nectar, “neither had I, until Thomas told me.”

“Thomas?”

“Your grandfather,” she said casually. “Thomas Wayne. He’s a Far Frozen healer now. Died before I was born, but the Realms keep strange company.”

Damian blinked. “Thomas Wayne. As in—”

“Yup.”

“And he’s a ghost?”

“Yup.”

“I have questions.”

“After lunch.”

They ate. They laughed. She teased him about brooding even in a place made of stars. He teased her for being too dramatic when cutting fruit.

And after, she led him to a mirrored pond where stars shimmered across the surface, even in daylight.

There, Thomas waited—broad-shouldered, eyes sharp, his presence both warm and calm. He looked at Ellie with familiarity, but when his eyes turned to Damian, they softened with something paternal.

“Your Highness,” he greeted Ellie. Then to Damian, “Descendant of House Althar. My grandson. At last.”

Damian stood straighter, unsure. “Sir.”

Thomas stepped forward, his smile gentle. “You have your father’s spine. And your mother’s fire.”

“I manage both.”

Thomas chuckled, then placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Ellie’s hand found Damian’s.

Thomas studied them both. “You are safe here. So long as you walk with her.”

Ellie exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “We haven’t had family visit since Jason passed back into the living realm. Your grandmother will be glad.”

Damian blinked. “She’s here too?”

Thomas smiled. “Martha’s been eager to meet you. She says you look just like Bruce did at your age.”

As they turned to go, the whispers picked up again.

“The Princess brought him here...”

“A Wayne... House Althar is stirring again.”

“What does this mean for the Courts?”

Ellie sighed. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Damian offered her his arm. “Let them talk.”

She took it.

And before they left the garden, under a canopy of crystal roses, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was steady, quiet, and certain. The Realms, for once, said nothing.

They just watched.