Chapter 12
League of Assassins Safehouse – Hidden Under Gotham
Peter sat alone in a dark corner, his knees drawn to his chest. The dim light flickered above him. He was aware of the sounds around him — the soft hum of the Lazarus Pit chamber far below. It was the only thing he knew.
He couldn’t remember who he was. He couldn’t remember what he had lost. But sometimes… he saw things. Heard things. Snippets of conversations. Voices that spoke in languages he didn’t know.
“Peter…”
It was a whisper — haunting, familiar.
He gripped his head. The pain. The confusion.
“Who… is Peter?” He whispered to the shadows. His own voice didn’t sound like his own anymore.
He reached for the edge of his bed, the soft linens comforting in their silence. But the instant his fingers brushed against them, a flash of a memory hit him.
A garden.
Laughter.
A name — “Damian.”
Peter gasped, the flash of recognition cutting through him like a blade.
And then, it was gone. The moment he thought he understood, it slipped away like sand through his fingers.
The door opened. A guard entered, glancing at Peter with no emotion. “Time to train.”
Peter stood up, his movements stiff and robotic. He didn’t question it. He didn’t think to ask what he was doing. He was a weapon. That’s what Talia told him every time she pulled him from the Pit. That’s all he was.
He followed the guard silently, feeling the weight of his forgotten past pressing against him with every step.
⸻
“The Hunt”
Gotham City – Alleyways and Rooftops
Damian moved with the shadows, his eyes scanning the dark cityscape. Gotham was a maze — a labyrinth of secrets and lies. But this was no ordinary hunt. This time, it was personal.
Peter was out there. He knew it now, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Damian had followed every lead, sifted through every whisper in the underworld, pieced together every fragment of the fight on the rooftop. He knew the signs. The way Peter moved. The signature style of combat he had once taught him as a child.
Peter was alive, but he was someone else.
A ghost.
Damian was getting closer. His heart pounded with a mix of dread and hope — hope that he could still find his brother, still save him from whatever Talia had done to him.
He reached the edge of a rooftop, overlooking a small abandoned safehouse. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrong about the place. It was too quiet.
“Damian.”
The voice froze him.
He turned sharply. And there, standing in the shadows, was a figure he knew too well. The face was different now — older, harder, but still the same. The boy who had once been his twin.
Peter.
Damian’s heart hammered in his chest.
“I know you,” Peter’s voice came softly, as if he was trying to remember who the other boy was. His expression was blank, unreadable. “You… know me?”
Damian’s voice was tight, caught between anger and sorrow. “I’m not here to fight you, Peter. I’m here to take you home.”
Peter’s eyes flickered with a faint recognition. But the moment was gone, replaced by cold detachment.
“Home?” Peter asked, his tone almost curious, but distant. “I don’t know what that is.”
Damian stepped closer, his fists clenched. “You do, Peter. You just don’t remember. You’re not what they’ve made you. You’re my brother.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, something strange flickering behind his gaze. “I’m Ash. I don’t have a brother. I don’t even have a name.”
Damian’s chest tightened. No. Not like this.
“Please, Peter,” Damian whispered, stepping forward again. “I’ll help you remember. I’ll—”
But Peter’s blade was out in a flash, cutting through the air, forcing Damian back.
“I don’t want to remember,” Peter said, his voice cold. His eyes were like ice. “I don’t need a brother.”
Damian staggered back, the pain of those words slicing deeper than the blade ever could. His brother was there, but not the boy he knew.
“I am not the one you should be angry with,” Damian said, his voice raw. “It’s Talia. She’s the one who’s done this to you.”
Peter didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to hear him. His stance was perfect, as if he had been trained to forget everything about the boy who had once shared his soul.
“I am Ash,” Peter repeated, turning his back on Damian. “I am nothing else.”
Damian stood frozen for a moment, staring at his brother’s retreating form. The air was thick with sorrow.
It was over. There was no saving him. Not now.