Injustice 2 Damian Wayne Mga Nobela at Kwento

"We’ve found Lucas. He’s near the docks." Damian didn’t speak at first, just nodded. His heart beat faster, but it wasn’t fear it was anger, pure and sharp. He had waited too long for this moment. Now, it was time for action. "Get the car ready," he ordered, his voice cold and sharp. He turned away from the window, his mind already racing through the plan. Lucas had caused too much harm. Damian was done letting him slip through the cracks. His assistant left to carry out his orders, and Damian walked over to the desk. He grabbed his gun from the drawer, checking it briefly. He wasn’t taking any chances. He had come too far to back down now.

“WHO DARED LAYING A HAND ON MY MATE?!” Damian roared as he came barging in through the front door and rushed up the stairs. Grabbing the man nearest to Shaylin around the throat and squeezing with all the eagerness of a wounded beast, he made the guy turn blue within seconds. “Damian, stand down, now! My men were following orders given directly by me.”

Damien moves with terrifying authority, his steps light and predatory, as if he has orchestrated this specific violence a hundred times before. Wayne lunges, swinging a heavy fist aimed at Damien’s jaw. Damien doesn’t block; he simply isn’t there when the arm arrives. He pivots, fluid as water, and sweeps Wayne’s legs out from under him. Wayne hits the ground with a heavy thud that vibrates through the soles of Aiden’s boots. Before Wayne can recover, Damien is on him, a knee pressed into Wayne’s chest, pinning him to the dirt.

Damian shook his head, adjusting the gloves on his hands. "Don't worry; I'll go to them," Damian said, nodding to the warrior, who then led him to Jake and his squad. Damian followed and saw Jake's team, sweaty, and some still in their wolf forms. "Jake, what's the report?" Damian asked as he approached. He noticed a rogue tied to a tree, injured—clearly, there had been a struggle.

“Not exactly.” Sienna’s pulse pounded in her ears. She crouched next to Julian, her fingers brushing over his shoulder. “This is Damian, sweetheart.” Julian blinked up at him. “Like Damian Wayne?” he asked. “From Batman?” Sienna almost laughed—almost. But Damian’s expression softened slightly. “Something like that,” he said quietly, kneeling down to Julian’s level. “Hi, Julian.” The moment was surreal. Damian Cavendish—man of steel, ruthless CEO—kneeling on polished wood floors, face to face with a five-year-old boy.

This works and Damian is calm, ignoring the fat man in front of him. "Damian please can you continue telling me what you were saying?" Maya asked when the officer was out of sight. "I came home feeling frustrated and I ended up getting drunk," Damian paused and stared at Maya for a reaction but she just urged him to continue. "That's all I remember... I woke up the next morning with her beside me," Damian sighed, running his hands through his hair. "Trust me Wife, I'm innocent. I think someone is trying to frame me," Damian said dejectedly.

“I could hear her cracking through the phone speaker. Cynthia fucking broke.” Damian didn’t stop. He drove another brutal combination into the bag—fists, elbows, a vicious knee that made the chains rattle violently. Sweat poured down his broad shoulders and back, soaking his gray training shirt dark. “You expected her to stay brave without her lawyers shielding her?”

No one dared. Damian washed Victor’s and Seraphine’s blood from his hands in the courtyard basin, the water turning pink, then red, then black. He didn’t look up once. Not even when Nathan passed nearby. Not even when Ivy touched his shoulder in quiet solidarity. Not even when Maria, broken and rigid but unbowed, whispered: “Thank you.” Damian didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because the truth was carved into every trembling line of his posture: He had taken justice.

“Your food is expensive, and also, you hide salt like it’s contraband.” They laughed. Jonah had sent a quick text: All proxies collapsed. Two arrests. Court date set. Beatrice had a list of restitution items. Victoria had already drafted a short public statement to close out the matter. Things were moving through the wheels of the world. Damian reached across the table and touched her hand with both of his. He had stopped wearing the armor he once favored; his sleeves were rolled up, and his neck was open. “If you let me in,” he said softly, “I will never take you for granted again.”

* Damian slipped the phone back into his pocket and sat down in the chair beside the bed. He would wait, watch, and gather evidence. And when he had enough, he would strike. No mercy. No forgiveness. Just justice.