'I have crossed oceans to find you'

She stood on a rusted fire escape three blocks from the docks, camera raised, silver-pink hair damp and sticking to her cheeks. The lens clicked softly as she framed a gargoyle silhouetted against a flickering neon sign. Her free hand rested on the soft swell of her belly, protective and absent-minded. Six months. Two heartbeats. Dan Heng had counted them himself, ear pressed to her skin night after night, voice low and certain: Our hatchlings.

She was not supposed to be out.

A soft scuff of boots on wet pavement made her lower the camera. Shadows peeled away from the alley mouth one by one.

Batman first—cape heavy with rain, cowl unreadable. Nightwing next, blue bird bright even in the gloom. Red Hood, arms crossed, helmet tilted. Spoiler, Signal, Orphan, and the rest of them fanning out like a closing net. They had tracked the strange energy signature the Express left behind. They had not expected her.

For a long second no one spoke.

Nightwing’s voice cracked first. “March…?”

She froze. The name hit like cold water. Years since anyone in this city had said it like that—soft, startled, hers.

Batman’s jaw tightened beneath the cowl. His gaze dropped to her stomach and stayed there. The others followed. Spoiler’s eyes went wide. Red Hood’s posture went rigid.

“You’re pregnant.” It wasn’t a question. Batman’s tone was flat, clinical, already cataloguing failure. “Whose?”

March’s fingers tightened on the camera. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Nightwing said, stepping closer. The old warmth was still there, undercut now by something sharper. “You left. You vanished. We looked—”

“You looked for about three months,” she said quietly. “Then the next crisis came. And the next. I got the message.”

Red Hood scoffed. “So you ran off and got yourself knocked up by some random? Real smart, kid.”

Spoiler winced. Signal looked away. Batman didn’t correct the assumption.

March opened her mouth—

The air behind her shifted.

Dan Heng landed without sound, spear already in hand, teal eyes burning colder than Gotham rain. The high collar of his coat was damp; a single scale gleamed at his throat where the human mask had slipped for half a second. He stepped in close, one arm sliding around March’s waist from behind, palm settling over the curve of her belly with unmistakable claim.

“You are not supposed to be outside,” he said against her ear. Soft. Absolute. The kind of soft that promised consequences later, in the privacy of their room on the Express.

March tilted her head back and kissed the corner of his mouth. Quick. Affectionate. Unbothered. “I wanted pictures. The city’s pretty when it rains.”

Dan Heng’s gaze never left the Batfamily. “The hatchlings do not care about pictures. You will return to the nest. Now.”

Nightwing’s expression shuttered. “Who the hell are you?”

“Her husband,” Dan Heng answered, voice like ice over deep water. “The father of the children you are staring at as if they are a problem to solve.”

Batman took one step forward. “She’s coming home.”

“She is home.” Dan Heng’s arm tightened fractionally. March leaned into it, camera dangling from her wrist. “She left this city because you treated her like furniture that occasionally needed dusting. She will not return to it. Especially not while carrying my blood.”

Red Hood’s hand drifted toward a holster. “We can do this the easy way or—”

Dan Heng moved.

The spear blurred. Red Hood’s gun spun away into the dark. Nightwing barely got an escrima stick up before the blunt end of the weapon cracked across his forearm hard enough to make the bone sing. Batman lunged; Dan Heng met him with a single, precise strike to the solar plexus that folded the Dark Knight for half a second—long enough. Spoiler and Signal tried to flank. A sweep of the spear and a pulse of cold energy sent both sliding backward across wet concrete.

No killing blows. No wasted motion. Just enough force to make the message unmistakable.

March didn’t flinch. She only rested her free hand over Dan Heng’s on her stomach and watched the Batfamily with something like distant pity.

“We’re leaving,” she said. “Don’t follow the train.”

Dan Heng’s eyes flicked down to her once, checking, always checking. Then he guided her backward, spear still leveled, until the shadows of the docks swallowed them. The Express’s boarding ramp was already extended, warm light spilling out. As soon as March’s boots hit the metal, Dan Heng’s posture eased by a fraction. He pressed his forehead briefly to her temple, voice dropping to the private register only she ever heard.

“You will not leave the room again without me. Not until they are born. Do you understand?”

March smiled, small and rueful and utterly soft. “I understand. Kiss me properly and I’ll even stay in bed tomorrow.”

He did.

You were still settling into the rhythm of Gotham’s Major Crimes Unit when the third body dropped. Same M.O.—execution-style, clean, professional, and deliberately staged to taunt the department. As the newest detective on the squad, the case landed on your desk like a challenge. You were determined to prove you belonged.

The crime scene that night was a derelict warehouse in the Narrows. You were crouched over a bloodstain, flashlight in one hand, notebook in the other, when the air shifted. Heavy boots. The sharp scent of gun oil and leather.

Red Hood dropped from the rafters like a shadow given form, helmet gleaming under the flickering lights.

“This one’s mine,” he said, voice modulated and cold. “Back off.”

You straightened, hand instinctively hovering near your sidearm. “This is an active police investigation. You’re interfering with—”

“Save the speech, detective.” He stepped closer, towering. “I’ve been tracking these guys longer than you’ve had that shiny new badge. Walk away.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but a familiar voice crackled over the radio. Your lieutenant. “Let him work. Higher-ups already cleared it. Don’t engage.”

The order left a bitter taste. You holstered your pride with effort and turned to the vigilante.

“Thanks for the… assistance,” you said stiffly. “But I can handle this on my own.”

Red Hood’s helmet tilted. A low chuckle filtered through the vocoder—rough, amused. “Sure you can, rookie.” He paused. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Just your first name. Nothing more.

He didn’t offer one in return. Just a brief nod before he vanished into the dark, leaving you alone with the blood and the questions.

You worked the case alone after that. Cross-referenced ballistics, chased down informants, followed every lead until your eyes burned and the city blurred. Pride wouldn’t let you call for backup—not when Red Hood had already dismissed you as a rookie.

It nearly cost you everything.

The tip led you to an abandoned tenement on the east side. Empty corridors. Rotting floors. You pushed open a door and six of them were waiting. Knives. Crowbars. No words—just violence.

You fought. Hard. Elbowed one in the throat, put a second on the ground with a clean shot to the knee, but numbers won. A fist cracked across your jaw. A boot drove into your ribs. The world tilted. You hit the floor hard, tasting copper, vision swimming. One of them raised a pipe—

The shot was deafening.

Red Hood moved through them like a force of nature—precise, brutal, efficient. Bodies dropped. The last one tried to run; a projectile took him down mid-stride.

You tried to stand. Failed. The last thing you saw was the red of his helmet as he caught you before you hit the concrete again.

Darkness.

You woke to soft light and the smell of coffee and bacon.

Not your apartment. Not the hospital. A safehouse—sparse, functional, with blackout curtains and a well-stocked weapons locker visible through an open door. Your wounds were clean and bandaged. Your ruined shirt was gone, replaced by an oversized black tee that smelled faintly of gunpowder and citrus detergent.

You pushed yourself up carefully, ribs protesting, and followed the sound of movement.

Jason Todd stood at the small kitchen counter in a plain gray henley and dark jeans, barefoot, hair still damp from a shower. No helmet. No armor. Just the man underneath—broad-shouldered, scarred, focused on flipping eggs like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You leaned against the doorframe, voice hoarse. “Did you fuck me while I was out?”

He froze. Turned slowly. The look of pure, unfiltered disgust on his face was almost comical.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped. “I like my partners awake, coherent, and consenting. Jesus. Who raised you?”

You blinked, then managed a weak shrug. “Had to ask.”

Your glasses sat on the nightstand. You shuffled over, slipped them on, and the world sharpened. Recognition hit like a second concussion.

“…Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne’s second son. The one who—”

“Died. Yeah.” He set the spatula down and crossed his arms. “Congratulations. You figured it out. Now are you gonna run to the GCPD and ruin both our lives, or can we skip the theatrics?”

You studied him for a long moment—the white streak in his hair, the tension in his jaw, the way he watched you like he was already calculating exit routes. Then the more immediate question rose.

“Why are you letting me see you?” you asked quietly. “The real you. No helmet. No voice modulator. You didn’t have to bring me here. You could’ve dumped me at a hospital and disappeared.”

Jason’s expression flickered. He looked away for a second, jaw working.

“Batman has Gordon,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “Has for years. Trusted contact in the department. Someone who’ll look the other way when it counts and feed him what he needs. I don’t have that. Never did. So I’m making my own.” His eyes cut back to yours, sharp and assessing. “You’re new. Not buried under years of politics or old loyalties yet. Figured I’d take the shot.”

You absorbed that in silence. Then, quieter still: “Why Red Hood? Why… all of this?”

He didn’t answer right away. He plated the food with deliberate care, like he needed the seconds.

“Because if I wasn’t,” he said at last, “you’d be dead on that tenement floor with a pipe through your skull. Those guys weren’t gonna stop. And neither was I.” He glanced at you, something unreadable in his gaze. “Sometimes the only thing standing between someone and a body bag is a guy willing to do what the others won’t.”

The honesty of it settled heavy in the quiet kitchen.

“Thank you,” you said. Soft. Sincere. “For not letting me die.”

Jason gave a short, almost uncomfortable nod, like gratitude was harder to handle than a firefight. He grabbed a plate, piled it with eggs, bacon, and toast, and shoved it toward you.

“I’ll keep your secret,” you continued, accepting the plate. “On one condition. You help me close cases. Quietly. And you make sure I get the credit when they matter. I want that promotion. You want your own contact in the department. Mutual benefit.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then he rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his head.

“Eat before you pass out again, detective.”

You took the plate, fingers brushing his for half a second. A small, tired smile tugged at your mouth.

“This,” you said, settling carefully onto a stool, “is going to be the start of a very interesting friendship.”

Jason snorted, but he didn’t disagree. He just poured you coffee and sat across from you, already looking like he regretted every life choice that had led to this exact moment—and like he might stick around for the next one anyway.

He first notices her because she looks like she stepped out of an old photograph left too long in the sun—soft waves falling over one shoulder, a dress that skims her frame like something from another decade, and that distant look in her eyes as if she’s already halfway somewhere else. When he walks into the safehouse after a long night, helmet under his arm, she’s swaying slowly in the dim light, and for a moment he just stands there, watching.

She doesn’t flinch at the red helmet or the guns. She simply tilts her head, offers him a cigarette she won’t light, and says something soft and dreamy about how the city looks prettier when it’s bleeding. He calls her dangerous for that. She calls him predictable.

Jason starts leaving little things around their shared space without comment: a worn leather jacket that smells like gunpowder and rain draped over the back of her chair, a half-empty bottle of something expensive he “found,” a Polaroid of the Gotham skyline at dusk that he took on a stakeout because the light reminded him of the way she looks when she’s lost in thought.

She’s the only person who ever sees him without the armor and the rage fully on. Late nights, after the city has quieted, he’ll sit on the floor with his back against the couch while she braids her hair. Sometimes he closes his eyes and just listens to the quiet. Sometimes he reaches up and traces the soft line of her jaw with a gloved hand, careful, like he’s afraid she’ll dissolve if he’s too rough.

She romanticizes the danger. He hates that she does. She writes little notes on the backs of receipts and tucks them into his gear: short, dreamy things about coming home when the neon starts to look like blood. He keeps every single one in a battered tin in his locker. He’ll never admit it.

He hates how easily she slips into that soft, cinematic sadness. She stares out windows too long. She talks about disappearing like it’s poetry. Jason has already died once. He doesn’t find it poetic. The first time she says something about how beautiful it would be to just vanish, he pins her against the wall—not hard, just firm—and growls that if she ever tries, he’ll drag her back by the hair and make her live anyway. Then he kisses her like he’s trying to burn the idea out of both of them.

She makes him soft in ways that terrify him. She’ll be lying across his lap in one of his old shirts, bare legs, that red lipstick almost gone, and he’ll suddenly go quiet. When she looks up, he’s staring at her with an expression that’s half wonder, half grief. “You look like something I was never supposed to get to keep,” he mutters once. She just smiles, slow and a little sad, and pulls him down for a kiss that tastes like smoke and something sweeter.

He takes her on the motorcycle when the nights are clear. She presses her cheek to the back of his leather jacket and closes her eyes while the wind pulls at her hair. He drives slower than usual. Sometimes he takes the long way through the quieter parts of Gotham, past the docks and the old theaters, just so the ride lasts longer. She never asks why. She already knows.

Arguments are rare, but when they happen they’re sharp. He’ll accuse her of living in a fantasy. She’ll accuse him of being too scared to believe anything beautiful can last. The silence after is heavy. Then one of them will settle close enough that their shoulders touch. No apology needed. Just presence.

In the softest hours, when the city is gray and the rain is falling and they’re both too tired to pretend, he’ll pull her into his chest and murmur that she’s the only thing in this life that doesn’t feel like a ghost. She presses a kiss to the scar on his throat and answers, quiet as a secret: “Then stay.”

The multiverse rift shimmered like a bad hangover in the middle of Tony’s Malibu workshop—except this workshop looked like it had been designed by a futurist with a god complex and zero impulse control. Which, to be fair, described both of them.

Comic Tony Stark stepped through first, red-and-gold armor gleaming under dramatic comic-book lighting that somehow followed him. He looked... sharper. More angular. The kind of man who’d survived alien invasions, corporate takeovers, and at least three different evil ex-girlfriends with better one-liners than the movies ever gave him.

Behind him trailed a small figure: a kid, maybe eight years old, with messy dark hair, a tiny arc reactor night-light clipped to their hoodie, and the unmistakable Stark resting-bitch-face already forming. Let’s call her [Name] for now—Comic Tony’s daughter from one of those timelines where he actually tried the whole “settle down” thing before it inevitably exploded.

MCU Tony (post-blip, post-peace, post-everything) looked up from his holographic workbench, whiskey glass halfway to his lips.

“Well, well,” MCU Tony drawled, smirking. “If it isn’t me, but with better hair and worse life choices. And... mini-me?”

Comic Tony’s eyes narrowed. “This is [Name]. My daughter. Touch her and I’ll repulsor your smug face into next week.”

[Name] stared at MCU Tony with open fascination. “You’re shorter than Dad said you’d be.”

MCU Tony clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Ouch. Right in the ego. I like her.”

What started as cautious multiversal diplomacy quickly devolved. The two Tonys did what any two versions of the same narcissistic genius would do: they started showing off. Armor specs. Drink recipes. Who had the better sarcastic quip about Thanos. Comic Tony bragged about fighting Doom in Latveria. MCU Tony countered with “I died, came back, and still had time to coach my kid’s softball team.”

[Name], bored of the dick-measuring contest (metaphorical, thankfully), wandered over to MCU Tony’s side of the workshop.

“You have Legos?” she asked, eyes lighting up at the massive bin of custom Stark-themed bricks he kept for Morgan.

“Kid, I have everything.” MCU Tony grinned, the same trouble-making grin that had launched a thousand bad decisions. “Wanna build a suit? I’ve got spare arc reactors.”

Comic Tony’s head snapped around. “[Name], no. We talked about this. No building powered armor until you’re twelve.”

“Fifteen,” MCU Tony corrected smoothly, already kneeling to help her sort pieces. “Safety first. Or at least safety-adjacent.”

Within twenty minutes, [Name] was giggling uncontrollably as MCU Tony helped her assemble a tiny Mark XLII-style gauntlet that actually sparked (safely). He was doing the voices. The full Pepper-potts-scolding voice, the Happy Hogan “I’m disappointed in you” voice. She was hooked.

Comic Tony watched from across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He was jealous.

Not the “I want to fight him” kind—though that was simmering too—but the quiet, ugly kind that crept in when you saw someone else effortlessly click with your own kid. [Name] hadn’t laughed like that with him in weeks. Between board meetings, armor repairs, and the constant low-level paranoia that came with being Tony Stark in the comics, quality time had been... sparse.

MCU Tony caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. “Relax, Shellhead. I’m not stealing your kid. I’ve got my own rugrat. Morgan would kick my ass if I brought home a new sister without asking.”

But even as he said it, he was letting [Name] “fly” around the room on a low-powered hover rig, her laughter echoing.

Comic Tony muttered, “You’re doing the thing. The charming, absent-cool-dad thing. I invented that.”

“Yeah, well, I perfected it,” MCU Tony shot back, softer than usual. He glanced at [Name], who was now showing off her gauntlet to FRIDAY’s interface. “She’s a good kid. Smart. Got your eyes and apparently my lack of volume control. You’re doing fine.”

Comic Tony exhaled, armor plates shifting as he forced himself to unclench. “She deserves better than ‘fine.’”

The two Tonys stood shoulder-to-shoulder for a moment—same man, different scars—watching the little girl who somehow existed in both their worlds.

Eventually, MCU Tony nudged him. “Take her to the beach next week. No armor. No holograms. Just you, her, and terrible dad jokes. Trust me, it works. I’ve got the data.”

[Name] ran back over and grabbed Comic Tony’s hand. “Dad, can we come back and visit Uncle Tony? He said he’d show me how to make Dum-E do the robot dance.”

Comic Tony looked down at her, then at his multiversal counterpart. A reluctant, tiny smile cracked through.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe we will.”

As the rift began to close, MCU Tony called after them, “Bring better scotch next time! And tell your universe’s Pepper I said hi—she probably has better taste than mine.”

[Name] waved the tiny gauntlet. “Bye, Other Dad!”

Comic Tony’s jealousy didn’t fully vanish. But as they stepped back into their reality, [Name] leaning tiredly against his leg, he felt something loosen in his chest.

He’d fight a hundred Dooms to keep that smile on her face.

Even if it meant sharing her with the version of himself who somehow got the lighter timeline.

She was the nurse who had pulled his wife back from the brink of death after one of the Joker’s sadistic attacks. In the sterile chaos of the hospital, something unspoken had passed between them. Months later, she captured the heart of the richest man in Gotham. It was wrong—twisted and rotten in its own way. How could a man fall for the woman who had saved his wife’s life while his wife lay broken in a hospital bed?

Their first kiss happened in her small, dimly lit apartment. He had come to “thank her,” rain dripping from his coat, eyes dark with something neither of them dared name. The kiss was desperate, guilty, and addictive.

From then on, she lived for the stolen moments. She made sure her hair fell just right, her nails were painted the deep red he liked, and she spent the money he forced on her—buying silk robes and expensive perfume she only wore for him. Every time she saw the news—his arm wrapped possessively around his wife’s waist, their practiced kisses for the cameras—something inside her fractured a little more.

“We’re married out of convenience. There’s no love,” he would whisper against her skin in the dark.

But she knew the truth. He was in love with his wife. He was simply torn between the woman he loved and the woman he wanted. She was the secret, the escape, the body he craved when the weight of being Bruce Wayne became too much. She would never be more than that. Never a person. Never enough.

In the quiet hours after he left, she envied his wife with a bone-deep ache. Not the money. Not the name. But the way his wife got to have Bruce—the real man beneath the mask—while she was left with nothing but Mr. Wayne and the scent of him fading from her sheets.

A few months later, tangled together under her blankets, skin still flushed and hearts racing, she whispered the words that would destroy them:

“I love you, Bruce.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. He stiffened against her, and she felt the exact moment everything shattered.

Bruce stopped coming after that night. The silence was worse than any rejection. Every unanswered text, every empty evening, carved deeper into her chest.

Then one shift, while the hospital buzzed around her, she saw the news on the break room TV:

The Waynes had divorced.

“BRUCE WAYNE TRULY IS THE MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR—FOR HIS INABILITY TO KEEP A WOMAN! GUESS MONEY CAN’T BUY LOVE…”

She felt sick. She knew she was the reason. The guilt wrapped around her throat like barbed wire.

Across town, the confrontation between Bruce and his wife had been pure devastation.

“BRUCE, GET AWAY FROM ME!” she screamed, voice cracking as she hurled vases, picture frames, and anything she could reach. Shards of glass scattered like their broken marriage.

Bruce dodged with practiced precision, eyes pained. “Sweetheart, please—”

She punched him hard across the cheek. The crack echoed. For once, the Batman hadn’t seen it coming.

“No loyalty! NONE!” she yelled, tears streaming down her face. “Not even from you! Who is she?!”

Bruce had never seen her like this—raw, unraveling, furious.

“You say you love me, then you run off for some easy fuck?” Her voice dropped to a broken monotone. “You wouldn’t even look at me during sex. If you wanted to cheat, you should’ve divorced me first.”

“I love you. She meant nothing…” he said, but the guilt in his eyes was shallow.

“She meant enough to ruin us.” Her voice trembled. “There will always be another woman for Bruce Wayne, won’t there? One pussy wasn’t enough? How many are there, Bruce?”

“Just one…” he admitted, barely above a whisper.

“Tell me who she is. Don’t make me feel like the other woman.”

His next words destroyed what little was left:

“Don’t you get it? You’re the other woman. Your father gave me your hand in marriage.”

The pain in her eyes was bottomless. “No… You’re married to me! She’s the other woman! I never wanted any of this!”

She slid down the wall, knees weak, sobbing quietly. “A man in love would never do this to me… Just leave, Bruce. I don’t care who you fuck anymore.”

Days later, Bruce appeared at the nurse’s door, looking hollow and desperate.

“I want to fix this,” he said, voice rough.

But she stood firm in the doorway, tears burning her eyes. “We’re done, Bruce. I can’t keep being your secret. I won’t destroy myself—or her—any longer.”

She closed the door on his pleading face and cried until she had nothing left.

The next morning, she went to see his ex-wife. Hands shaking, she told her everything. The affair. The guilt that ate her alive. How she had ended it.

When she finished, she looked the other woman in the eyes.

“Yell at me. Hit me. Do whatever you need. Just don’t stay quiet. I know it won’t change anything… but I left him. For whatever that’s worth.”

The ex-wife stared at her for a long, heavy moment. Then she let out a quiet, broken laugh that held years of pain.

“You’re both so fucking stupid.”

The nurse gave a watery smile. “Yeah… we really are.”

Over the following years, the two women slowly became each other’s unexpected lifeline. They shared bitter wine and darker jokes about Bruce Wayne’s inability to love anyone properly. The angst never fully left, but it became something they could carry together—two women who had both been shattered by the same man.

Then came one reckless, drunken night after years of friendship. Laughter turned into lingering touches, tears turned into desperate kisses, and pain turned into something raw and consuming.

They woke up naked beside each other the next morning, sunlight cutting across tangled sheets.

The ex-wife panicked. She dressed quickly, avoided eye contact, and left with a mumbled excuse. For weeks afterward, she withdrew, drowning in denial and fresh guilt.

The nurse felt the rejection like a fresh wound. Heart aching, she eventually forced herself to move on and agreed to a date with someone else.

The date barely began before the ex-wife stormed into the restaurant, eyes blazing with jealousy and unresolved feelings.

They ended up back at the nurse’s apartment, shouting at each other.

“You can’t just pretend nothing happened between us!” the nurse cried, voice breaking.

“I was drunk! It was a mistake—”

“A mistake? Then why the hell did you chase me down and ruin my date?!”

The argument grew ugly, years of buried pain and longing spilling out. Tears streamed down both their faces.

Until the ex-wife suddenly grabbed her, slamming their lips together in a fierce, angry, desperate kiss—full of everything they had both tried so hard to deny.

Months later, the two women walked hand-in-hand through one of Gotham’s quieter parks, the city lights twinkling in the distance. They had come a long way. The sharp edges of their shared pain had softened into something warmer, deeper, and real. Bruce Wayne was no longer a wound—he was simply a cautionary tale they occasionally laughed about.

As they turned a corner, they ran straight into him.

Bruce stopped dead. His eyes flicked between them, widening in disbelief as he noticed their joined hands and the easy intimacy between them.

“…What is this?” he asked, voice strained. He looked at his ex-wife first, pain and longing flickering across his face. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I made mistakes—terrible ones. But I still love you. We could try again. I’ve changed.”

The ex-wife simply raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed.

Before she could respond, the nurse stepped forward, calm and steady. She squeezed her girlfriend’s hand gently.

“Actually, Bruce,” the nurse said, her voice clear and free of the old trembling, “we’re in a relationship. We’re happy. And we’ve both moved on.”

Bruce looked stunned, almost desperate. “You can’t be serious. After everything—”

“We are,” the ex-wife cut in, her tone final but without anger. “Take care of yourself, Bruce.”

The nurse offered a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.”

The rain-slicked rooftops of Gotham glittered like broken glass under the sodium lights. You balanced on the narrow ledge of the old Wayne Enterprises annex, the city sprawling beneath you in a haze of neon and violence. Your suit clung to you like a second skin—black latex and reinforced kevlar, accented with subtle silver claw marks that caught the light when you moved. Not quite Selina’s elegant catsuit, but close enough to mock the family legacy. Where your older sister danced through shadows with calculated grace, you hunted through them. Fluid. Unpredictable. A blade wrapped in ballet precision.

Tonight’s mark was a mid-level arms dealer who’d crossed the wrong people. Your people. You’d already left three of his guards unconscious in the stairwell, their necks bent at unnatural angles. The fourth was still twitching on the rooftop behind you, blood pooling from a precise strike to the femoral artery. You twirled the butterfly knife between your fingers, the motion effortless, almost rhythmic—like a pirouette with lethal intent.

The deal was going down below: crates of high-end ordnance changing hands under flickering warehouse fluorescents. You were about to drop in and ruin everyone’s night when a shadow detached itself from the water tower above you.

Red Hood landed with a heavy thud, helmet glinting, dual pistols already drawn. “Kyle’s little sister,” he growled, voice distorted by the modulator. “Didn’t know the family business extended to amateur hour.”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you smiled, slow and sharp, tilting your head as rain traced down your mask. “Jason Todd. Shouldn’t you be brooding in a graveyard somewhere?”

He holstered one gun but kept the other trained on you. “This isn’t your score. Walk away.”

“Make me.”

The fight was immediate and beautiful in its brutality.

He came at you like a freight train—raw power, street brawling elevated by Lazarus Pit rage. You flowed around him. A leap, a spinning kick that grazed his helmet, claws raking across his chest plate hard enough to spark. He grabbed your wrist mid-twist, yanking you close, but you used the momentum, hooking a leg around his and flipping him toward the edge. He rolled, came up firing rubber rounds that you dodged with dancer’s precision, each movement a deadly extension of the rigorous training that had shaped your body into a weapon.

You laughed—wild, unhinged, the sound cutting through the rain. Selina would’ve scolded you for enjoying it too much. You didn’t care. Pain and chaos were the only things that ever felt real.

Jason caught you mid-air during your next leap, slamming you against the rooftop access door. The impact rattled your ribs, but you headbutted him, cracking his helmet visor. For a split second, you saw his eyes—green, furious, alive. Something electric crackled between you.

“Bring it on pussycat,” he snarled, pinning your arms.

You leaned in until your lips nearly brushed the edge of his helmet. “Always crawling back from the grave just to play hero-villain roulette.”

He hesitated. Just long enough.

You kneed him in the gut, twisted free, and drove an elbow into the side of his neck. He staggered. You could’ve ended it—slit his throat, left him for the crows—but instead you backed off, breathing hard, adrenaline singing in your veins.

The arms deal below erupted into gunfire as someone noticed the commotion above. Jason cursed and vaulted over the ledge, guns blazing. You followed because why the hell not? The two of you carved through the warehouse like a storm—his brute force and marksmanship, your acrobatic savagery. A bullet grazed your shoulder; you barely felt it. You returned the favor by hurling a guard into Jason’s path so he could finish the job.

When the last body hit the floor, silence fell except for the patter of rain through the shattered skylight.

Jason ripped off his cracked helmet, revealing sweat-slicked dark hair and that infamous white streak. Scars mapped his face like a roadmap of hell. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to shoot you or kiss you.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said.

You peeled off your own mask, letting damp hair fall across your face. Selina’s sharper features softened in you by youth and something feral. “Takes one to know one, Todd. Heard you blew up a building just to make a point once.”

He stepped closer. The warehouse smelled of cordite and blood. Your heart hammered against your ribs—not from fear.

“You’re not like her,” he murmured, eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the fresh cut on your lip.

“No.” You closed the distance, grabbing the front of his jacket. “I'm better.”

The kiss was violent. Teeth and rain and pent-up fury. His hands—gloved, rough—gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as he lifted you onto a crate. You wrapped your legs around him, claws digging into his shoulders, drawing a low groan from his throat. He tasted like smoke and copper. You bit his lower lip, and he retaliated by fisting your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His mouth followed, hot and demanding, scraping teeth along your pulse point.

“You’re gonna get me killed,” he growled against your skin.

“Mutual,” you breathed, arching into him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest heaving. The unhinged light in your eyes mirrored something dark and hungry in his. Two broken things who’d crawled out of their own graves—literal or otherwise—refusing to stay buried.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Jason pressed one last bruising kiss to your mouth, then stepped back, retrieving his helmet. “Next time you hunt in my territory, little cat… I won’t hold back.”

You smirked, licking blood from your split lip. “Promise?”

He disappeared into the rain like smoke. You stayed a moment longer, touching your bruised mouth, feeling the ache in your muscles like a lover’s promise.

Selina would disapprove. But Selina had never understood the joy of dancing on the razor’s edge.